Last Friday’s sunset was a beautiful one. I woke up from a long nap and was duly gifted with the sight of my city, gold and glowing, under the looming twilight sky. I immediately sought high ground in order to get a good look at the unfolding magic. It was the kind of magic that leaves you gaping, breathless, and teary-eyed. After taking photos of the sky, I texted my friend Kim and told her that I can’t believe I’m living and breathing inside this beautiful urban jungle. I have never been more in love with a place.
I have resolved, since I was 16, to record or archive days and memories similar to the aforementioned one: The glorious times. I remember Tavi speaking in an interview about archiving everything, and recall her using the word “hoarding.” We can put it that way, hoarding emotions and memories. For me, the moments I hold on to are an arsenal for survival. It may not be enough to sustain everyone, but there are days in my life what I hoard is the only thing in my possession. Then, hoarding allows me to take that next breath, next step, next, next, next.
Last night, I googled “signs and symptoms of depression.” Of the 11 symptoms listed on Web MD, I ticked eight. This worries me—knowing full well that I am not just “sad,” or “down,” or “PMS-ing.” More worries come knocking, for I am aware that I live in a place where mental illness is not talked about, or even taken into consideration when one says, “I’m not feeling well.” The only thing most people consider a mental illness is schizophrenia.
This scares me more than it worries me. I know what I have to do and the actions I need to take. There isn’t much energy left in me; every ounce is spent thinking, feeling, being anxious about things. And with the kind of people I live and am around with, I don’t know where to begin. ♦