I don’t want to move from this spot on the chair. Curled up in a small ball, I’m afraid I might unravel if I stretch my limbs and move. So I stay still, and wonder… 

Feeling frayed and worn out, would pieces of me begin to loosen and fall into scattered piles? Or would I try and pull the strings taut again into a smile - my usual armor to face the world?

Fighting depression is an exercise in holding onto a tenuous link to joy. One moment I’m giggling. The next it’s as though a tsunami of sadness dropped from the sky and left me drowning in tears. 

Or it can sneak up stealthily, like a spy trying to infiltrate a castle in a land of abundance. Because when life feels so damn good, who would ever expect depression to invade?

“I’m sorry. But can I make a reservation?”

I’m sitting on a train to Boston. The seats are wide and comfortable. For the most part, things are quiet, other than the occasional murmur of a conversation. 

A few stations ago, a group of young women got on the train. They were trying to sit near each other. I cleared the seat next to me for one of them, and went back to reading my book.

“I’m sorry to bother you but…”

It was her friend’s voice across the aisle that broke into my concentration. None of them were loud, but it was the “I’m sorry” that kept me re-reading the same paragraph.

In the space of a less than two minute conversation, the girl had said it SIX times. 

Last night I attended my first group therapy session. I’m on a waiting list to be matched with an affordable professional for my individual journey. Hopefully one versed in dealing with anxiety and eating disorders.

But in the meantime, it was suggested that I try out the motivation drop in group that meets online weekly. I was told it might help simply to feel supported, or to listen to what others are saying about challenges they are facing.

It was only recently that I began speaking out publicly about these issues that affect my daily life. In the past, I felt I had to put on a brave face, smile at the world, and never let on that inside was a constant battle. That a relentless conversation went on in my head about whether it was okay to eat, did I earn the right to eat, was I going to be worthy of eating, was it really necessary to eat.

And like the proverbial snake that swallows its own tail, my anxiety - an entity completely separate and stemming from traumatic experiences in my past - fed the eating disorder. While the eating disorder - an issue with roots in my childhood - increased my anxiety.

Last Sunday night I challenged myself to be BRAVE. Not the loud in your face kind of courage that the world seems to applaud when it goes viral on Instagram posts. 

But the quiet bravery. The one that requires a strength no one can visually see most days. But that must be felt in your core.

The task set at hand was a long time coming. I’d been holding on to something far longer than necessary. Twelve somethings it would turn out to be. And three hours of tearing and ripping and trying not to shake and cry and scream all at once.

Last Sunday I tore up my journals. Over 3000 pages documenting scary moments that I would never have imagined, yet actually lived through.

And in doing so, I hoped to free myself from the weight of carrying around visual reminders of a nightmare that I still re-live often in my sleeping hours. But maybe, just maybe, the process of destroying these journals would also sever the link that tethered me to my past.

Maybe I would finally be free to move forward.

But like many good stories, to understand how I got to this place where destruction allowed me to rebuild my life, we have to start in the past. 

It’s Friday, November 8, 2024. I’m sitting at a coffee shop. In a town I love. After stopping by to check on my wonderful hair stylist. A gay man who is scared about what the election results mean for him and his husband. 

Earlier today I texted some of my transgender friends. They had to pull their child out of school for a day because she was so scared. They are checking their passports to make sure they are in order. Not because they want to leave the country. But because they are afraid they won’t be able to get a passport in the future. Or at least one that correctly identifies them. 

My favorite librarian is worried about his disabled sister’s benefits as the day care center has already made her feel like her care is in jeopardy. He is working two jobs as it is, to make sure his family is cared for properly. 

It’s barely been 48 hours since the election results were announced and I know of no one in my close friend group who is NOT experiencing shock, horror, fear, anger, disappointment, sadness, or a myriad of other negative emotions.