We're living in a weird time. I started out counting our lockdown in days, then weeks, and now we are slowly beginning the second month and it is all more of the same. I've been doing a pretty good job lately of keeping my anxiety, ADHD, and neurodiversity in check-- I know what I need for myself and my mental well-being, and to the best of my ability, I accommodate. But a few days ago, I entered the battle of depression.
I never understood the term "fighting illness". I never liked the idea that someone loses a fight because they are not strong enough to battle any longer, and yet, it is the best metaphor I can use right now. Because I am not depressed, or slipping quietly into a depressive episode. I am strongly, bravely, and exhaustingly, fighting.
My body and my mind wish to go quietly. I found myself crying for no reason, breaking down because my mind had nothing left to give. A gray cloud of depression very much hung over me, surrounding me in fear and sadness and overwhelming darkness. But my spirit fights on.
One of the most profound moments in my depression journey came a few months ago, before the pandemic, before the lockdown, when life was still so normal.
Prior to the pandemic, and after this all ends, I teach preschool at a nature based preschool in Kensington. I started out full time before quickly realizing I had taken on way more than my mental health was capable of, and switched to part time with the love and support of the preschool directors. They have been incredible, through my working career and during this lockdown, in caring for their employees not just as workers, but as humans and as compassionate souls.
My schedule started me working at 7:30 am, meaning I woke up around 6:15 am every weekday and arrived to open the classroom before the sun rose.
Because of the bay area we live in, these mornings could be bright and crisp, or dark and gloomy. On a particularly gloomy morning, I was sitting at the loose parts table with a couple of the 4 year old students, making a structure out of bottles and pebbles, when one of them commented on the weather. He commented it was foggy that morning, which of course was an impressive new word and I commended him for that. Following this though, was one of the most beautiful sentences I have heard in my mental health journey. The other student at the table looked up and said, "Teacher Rivi doesn't like the fog. She says it's too sad."
That moment hit me, not just then, but as I reflected on it for days and weeks to come. Part of me wanted to dispute this statement, say it's fine, the fog is good, but she was right. This little four year old, who gave me big hugs when I saw her each morning and colored bright pictures on scraps of paper for me, she understood, in her own way. She remembered something I had said so offhandedly, my preference for the weather, listening to the subtext of memories she would likely never understand.
Because it wasn't the weather I disliked, but the memories surrounding it. And there I was, a grown adult, working; sitting in a classroom, in a life I never could've dreamed of in my darkest moments, listening to the quiet whisper of young, brilliant children who may not understand but love you nonetheless.
I remember this moment when I want to succumb to the depression. I remember the little smiles, the bright faces, the sunshine that follows the fog. Because as I told the kids that morning:
It's okay if the fog is sad. The sunshine will come later.
With love and strength,
Rivi
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