how to stop being depressed (this time)

A Memoir Vignette

It seems as though everyone I see is depressed.

Everyone I’ve ever met or even thought about. Is anxious to the point of peril. Or burned out and sputtering. Or hurting. Bleeding out their tender heart and marrow and memory onto the asphalt in front of 179th street. Or on the corner of 23rd and Lex. Spewing filth. And bile. And begging.

Everybody is longing. Desperate. Terrified. Terrifying.

Maybe you’re depressed. That’s okay. I get it. And I know just what you need.

Covers. Blankets.

To burrow in. To wrap over your uncombed hair like a hood. Like a wall. Like a warning. The covers should be thick. I actually don’t recommend weighted blankets in this instance.¹ When burrowing into depression, one is liable to drown under the weight of a weighted blanket. Opt instead for multiple covers of varying lengths, intensities, and levels of cleanliness. Find one that smells like your mom used to. Before she got old.

Let your mind go blank. Which is to say: when the voice in your head starts to sound suspiciously like the first person to hurt you—which is to say, your dad abuser—which is to say, America—just let it wash over you. Don’t answer. Don’t cry. Not yet.

Wing up out of yourself like a great bird. A Black Angel.²

I personally like to leave my body there. In the nest of covers. So I can watch over it from the corner of the room. Up by the ceiling. Near the window. I like to perch where I can be the first to catch the light.

The people online call this disassociating. So would your therapist.

Let your mind falter. Memory will come unbidden: every unkind word you’ve ever heard and ever uttered. The mistakes you made. The color of the snow when your uncle passed away. Viral images of people dying. That time your parents finally gave you something to cry about. When everybody else followed suit. Even you.

The shame will come; it never left. Remember the hands, the lips, the teeth, the pain. Then sleep. Sleep until you’re tired.

Solange said, I’m gonna look for my body yeah. I’ll be back like real soon.³

Force something edible into your body. Applesauce. Yogurt.

Physically go to the kitchen wrapped in your nest. Cook a meal that you could make in your sleep. Feed it to your husband. Make conversation. Get back into bed. But this time, together. Let him hold you. Remember your place. Sleep. Until tomorrow.

Repeat these steps until you are sick. Of yourself. Of the way your bed smells with you in it.

You’ll know the moment is approaching because your hair will be dry, and you’ll notice. You’ll need water and sunlight, and you’ll notice. You’ll suddenly, and without warning, come back into your own flesh. Hey girl, hey. Your body will feel stiff and sore, like your bones are one big piece of rubber that’s pulled too tight. Covered in meat and left too long in the fridge. But you will remember how to move it all, even without trying.

Turn on some music. Beyoncé. Doechii. Meg. Something to get the blood flowing. Something to force you before a mirror.

The tears will find you there. In a face you hardly recognize. Falling from sallow sockets. There will be endless versions of you: in the mirror, in the eyes, in the tears. And all of you will weep.

Together.

Become a lawn chair. Fold easily forward. Bend at the middle. Reach for the sky beneath your feet. Slide down the wall. Rend your robes. Gnash your teeth. Call on your ancestors. Shake your ass. Break some shit.

You will feel so tired. Like all your running. And all your momma’s running. And your aunties. And cousins ‘nem. Your mother-grand running. It’s like all them steps and miles and all them lies and dogs and whips and chains and shit. All that darkness. Is stuck up in them bones. that flesh. You’ll see the scars.

This will be our secret…. a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived. - Chris Cleeve ; Little Bee

But you won’t lay down this time.

You’ll put down your nest wall of covers. And you’ll clean your face. And the faces of all the people in your mirror too. And then your room. And then the kitchen. You might even step outside. Feel the sun kiss your face and think about staying. You’ll let the earth hold you and you’ll find your place.

And then it will be tomorrow. The kind of tomorrow you can move through. The kind of tomorrow where you’re still an angel—but in your body, yeah. You’re back.

And that’s how to stop being depressed. This time.

1. I do happen to enjoy a weighted black mid panic attack though.

This is a reference to Audre Lorde’s poem "For Each Of You” which reads in part:

Be who you are and will be
learn to cherish 
that boisterous Black Angel that drives you
up one day and down another
protecting the place where your power rises
running like hot blood
from the same source
as your pain.

2.

3. In the book All the Black Girls Are Activists, EbonyJanice explores this lyric and the song “Weary” in an academic breakdown of womanist themes, including autonomy, sexuality, confidence, pleasure, and joy.