Page 57 of Memories By the Shore
Fuck. I exhale in frustration. Avery shouldn’t worry about that. It’s my problem. “That’s not something you have to worry about,” I reassure her, tucking loose hair in her face behind her ear.
Avery’s posture stiffens. “It’s my problem too. I care for you and have seen firsthand what happens when you don’t take your meds.”
I shift myself away, planting both feet on the floor. “I appreciate it, but have it handled.”
“Then why haven’t you answered my question?” she challenges.
“What question?”
“Are you not taking your medication?” Her tone is clipped this time. She wants an answer and deserves respect enough for me, to be honest. “I found the full bottle in your trash can.”
Resting my elbows on my knees, I lay my head in my hands. “I’m not taking it.”
“Why?” she asks a little softer.
“I didn’t like the way it made me feel,” I painfully admit.God, I hate being this vulnerable. I’m the one who’s supposed to beprotecting her, and here I am, an incomplete person.
“But youlikethe way the depression makes you feel?” she retorts, scooting closer.
“No. I fucking hate it. I hate that I have to live with this when so many other people get to go on with their lives without a grey cloud looming over them on a daily basis.” I rise to my feet. I’m not prepared to talk to her about my struggles—or anyone for that matter—but I love Avery. I need to be open with her.
She rests her head on my shoulder. “Tell me what it’s like.”
Wrapping an arm around her, I bring her down on top of me. She tucks herself into the crook under it while we stare at the revolving banana leaf ceiling fan above us.
“You don’t want to know.”
She faces me fully, her lips set in a hard line, proving she won’t let this go easily.
“What do you want to know?” I give in. I envisioned spending the afternoon with fewer clothes, but at least I’m with her.
“Everything.” She caresses the side of my stomach with her fingertips. “Anything you’re comfortable sharing.”
Rubbing my forehead, I try to find the words to begin.How do I explain to another person what depression is like? Especially if they don’t have it themselves.
“I don’t always remember what it feels like when I’m not in it, but I know it’s bad.” Avery lays still and silent next to me. “Sometimes, there’s a trigger, but not always.” Running a hand down my face, I struggle with an explanation.
How do I tell her it starts slow, eventually morphing into not wanting to get up in the morning and intrusive thoughts like,What if I wasn’t here?I can’t tell anyone those things, let alone Avery. She’d freak out and think I am broken, unworthy of her love. Thoughts like that aren’t meant to leave the safety of my head.
“Sometimes you don’t even get a warning?” she asks. “How are you supposed to live through it?”
“It’s just a part of who I am. I’ve learned to deal with it,” I reply. It’s honest and raw but the truth.
My eyes dart around my bedroom, a space that’s become a sanctuary during particularly rough episodes. “Most of the time, I can put on a mask with a fake smile and act like nothing is wrong when, on the inside, a powerful war is raging between how long this will last and whether I will ever feel like myself again.”
“I had no idea.” Her words come out breathy. The painful realization of my flaws is apparent. The last thing I want is for her to pity me, but there’s also this belief that if she loves me, she will love all the parts of me—even the darker sides.
“I don’t tell people about it, Arizona,” I say. The worst part is the heavy feeling of loneliness—being with someone you love but not being able to love them at that moment. “I’m telling you because I love you, but not even the guys know.”
“I appreciate you trusting me.” Avery nestles her nose into my cheek. “I love you so much and want to be there for you in any way I can.”
“Thank you, but depression is an invisible battle which, most of the time, can’t be helped by others.” I roll over, bringing my arm around the top of her. Lightly pressing into her back, I nudge her closer.
“Do they last a long time?” She sniffs, her nose leaking.
“It depends. Some episodes are worse than others. Sometimes, they bring a physical weight, like being pressed on my chest and shoulders.” My body feels the sensation now as I recount some aspects of it. Swallowing a cotton ball in my throat, I attempt to clear it before continuing, “Other times, it’s not the physical sensation, but the mental ones that are tough. While pushing through, I wonder if I’ll ever get through it or be able to gasp a full breath again. But just as quickly as the wave comes, it moves over me, passing by, and then life is what it should be once again.”
Avery props herself on one elbow. With an expression of empathy, she leans over me and kisses me. “I love you. And you are not alone in this,” she mumbles into my lips. The love I feel for her is unexpected. I’m only nineteen, and I worry about whether it’s typical to have intense feelings toward someone like this.
