The Slide

A memory I often revisit is in when I was a child, living in New Westminster, British Columbia. This suburb is entirely built on a hill, sloping down towards the Fraser River. My family lived on what was near the bottom, a short distance away from the river, although numerous factories and other industries blocked our view.

My elementary school was located some distance away, practically straight up the hill. I walked every day, up the hill in the morning, down the hill in the late afternoon. The weather in British Columbia was always either sunny, or raining. Only very rarely it snowed. I was never prepared for any eventuality regardless.

During those times of the year when it snowed, the mild weather always ensured that the snow melted quickly during the day. During the night. all that water froze. Frozen water is also called Ice in many countries. It is however, largely unknown in New Westminster.

I hated those mornings, staring at the steep, seemingly endless ice-sheathed slope I was forced to ascend. I knew how difficult it was going to be, I dreaded it actually. But every day, I walked up that hill.

Cautiously, ever so cautiously, I would plant one foot, then brace it as I prepared to move the other. Such determination would have been unusual to observe in one so young had any been watching. Plodding focus brought me up that hill, 2 meters, then 10. Then it happened, as it always happened.

The Slide.

The sidewalk seemed to grow weary of my feeble attempts and of it’s own volition would shift, pushing me back down the hill. I had done nothing wrong! My feet were planted, my pace steady. I had taken no unnessary risks. Yet the bottom beckoned.

Spreading my feet wide in an attempt to maintain my balance, I watched helplessly as the progress I made fell away. As I came to a stop, I realized that I had still some progress. I didn’t have a backpack then, just a paperbag containing my lunch, a bologna sandwich with mustard on one side and buttered on the other, and a small collection of worn pencils stuffed in one of my jean jacket pockets. I moved the lunchbag into my other hand, hoping it will help with my balance.

I resumed my climb.

I have no true recollection of the number of times I walked up that icy hill on those ‘winter’ mornings. No recollection of the munber of times I fell and hurt myself, freezing my hands as they pushed against the frozen sidewalk. Forward progress marked by frequent backward progress. Dogged determination took me to school, every day.

I tried so many other ways to get to school. Different roads, different paths. I always started off at the bottom of a hill, there was no way to avoid that particular fact. I never once considered asking my dear old dad for a ride however. That way was madness.

I am much older now, looking back on those times, that younger self that stopped at the bottom of the hill every morning and looked up at the climb ahead. It was then, and still is now, the perfect metaphor for my life. Progress marked by setback after setback.

It is also a exemplary example of my work to combat depression.

It is the Hill upon which I walk.

It is the Slide that pushes me down.

It is my determination that brings me up and over that hill.

Every day.

Thoughts of the Day

Fatigue can be overwhelming. There is so many things happening right now that one can feel like they are drowning.

My work right now is difficult. Time consuming. Draining.

We are also in the middle of a pandemic sweeping the globe. Thousands have died, while millions simply refuse to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation. My city has hundreds of new cases reported daily.

Peaceful protests and violent riots are the occurring on a daily basis. Injustice is being faced an called out. The people are tired.

I am tired.

How can one live in this world? How can I live in this world? Can any of us?

I turned 46 years old.

I have seen many things. I have experienced many things. I understand so little of the universe. I fear I never will.

Fear is a constant companion. I suffer from depression and anxiety. I fear.

But I got forth day after day into the world. I face my fear. I work and surprisingly, I enjoy my work

I step out every day knowing that this day, I could be infected. Or this day, I could be racially discriminated against because of my ethnicity. I could be assaulted during my shift, it is a frighteningly common occurrence in my line of work.

I act, in spite of myself. I achieve, in spite of myself. I am loved, in spite of myself.

Things are, oddly enough, all right in my life.

Cycles

focus photography of sun — Photo by Ali Arapoğlu on Pexels.com

He rolled over in bed as the alarm went off for the tenth time.

“I am going to die,” he thought to himself.

He thought that thought every time he woke up. At this point in his life, it was almost reassuring. Still, he dragged himself out of bed and got in the shower.

The day awaited.

The city was empty. Almost empty. A sharp wind swept through the downtown core, forcing him to pull his jacket close against it. The sun was bright and intense, yet when he stepped into shadow, the temperature dropped instantly.

