A month ago, depression stole my mother's life through suicide. I was exceedingly close to my mom. Her untimely death, compounded by its circumstances, has been absolutely crushing and disorienting. Her experience of pain and suffering - so immense and difficult to comprehend yet heart-breaking to understand through the clarity of hindsight - must now be engaged by us survivors. There is an ever-so-faint glimmer of hope in healing how I relate to these scars, a hope residing ever-so-dimly on the horizon. The experience of depression and suicide is cruel and unyielding to all enshrouded in its relentless undertow, or so it seems to me.
And yet, here I am on the job, the first day of a new academic year. At work, this is a time of renewed excitement, jubilant orientations, planning and budgeting for a hopeful new year. A time of warm welcome and heart-felt smiles.
I am here today. I made it to the office. This is my 9th day back at work since returning from leave. Most days, getting here is about the best I can do. It seems like I spend so much of my day sitting in my office, looking out the window, wiping away the tears. I've checked a few emails, made it to a few meetings. I've managed a few hellos and a couple of smiles. But this all feels so superficial. I don't want to be here at work. All I feel like doing is sitting in the Valley of Silence - doing a little reading, a little writing - but really just sitting in the woods. Then going home to be with my family.
Work is doubly difficult for me these days because a part of me is an achiever. This part of me worries and feels guilty that I am performing so minimally (despite everyone at work saying not to worry). This part of me does not want to share my misery with others at work, because I don't want to be a distraction for them and their work. This part of me, and others, keeps me up at night.
I struggle to sleep. I struggle to focus. I struggle to think clearly. I struggle to be motivated. I struggle to be a kind and patient parent of a rambunctious and spirited two-year old. I am so very far from my best self.
And yet I am proud of what I have accomplished in this past month. At times I have hewn closer to my best self than perhaps ever before in my life. I am proud of the way I have supported my dad and the rest of my family. I am proud of the way I have told my mother's story. I am proud of the hard work of healing that I have taken on through meditation, therapy, reading, writing, and sharing my experience and feelings. But all of this feels like a Herculean effort. I get to work, in the empty space of my office, and I have nothing left to give.
It comes and goes. I think I will be able to rally this morning and get a few more things done.
The love and support of my colleagues has been immense. This - more than anything - is what gives me the strength to come to work. Their kind words, flowers, trees, and prayers have sustained me. You don't need to know what to say, you just need to care. That is all that really matters, to let someone know that you care about them and their experience.
Today is a gray foggy morning. I look at flowers - given to me by colleagues - silhouetted against the dreariness. There is an easy metaphor here, a tidy way to tie this all together, and say that all shall be well. But that feels too simple, a facade, and I can't honestly say something so trite. Perhaps the most honest way to put it is this: I do look, and I do see, all that is before me. I see all who listen. I see all who offer me grace to mourn. I see the light and the dark. Namaste: the highest in me sees the highest in you.
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