The Courtship of Death
Death can have a multitude of meanings in our lives. It’s the mark of loss, of grief, of unwanted or unexpected change, of wanted or expected change, of failure, of breakdown. To someone in despair, it can also feel like the ultimate answer, the end of pain and darkness.
Twenty-five years ago this latter meaning was predominant in my life. Trapped in a serious clinical depression, life was akin to hell. I was emotionally numb, with no vision of a meaningful future. Convinced that I would never be able to contribute to society, that I had no use or purpose, that I would forever remain a burden for the loved ones around me, every day was a battle. To interact with anyone was always a new session of torture. The reader in me was struggling to even finish a page, when she would go through four or five books a week before. Between college work, poetry, and the tentative fiction work, I used to write between a thousand to twelve hundred words a day. Now, I could not finish a single sentence.
I was surrounded by a loving family, and I loved them back very much. But I could not truly feel it. I felt detached from the world, completely and thoroughly alone, trapped inside my own dark and lifeless mind. It was a gigantic effort to perform the most basic tasks, to even get up from bed. Nothing seemed really worth the effort, it was painful to move, to think, to breathe. There was none but one way out, one solution to my worthless, dreadful existence.
Within the span of two years, I would attempt suicide twice. If you ask me what I remember feeling just before I took a mouthful of pills, I can only answer weariness, utter fatigue. I had no fight left in me, I couldn’t even think of a reason to fight. I just wanted the dark pain and despair that surrounded me to go away, to end. Death was my answer, my way out. And it would rid my loved ones of the immense burden I was.
I was lucky, so very lucky. On both occasions, I got to the hospital in time. I wasn’t living alone, and that made all the difference. My mother always sensed when I went over the limit, I guess. Or my grandmother, who was living with us at the time. I don’t really know who raised the alarm and called the ambulance. I’d just wake at the hospital and knew I had failed. And in the throes of my despair, that was even worse.
Therapy eventually kicked in, and slowly but surely I got better. I went back to college, I got a job, I started a new relationship. Years ahead, I finally could see some self-worth, I could love, I could write. I managed to develop organizational and leadership skills that gave me a career path. I became a mom. And I could even write again. I fell in love with the weaving of meaning with words all over again.
I’m never really out of the woods. Depression has revisited me once or twice. And when it does, the allure of Death’s warm embrace always lingers in the background. It has become a dance between us, where I veer away, whenever I feel Death coming too close, becoming too enticing. It gets easier through the years, and through therapy, to keep Her at bay. My dance steps get quicker, and I can see the warning signs earlier.
I found enough worth in me to help me fight the temptation of giving in, even in my darkest hours. But every time I get too tired, every time I find myself thinking I have failed at something, or made a mistake, She finds an opening to step a little closer. She will get to me eventually, we all end up in Her arms at the end. But She will have to get there on Her own. I will not let Her court me anymore.