The change in the world was most noticable in the core. Buildings were mostly deserted, manned by the slimmest of work crews and security. The bus drivers of the public transit system were the most obvious, in their matching uniforms. They gathered were they could, singly, in pairs or less frequently, in larger groups. They were extremely noticable, like a cult perhaps. They always acknowledged each other with a nod or a word.

They were required to be in the downtown core but there was nowhere for them to BE in there.

He coughed suddenly. That old worrying cough. It had nothing to do with the current crisis sweeping the land, but he cast a furtive glance around to see if anyone noticed. An approaching elderly man caught his eye, then the old man intentionally adjusted his face mask in response and provided extra space to separate them.

A sensible precaution, he thought, as the old man wandered by.

He was sick, it was true. It had nothing to do with the global pandemic sweeping the world however. The cough was likely from growing up in the house of a chain smoker. His was a mental illness, a disease of the mind, of the soul. It would take his life as sure as any cancer though, if he was not careful.

The social restrictions in place were meant to keep the disease from spreading, to limit it’s spread and keep it to a manageable level. That meant keeping people at a distance. Staying away from them. He had no problem with this. This was his normal. Reaching out was always the hardest part for him, and now he couldn’t do that.

He was drowning inside himself.

He looked up at the sky, squinting against the hard glare of the sun. The universe spread out before him, a hard and indifferent place, vast and unknowable. He was insignificant, he knew that, accepted that. A mote contemplating infinity. Strangely enough, this thought brought him peace.

Wars erupted continually across the planet. Civil unrest grew here and abroad. Illnesses swept through the world. He would survive these, or he wouldn’t. He understood that his actions didn’t matter in the long run. He could still get sick, or shot, or jailed.

So, he wore a mask. He washed and sanitized his hands regularly and maintained as much social distance as was required. He also kept his mind open to the racial unrest that was happening out there. He listened, and tried to understand.

He was hopeful, at the end of the day. The world would get better. It would survive this. Or it wouldn’t.

The next morning, he woke up and thought to himself,

“I am going to die.”

Then he pulled the blankets over his head.

Treasured Memories

old photos in the wooden box — Photo by Kaboompics .com on Pexels.com

I try to exorcise the demons in my mind by writing them down. Perhaps they will have less power over me. Sometimes it works.

My father drunkenly staggered into my room one night. Not an unusual occurrence when he drank, he hated drinking by himself. I usually hid myself under the covers and hoped he would forget about me. Not so that night.

Also, this time he had a gun.

I hopped out of bed and stood there. I had no idea he had a gun and would he PLEASE stop pointing it at me? His incoherent rambling swept right by me. All I could see was the barrel of that rifle pointing straight at my chest.

I endured a lot at his hands over the years, abuse, neglect, disinterest. This however, was new. Was the rifle loaded? I had no way to know. I stood there, hands at my sides. There was nowhere to run, he was blocking the only exit.

He mumbled something, then raised the gun and sighted down the barrel. He cocked the hammer and aimed. At his son.

At his son.

Some say that your life flashes before your eyes in these moments. All I saw was the barrel as he pulled the trigger. Click.

He laughed, then stumbled out of the room. I stood there for several minutes after, disbelief and terror warring inside me. Numbly, I sat back down on of my bed.

Only by cutting these memories out can I be free.

A Letter Unsent

Dearest mother,

I hope this letter finds you well. I am doing well here in Calgary. My wife sends her regards. I find myself ill at ease of late. Mayhaps a visit from you would be a balm for my soul.

🤣

Who writes like that anymore? Well, you probably did. With pen and paper. Probably an ink well. Learning cursive and whatnot. I can clearly imagine you at a table, writing a letter to your brother or sisters, telling them about your experiences. I don’t ever recall seeing you write anything at any time however.

Who even writes letters anymore?

Now, through the technological magic of the digital age, we can do this:

Happy Birthday!

85 years is a delightful milestone! You’ve seen so much history: you witnessed a World War, you gained the right to vote in 1960 or thereabouts, you saw the ending of the Residential school system of which you were a part of. You saw so much.

I wish you were here. Writing is so impersonal. Perhaps that why I do so much of it. Disassociating the self from the emotion. It’s easy to write of disturbing things. After all, it’s just part of the story right?

But no, you’re not here. You’re not anywhere. You passed away some 3 years ago.

Passed away. A nice way of saying you died. Deceased. Pining for the fjords.

Sigh. I can’t stop cracking jokes, even in the face of death. I must have gotten that from you.

Dammit, I miss you.

