“Pacing my apartment, step by step,
I’m finding the time, finding it all.
It’s in my mind.
Feeling trapped but free, feeling like something but it’s not me.
I wish you were here.”
Each night at 8PM when I go out to my Chicago studio apartment balcony, I yell into the sky. I yell as loud as I can to thank those who are actually protecting me, and to hear my voice so that it can remind me that I’m still alive. After 3 minutes my voice is hoarse. People stop shouting after around 5 minutes. My throat hurts but I know it will stop once I go inside. The stabbing sting in my vocal chords will soon fade. Right now though, I yell. I wail and scream. I’m alone in this apartment every second of every day under lockdown, under threat and under fear. I’m forced to watch the swift action of this virus overtake the clouded inaction of this administration. My voice is ignored by everyone else and unused throughout the day, except right here at 8PM.
Stepping outside in this way is also the only interaction I get to truly feel of those around me – from all the strangers and distant neighbors I never bothered to meet or know before. I like this ritual. It’s so community forming and primal; coming together as strangers to make noise as one. This is the only indication I can really show to everyone that I’m still alive with air in my lungs. I hear your voice…can you hear mine? When I yell, do you hear in my faceless tone my fear?
I don’t want to sound like I’m hijacking this sincere cause and show of appreciation towards our countless medical staff and workers who are trudging through this deadly virus. Everyday my mind is flooded with the thoughts of all the first responders and personal loved ones who have been called to the front line. My best friend dedicatedly working at UPS; clients bravely serving as the janitorial staff at Northwestern Hospital; family members working at O’hare airport and managing Aldi groceries. I want to absorb your pain so you can rest. This crisis is too much for only a few hands to hold. And so, when I go to the ledge at night, instead of getting lost in my ever so darkening thoughts, my depression, I see a dark void that is yearning for sound. Frustration, tears, joy and all jagged noises. 8PM is my time to holler for everything I’m thankful for and hate right now. I’m yelling for you but I’m shrieking for us. It needs to all flow over this balcony edge.
I’m afraid of the future.
I’m an introvert at best, ambivert at worst. I feel like I’m largely indifferent and distant to most people, which can be rooted to my difficult childhood and splatter of disabilities that have kept me firmly, if not overly, marginalized. But still I dedicate my life and career to helping others because my world expands and brightens when I know I can make a difference for someone else. My mission of “flattening the curve” of disability injustice is why I’m alive and why my depression keeps me alive.
But, being inside – clocking in at 4 weeks now – has been a surprising experiment of isolation for me. All of my introversion powers are being tested. Don’t get me wrong, I isolate during the best of times because that’s what makes me feel the best at heart. But this staying inside, trapped with my rampant depression and anxiety and cut off from all meditative avenues feels like a beast turned in on itself. There are no museums to go to, parks to cycle through or churches to pop into. No familiar faces to peer upon, odd idiosyncrasy of the mundane or soft touches. And I have to be careful because any negative emotion I birth into my apartment now stays and lives with me within these walls. I breathe fire and try in vain to exhale feathers. I’m a buoyant bomb.
I feel… I know that depression is something that people don’t want to willingly talk about. Unlike most disabilities, as soon as I finally breakdown my walls and talk about my symptoms, I turn people away because suicidal ideation and self-harm are weighted balloons. If they’re too heavy for me to consistently keep afloat, why not others? Plus, I really don’t want “involuntary” to have to be a part of my vocabulary just because I’m admitting to my normal mental health reality. So I’ve realized that when I’m going through a depressive episode, most conversations are constructed on my end to help ease and comfort others. I don’t want anyone to feel sad, weird or uncomfortable so I listen intently to their concerns while biting my tongue about my own. I remind myself that most people like to only talk about themselves anyways and that I shouldn’t be too upset. This should be expected. And when it is my turn to quietly quip about my difficulties, I grin and accept the broke ass cousin of empathy, because sympathy is better than nothing…I guess. As long as I don’t get judged or pitied.
With a pandemic amongst us, it actually seems harder to validate any depressive episode because that old chestnut keeps thundering through my head.
“There are others who are worse off than me. Why should I be upset?”
