Good Morning family and
friends, here is the story and few words I said before I read it last night.
There are so many things I would change about the story now. Ha. But I sat on
my hands and just cut and pasted what I sent in. Thank you for all of your love
and support!
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I
believe stories are what enable us to understand each other and even ourselves.
We form our identity through stories, especially the stories we tell ourselves.
When you are battling depression you are battling a story of yourself that is
distorted, incomplete, and has you stuck. You have framed yourself as the
villain or the victim or both. Now don’t stop taking your meds if you are
clinically depressed or have bi-polar like I do! That’s important! But if you ever find
yourself in the grip of depression I believe the most important thing you can
do for yourself is pay attention to the
story in your head. Everyone has the power to tell a new story or at least re-frame their old narrative.
Forgotten Hero
Depression is a colourless
place, like living in a monochromatic painting. Every day is a foggy November morning. The world is all browns and greys. This morning is a foggy November morning. Driving to work is slow in the fog. The weather makes my mood seem justified, but
even sunshine can’t burn through this low.
Despite my temporary colour
blindness I know the traffic light is red and I stop. Red has always been my favourite colour but
it seems to hold less beauty, less power, less significance now. The
wind shakes the street light. Red, Red,
Red. I try to think about the colour.
Hold it in my mind. Dig up a positive association.
I think of red penny candy. Swedish berries in a big glass jar at the
corner store. I picture my five year old
hands counting out the rosy gummies into a small paper bag. My first pair of running shoes, white with a
bright red swoosh. I picture my feet
zig-zagging the large tiles of the Sears department store, showing my Mother
how fast I can run. I remember how my
Grandmother loved to wear red. I think
of her smiling brown eyes. I try to remember her in one of her red dresses. I
can’t hold the picture in my mind without thinking of how I miss her. My mind wanders off course. What would she think of me now? My life? My choices? Emotion bubbles to the surface, I try to push
it back down but I can feel my stomach clench and my eyes water. I stop the negative self-talk by focusing on
the world outside the window. A plastic
bag races across the street and on to the boulevard before sticking to a hydro
pole. The plastic bag is red. Tears begin streaming down my face. I feel like that red plastic bag pinned helplessly
against the pole, at the mercy of the wind. A car horn informs me the light is green now. I drive through the intersection and pull over
feeling myself tense and resist the overwhelming wall of feeling falling down
onto me.
“Fuck!” I yell it as loudly
and as violently as possible, pounding myself on the chest several times. “Fuuuuuuuck!
I bellow again stretching out the word as long as I can. “Wake up Katherine! Wake up!” I shout as
traffic whizzes by shaking the car slightly.
Calmer now, “You can’t start
the day this way, let it defeat you before it begins.” I slump over the edge of the steering
wheel. “No, no, no”, I repeat gently
rocking myself.
I will not get stuck. I will not mentally flog myself. I will not make myself the antagonist of my
own story. I used to be the hero of my
story. Once upon a time I could paint
pictures of myself slaying life’s dragons.
My parents separated when I
was young. I lived with my Mother most
of the year, in a small apartment, on a Court off Chandler Drive. Chandler and
its handful of side streets was and is a
neighbourhood filled with apartment buildings , triplexes, and a smattering of
semi-detached houses. It was in the
1980’s, as it is today, a magnet to new immigrants and single parent families because
of relatively cheap rent. So many
battles fought and many won on the climb out of poverty.
At 11 my most prized
possession was a bmx bike. It was silver
with a metallic red stem, brake levers, pedals, pegs, and wheel rims. A decal
across the bottom tube of the frame read wildcat
in red, orange and yellow flamed writing. A black number plate adorned the front with
the number 24 in bold red contrast. It
was beautiful and I felt like the don of the neighbourhood whenever I rode it. It was a special gift for several reasons. Firstly, it was a boy’s bike and although I
always coveted boy’s toys and clothes my parents rarely acquiesced to my non
gender conforming ways. Secondly, it
was, I imagined, an expensive gift given my family circumstances. I spent many hours bunny hopping up and down
curbs and competing with the neighbourhood boys to see who could catwalk the
longest or jump over our home made ramps the highest.
In good weather my routine
was to ride my bike home from school and park it under the back stairwell of
our apartment building. I didn’t lock my bike that time of day, believing it
would be safe for the few minutes it took me to walk up to the second floor
apartment, drop off my school bag and grab a snack before heading back out to
play.
One fall day my routine was
broken when after returning to the back stairwell all I found were a few dried
leaves where my bike should be. My stomach felt like it was full of stones and
my head feather stuffing. I froze in
horror. I was starting to fear I might
stare at those leaves forever when the first floor hallway door flung open and
into the stairwell came 5 year old Sharon. The opening of the door startled me
and I screamed causing her to scream and then laugh when she recognized me. I turned around to see Sharon leaning against
the open door bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, her short black
braids and colourful red bobbles bouncing up and down as well. The fright freed me from my paralysis and I
side stepped around her tiny frame, and ran through the door way and down the
first floor hall.
“Where are you going?”
Sharon shouted after me.
Where was I going? My mouth
could only form two inaudible words, “my bike.”
I ran out the front door. No
one was out on the Court. Someone had to have seen something! I ran across the lawn of the corner triplex
and continued to run up Chandler. I
didn’t know where I was running to, but I didn’t stop until I heard a voice
call out. “Where are you going in such a
hurry child?”
It was Sister King standing
at the bus stop. She lived just across the hall from me and I loved her
sing-song voice.
“My bike. I can’t find my
bike. It’s been stolen.” I replied finally stopping and speaking in between quick
breaths. “It can’t be far, I only left it for a few minutes.”
“Well, the only bike I’ve
seen was being rode by one of the young Johnson boys. Saw him as I was walkin’ to the stop. Deliverin’ his papers I suppose. “
“The Johnson’s”, I huffed.
Before she could say more I
was running again.
“Careful girl!” she shouted
after me.
Brian and Bradley Johnson were
twins that shared the job of delivering the local paper. At 13 they already had reputations as neighbourhood
thugs. They constantly fought with each
other when they weren’t fighting with someone else and were usually implicated
in any petty theft or vandalism in the neighbourhood. Fueled by adrenaline I confidently marched across
the front lawn of their semi, followed their driveway to the side of the house
and opened the gate to their yard. There
in the back corner was my bike, its back tire with the red rim peeking out from
behind a picnic table with a piece of wood panelling partially covering it.
Shaking with anger I retrieved the bike and started back to the street.
As I came out of the yard,
there at the bottom of the driveway stood the twins, arguing about something.
Their dirty blonde hair obscured their faces as they wrestled to the ground,
curses and incomprehensible grunts filled the air. They didn’t see me. I was about to make my retreat
home when their older sister Barb came out the side door to ask, “What the hell
is going on?” Not caring that her question was directed at the twins, I yelled
back “just taking my damn bike back from your loser brothers!” I emphasized the “damn” and “loser” for
dramatic effect. I gave my bike a once over and hopped on. I
never saw their reactions; it was enough to imagine their stunned expressions.
We tell stories. We squeeze our lives into plot graphs. We
sort through our various settings, analyze our cast of characters and look for
influence. Where was the rising action, the
main conflict? Once upon a time I was
the hero in my stories. I battled demons that were outside myself. Now I battle inner demons and struggle to
explain my own incomprehensible feelings. Is depression the cause or the result
of my current story?
I need a new story.
Outside the car window the
red plastic bag is no longer pinned against the hydro poll. I didn’t see its
daring escape. As I pull away I imagine it flying up into the sky, cutting
through the morning fog.
