Good Mistake

Chapter 3: Drowned

I found myself inside a shopping mall. I know why I am here, but I simply can't remember if I came with or without a car. The car keys are in my pocket, but I can't recall if I drove here a few minutes ago. I call home and ask my mom to check the parking area to see if the car is there or not. She is crying. She sends my brother to come over and take me back home. The effect of the pills sometimes makes me forget things.

It's been about one month since I got out of prison. Throughout this month, I've been battling a new challenge: an illness, depression. It's challenging to describe depression to someone who's never experienced it because it's not just sadness. I know sadness. Sadness is crying and feeling terrible. But I'm far beyond sadness. In the beginning, I didn't want to accept that I was experiencing depression. The only thing more exhausting than being depressed is pretending that you're not.

After visiting the doctor and changing medications a few times, I finally accepted that I'm experiencing depression. I think depression is a side effect of dying, and that's true. After losing everything in my life – my freedom, my job, my dignity, my wife, even the love in my soul – I feel like I'm nothing more than a walking corpse.

During these days, I don't want to see anyone. I lie in my bedroom with the curtains drawn, and a sense of emptiness washes over me like a sluggish wave. I feel that whatever is happening to me is my fault, that I've done something so enormous I can't even see it – something that's brought me to this point today. I ponder and ponder if I had been a bit more cautious that day with my customer and the purpose of using the upload center, this tragedy might never have happened in my life. I feel inadequate, stupid, and worthless.

I started working when I was 18 years old, and I've been striving ever since. I fell in love with a wonderful girl when I was 22, got married, and experienced genuine happiness. But now, what do I have? I can't even remember if I drove the car a few minutes ago or not. My family is trying to motivate me to be strong and keep trying, but I don't want to try anymore. I've had enough. I'm so tired. I'm only twenty-six, and I'm already exhausted.

In addition to all of this, I've felt like the most trustworthy person in my life betrayed me. My wife simply left me alone in the midst of a disaster. I felt like my heart had been broken so thoroughly and irreparably that there could be no real joy again. At best, there might eventually be a little contentment.

My family wanted me to get help and rejoin life, pick up the pieces, and move on. I tried to; sometimes I felt I wanted to. But I just had to lie in the mud, arms wrapped around myself, eyes closed, grieving, until I didn't have to anymore.

I admit I am scared. I can't feel, I can't move, I can't think, and I can't care. So what's the conceivable point in living like that? These pills give me a good sleep. I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of these thoughts, these whispers in my mind. When I am not under the effect of pills, my mind goes crazy. For example, I promise myself that I will fight my depression and be stronger than my sadness. Then, a few minutes later, when the battle is over in my mind, and I lose easily, I understand that depression isn't a war I can win. It's a battle I fight every day. I never stop; I never get to rest. Just one bloody fray after another. After that, I realized this sadness will last forever. The worst part is I can't care. I can't care about other people's feelings toward me, even my beloved ones. I can see my mother crying in silence at midnight and pretending everything is okay the next day when she's making breakfast. She smiles and pretends she's fine. It's the worst part of depression. I can't care about even the sadness of my mother. I can't care how hard my father is trying to take me out of this feeling. He's doing everything for me, but I can't even care about him.