I am writing this letter to you as a means of therapy. Of maintaining the relationship I had with you prior to your exit. Connecting with people has been difficult since you left.

I mean, I understand that everything ends. Our time here is limited. Our very breath, once spent is never recovered. So why can’t I let you go? Why can’t I move on?

I digress. Pointless musings on the nature of death. We have had millenia to consider it and no answer is better then the other.

We die. We are done. The End.

Argh, more digressions.

I am doing this to update you, to keep you in the know of what is happening to me, your son. One of many of your offspring. But also, the last of your children.

So, where was I? The past year, right. It was a doozy.

Around christmas 2018, it hit me hard. Depression. Harder then it has ever been. I almost didn’t recover.

I’ve been dealing with depression most of my life. Almost all of it, it seems. It hounds me, creeping around my every thought. You must have seen me as I struggled with it in my youth. You had a lot on your plate back then.

Work. Money. Bills. Money. House repairs. Money. Missing you. Money. Missing you. Money.

I used to always visit you at christmas, either at home, or the senior care facility later. We would open gifts and share a meal, sometimes with tea or coffee. You always liked tea over coffee. I am kind of addicted to coffee.

But you weren’t there that year. And it hurt. The year before, christmas went by in a daze, I can barely recall it. The newness of your absence must have masked it.

So yes, depression called, and I answered.

I couldn’t sleep. I was overeating. I started having panic attacks. My heart would race, I couldn’t keep a thought in my head except to run. Just, run. A blind, mamillian response to stress.

I couldn’t work like that. I had to go on long term disability. The cut to my paycheque hurt even worse. But work had good programs in place to assist.

So I got help.

Cognitive Behaviour therapy. Very wordy, but it has been incredibly helpful to me. Medication helped as well. It is a wonder how changing how you look at things can change so much. I was so close mom, it frightened me.

Part of my healing has been to write. My teachers all said that I had talent, but I never had the belief in myself to take them seriously. But I am now. I think you would be proud.

I wrote a novel!

I want to be published. To make a name for myself. Recognition. I am afraid, but exhilarated at the same time about that.

I look to your strength for inspiration in this. You endured so much to bring us all, your children here. So much of it must have been abject misery, but you did it.

My cat, Wesley, has been a constant companion. You met him once. I think he liked you.

I have had the extreme fortune of meeting several strong women like you in my travels. I always mention you to them. They are suitably impressed by you.

So, it is your birthday, and I am writing this letter to you. I should burn it, it would be cathartic, possibly. I just need you to understand how things are, how I am doing.

I am better now. This last christmas, I thought of you, and was happy. You would have enjoyed it, you always do.

I should wrap this up. It is late, and I am tired. Writing is easy but at the same time, draining, if that makes sense. I want to continue this conversation with you though.

My wife says Hi! and Happy Birthday!

You may be gone, but you will never be forgotten. I will continue to speak of you to any who will listen. They will remember you.

I love you.

-Ellis

A Meditation on the Self.

I am a writer. But I am now blocked.

I was writing a story. Chapter by chapter. Week by week. I have been unable to finish my work. I sometimes sit and stare at my unfinished work, mentally punishing myself for my inability to end the story.

The words are there. I cannot make them leave my mind and take their place on page.

I am depressed.

The depression is not the result of my not finishing the story I’ve written.

I suffer from depression. It has been a lifelong condition, it seems. My constant companion.

I grew up in a house filled with abuse. I was abused.

Was is the cause of my depression or would it have occurred regardless? My thoughts spiral along the path of self-doubt: the path that abuse sets before you. The thought pattern that abusers drive into you.

I have spent years fighting the grip of depression. I have sought help from counsellors and doctors. I am on medication. I daily wage a silent war to confront my darkest thoughts and challenge them, striving to change them into positive or at least, neutral thoughts.

After years of therapy and medication, I have come to the conclusion that I will never be rid of my constant companion. At best, AT BEST, I have learned enough techniques to keep the darkness at bay temporarily. Muted, but never eliminated.

Some days, it is a snicker behind my back, on others, a scream that drowns out all other thoughts.

Spending time with my friends helps immeasurably. With them I can laugh, and joke, and for a time, forget. Talking about it helps as well. I spent far too many years internalizing my suffering. Developing the strength to speak of my experiences has been liberating. Even writing these words down here has been helpful.

The wave of depression will break. The writing will continue. I will be myself again.

I am Ellis.