it’s like looking into a fast-forward mirror. Is this me in twenty-five years? An existence depleted of all joy. A marriage of, I guess after all these years, convenience to someone I can’t bother to show respect for, least of all in public. At least I won’t have children for whom it’s too difficult to come home more than every few years, or, in Nina’s case, ever.
“Having health issues?” Kay is kind enough to ask. She doesn’t know that my mother suffers from most ailments known and unknown to mankind, albeit not always substantiated by blood work or a doctor’s diagnosis. Funnily enough, most of my mother’s health problems started cropping up just after she found out about my dad’s affair.
Mom shakes her head in defeat. “I’m an old woman. It’s been all downhill for a while now.” She drinks some more. I don’t really want to think about it, but I know exactly where this evening is going. I try to exchange a glance with my father, but he stares at something on the opposite wall with an empty look in his eyes.
“Not everyone gets the chance to live past their retirement age,” Kay says, an unfamiliar hint of hardness in her tone.
“While that is unmistakably true, clearly, not everyone wants to, either.” My mother’s obvious jab at me hits me straight in the gut.
My dad slams his fist on the table. “The only daughter we’re on regular speaking terms with is sitting right in front of us. She’s here. With us. You can at least try to be happy about that, Dee.”
“Happy?” Mom gives a disdainful huff. “What a joke.”
You are not responsible for anyone else’s happiness. I focus on Dr. Hakim’s words—the ones I clung to the most.
Under the table, I feel Kay’s hand on my knee. I gather strength from her touch, despite the rage building in my gut.
“Dad’s right. I’m sitting right here, Mom. Whatever you need to say to me, you can say it.” I realize I’ve barely spoken all night. My voice feels tight and unused, my throat swollen.
“I can’t.” Mom shakes her head in despair. “What if I say something that makes you try again?”
Kay digs her fingertips into the flesh around my knee.
“That’s not going to happen. I’m not the same person I was before.” Instinctively, I shuffle closer to Kay. “Also, Mom, what I did had nothing to do with what you might have said or done. Nothing. It was me and only me.”
Dad fumbles with his napkin, pushing it against his wet cheeks. Mom’s head hangs low, as if her body has given up already. Next to me, Kay sits with a straight back, the expression on her face not giving away much.
“I came back,” I continue, “because this family is as broken as I am. Because we all need to heal. Not to assign blame, but because this is where my life started. This is where I grew up. You’re my parents and, well, we may not get along as well as we’d like, but what I did was not your fault. I’ve been depressed for a long time and my mistakes are my own.”
“Was it a mistake, Ellie?” Dad’s voice crackles. “Or did you really want to die?”
I can’t reply to that. Not even Dr. Hakim has asked me that question and gotten anything resembling an answer to it. I certainly didn’t want to live anymore. Is that the same as wanting to die? Or is there nuance in everything?
I suppose, in the end, I couldn’t care less if I lived or died. Except that every minute I had to drag myself through my sad existence was one minute too many. Every day I had to go through life with a brain that constantly questioned even the smallest decisions was one day too many. But what weighed on me most of all was how the imbalance in my brain chemistry had me convinced that, despite short bursts of happiness—which were possibly only so vivid and joyful because of the contrast with the utter bleakness of any other day—the future was always, unquestionably, black.
I did want to die. But I lived.
“Maybe we should call it a night.” Kay
“Having health issues?” Kay is kind enough to ask. She doesn’t know that my mother suffers from most ailments known and unknown to mankind, albeit not always substantiated by blood work or a doctor’s diagnosis. Funnily enough, most of my mother’s health problems started cropping up just after she found out about my dad’s affair.
Mom shakes her head in defeat. “I’m an old woman. It’s been all downhill for a while now.” She drinks some more. I don’t really want to think about it, but I know exactly where this evening is going. I try to exchange a glance with my father, but he stares at something on the opposite wall with an empty look in his eyes.
“Not everyone gets the chance to live past their retirement age,” Kay says, an unfamiliar hint of hardness in her tone.
“While that is unmistakably true, clearly, not everyone wants to, either.” My mother’s obvious jab at me hits me straight in the gut.
My dad slams his fist on the table. “The only daughter we’re on regular speaking terms with is sitting right in front of us. She’s here. With us. You can at least try to be happy about that, Dee.”
“Happy?” Mom gives a disdainful huff. “What a joke.”
You are not responsible for anyone else’s happiness. I focus on Dr. Hakim’s words—the ones I clung to the most.
Under the table, I feel Kay’s hand on my knee. I gather strength from her touch, despite the rage building in my gut.
“Dad’s right. I’m sitting right here, Mom. Whatever you need to say to me, you can say it.” I realize I’ve barely spoken all night. My voice feels tight and unused, my throat swollen.
“I can’t.” Mom shakes her head in despair. “What if I say something that makes you try again?”
Kay digs her fingertips into the flesh around my knee.
“That’s not going to happen. I’m not the same person I was before.” Instinctively, I shuffle closer to Kay. “Also, Mom, what I did had nothing to do with what you might have said or done. Nothing. It was me and only me.”
Dad fumbles with his napkin, pushing it against his wet cheeks. Mom’s head hangs low, as if her body has given up already. Next to me, Kay sits with a straight back, the expression on her face not giving away much.
“I came back,” I continue, “because this family is as broken as I am. Because we all need to heal. Not to assign blame, but because this is where my life started. This is where I grew up. You’re my parents and, well, we may not get along as well as we’d like, but what I did was not your fault. I’ve been depressed for a long time and my mistakes are my own.”
“Was it a mistake, Ellie?” Dad’s voice crackles. “Or did you really want to die?”
I can’t reply to that. Not even Dr. Hakim has asked me that question and gotten anything resembling an answer to it. I certainly didn’t want to live anymore. Is that the same as wanting to die? Or is there nuance in everything?
I suppose, in the end, I couldn’t care less if I lived or died. Except that every minute I had to drag myself through my sad existence was one minute too many. Every day I had to go through life with a brain that constantly questioned even the smallest decisions was one day too many. But what weighed on me most of all was how the imbalance in my brain chemistry had me convinced that, despite short bursts of happiness—which were possibly only so vivid and joyful because of the contrast with the utter bleakness of any other day—the future was always, unquestionably, black.
I did want to die. But I lived.
“Maybe we should call it a night.” Kay
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