Left Drowning (Left Drowning #1)

by Jessica Park

SIX O’CLOCK ON a saturday morning is not exactly my preferred time to wake up. I glare at the clock. Well, there is nothing to be done. I am awake. My choice is either get up and deal with the day or stay in bed and spend the next several hours being sucked into the unpleasant and familiar vortex of racing thoughts, panic, depression, and listlessness that has dominated my life for the last four years. Better to get out of bed. As I blink into the dark, I am again hit with how tired I am and how little fight I have in me.

It’s still dark outside, but the act of opening the shade seems like something that people—normal people—should do when they get up. It’s an important gesture, and for some reason I think that today should possibly be a day of important gestures, if not actual connectedness with the real world.

Being outside feels good. Sunshine is supposed to help depression, after all. Not that I would classify myself as depressed. Sure, I have numerous depressive symptoms, but I think that I have good reason. Anyone in my situation would be depressed, right? And the whole concept of depression is… well, depressing. It doesn’t seem to take into account that I may damn well be justified in feeling how I do. So what if I’m often in an apathetic haze and spend half my time drinking until I feel numb? It’s not like I cry all the time. I think back to my psych textbook and grimace as I think how clearly my symptoms match up to the clinical definition. Fine, fine. I’m depressed. There. I said it. What I find interesting, at least from a human-interest standpoint, is that while I am painfully aware of my feelings and symptoms, I’m unable to shake them and move forward. I am stagnant, I guess.

Being outside feels good. Sunshine is supposed to help depression, after all. Not that I would classify myself as depressed. Sure, I have numerous depressive symptoms, but I think that I have good reason. Anyone in my situation would be depressed, right? And the whole concept of depression is… well, depressing. It doesn’t seem to take into account that I may damn well be justified in feeling how I do. So what if I’m often in an apathetic haze and spend half my time drinking until I feel numb? It’s not like I cry all the time. I think back to my psych textbook and grimace as I think how clearly my symptoms match up to the clinical definition. Fine, fine. I’m depressed. There. I said it. What I find interesting, at least from a human-interest standpoint, is that while I am painfully aware of my feelings and symptoms, I’m unable to shake them and move forward. I am stagnant, I guess.

Photographs and paintings invariably cheapen morning light, but the real-life version can be stupendous. Like it is right now.

Reality is not necessarily my friend—then again, neither are dreams—but this moment, this reality, is beautiful. I am alone without being lonely, for once, staring across the water and watching the sun begin its climb into the clear blue sky.

“What’s a little risk now and then, huh?” He rushes past me and turns so that he is walking backward, facing me as he talks. “It makes you feel alive. It brings you crashing into the here and now. Keeps you alert and grounded.”

“There’s nothing good to be said about sanity. It’s dull. Live a little. Come on.”

“You need songs that make you feel. Some make you strong, some make you weak. Some build determination, some tear you apart. But you need all of those.”

It’s a constant struggle to stay near the surface. I have just enough air to stop me from totally going under, but not enough to thrive.

It’s smart to end relationships that are poisonous. It’s a good thing. Sometimes you have to cut people out of your life to make things better. So you can move forward.

There is no set pattern to grief, despite what every stupid psych text has told me. There is no time frame that dictates when and how you’ll feel what you feel. You just get to deal with hell however, and whenever, it hits you.

“I was afraid this would happen. Being with you? It brought everything back, just like you said it would. It makes all of it worse. No, don’t look at me like that, Blythe. This is not like what you went through. I told you not to fight your past and to let it into your life because I knew it was something you could deal with. This is different. I can see now that we will never escape this. It was better before when I could hide and just stay with the future. We can’t pretend that you don’t know this truth, and we can’t pretend that this will work between us. I wish that I could be somebody else, but what’s happened to me is inextricably part of who I am. Who I will always be. It made me the person who you think you love. And so you love me either because of that or in spite of it. Both of which are unbearable.”

“Look, the things you think you love about me? You shouldn’t. Not really. My… past. It’s part of me, it affects everything that I do in the most fucked-up way. You think that I’m strong, you love that I take care of you. But I’m only like that because of what happened. I was forced to become bulletproof and competent because I faced complete insanity. That competence and diligence that you get off on is tainted. Jesus, even in bed. You like how I am with you. I’m… controlling. I’m in charge a lot. You even said it to me, that I don’t like to be out of control. See? How am I supposed to be who you want when you know why I am the way I am? It’s not real strength.” His voice shakes. “Every part of me is affected. It’s why I left you in the first place, why I ran to someone safe. Because you can’t possibly deal with what a fucking disaster I’m bound to be. You know all that. So you should know that I’m not good for you, or for anyone. I have done everything wrong so far. Everything. I’ll end up destroying you the way I’ve destroyed everything and everyone. The only smart thing that I can do now is to leave.”