This COVID-19, this has changed everything. Nothing will be the same. When I’m suffocating in my own presence in my apartment I quietly gasp for clarity with these little Zoom calls, texts and Netflix viewing parties. I see all these beautiful pixelated faces. All these souls that I rather experience in person - a luxury that I can’t have. I patiently wait for them as their picture flickers on the screen and as the glitches finally sync their words with their mouth. I yearn for the familiar voice of those who know me best. It feels like most times my soul is trying to leap through the glass just to be with the ones I love. I feel foolish.
When the conversations are over and all of the goodbyes are said, in a millisecond, my soul, my loves - my friends and family - are snatched off the screen and I have to contend with the fact that they were never really here. Just the harmonious tunes of a digitized image and voice. Their presence only penetrates reality so far. I’m as alone as I ever was, but at least now I have the ghostly digitized image of them to remember. So I close my eyes.
At night when I sleep I’m launched into a lush and beautiful reality that puts my own to shame. Almost every night for decades without fail I’m launched into an existence that is more glorious than my own. Nature everywhere, finely crafted architecture that’s looming in the clouds with a skyline speckled to look like a hybrid Chicago-Frankfurt-London. Even the people are constructed as familiar figures. The reality in my dreams is one of constant and vivid change. One that I control completely. Each morning I awake straining with every mental fiber to stay in my dreams because even in nightmares, there is still a comfort that I will wake up. That this will all be over.
So when I can, I keep looking at the screen. I see, smile and squint to see the electronic faces of those I love. I wonder if this will be the last time I see them and whether or not they have good enough reception to see, hear and remember me accurately. When I call my mom who lives in Dallas I try to gaze into her eyes but I don’t know where to look. If I look directly at the camera I know I won’t actually see her, but looking straight into the screen, actually into her eyes, means my line of sight is off for her. I wish I could just lock eyes normally and tell her I miss her. She’s the embodiment of my heart. I need her but can’t have her because she’s thousands of miles away. As we start to hang-up I feel a familiar lump forming in the back of my throat. Since I was a kid till now as an adult having to say goodbye to my mom is still one of the most difficult things to do. I start to get upset because I’m frustrated.
I need to make sure I remember her. I take a picture.
I video time my nieces and nephew in Omaha for art lessons and I see tufts of hair and attitude that I wish could be closer to me. They talk about their artwork and haphazardly hold their masterpieces up to the screen. I see corners and edges; colors and creative swirls filled with wild imaginations. I can’t see everything because their little hands are blocking part of the lens, but I don’t care, I just want to hear and see them for as long as I can. My brother in the background helping his daughter draw while playfully participating in our mock art shows. When we log-off I cry because I didn’t do this sooner – they’re excited each week to see me - who knew? Being forced to be rooted in the moment has forced me to see how my presence has some actual permanence for these kids. That’s not what I originally thought. I guess my depression was lying to me about that.
I need to make sure I remember them. I take a picture.
On Sundays I start my rounds of church services. At 11AM I video-in to the Chicago Temple to listen to my pastor. Shortly after I have a conference call and prayer with my immediate family. Around 2PM I have finished a mass prayer video chat with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. As a family, always in the darkest of times, we collectively call to God. I replay my dad’s voice in the recordings of our sessions. He’s sounding strong and jovial as he rounds together the family service and prayers. I listen to his pauses; I think that’s where my dad’s thrives the most. The slight silences that he occupies with his presence shows his police officer background, rounding and leading the masses into calm. We wait on his inflictions as he assigns our mini Sunday service rolls.
I want to make sure I remember this. I take a picture.
All my snap shots of my family are weird mini screens that show no true tenderness or emotion. In person though, their warmth could power the sun. I need them now. I need to hug them; that touch. But we hang up and there is now only silence. No more church. No more Sunday time. No more digital faces. No more digital voices. Just emptiness. These sessions have become increasingly difficult.
As the hours dip into the day I walk to my balcony. I stare into the straight lines of the buildings around me and start to feel disconnected. Weightless in mind and body - since I was child I’ve known this feeling well. My depression having taken me on a bad path weeks ago, I know the lightness is nothing more than a warning sign. A nuisance. I wait until 8pm, until I’m shadowed and can firmly grip the railing. I yell into the sky along with anyone who will join me. I clap my hands raw until all I can do is wave my phones flashlight in little mini figure eights. I need them all to see me and know that I’m still here. I’m still yelling.
Days leak from the calendar like water down a drain. I open my eyes to realize that my birthday is today. Turning the big ol’ 31 on lucky April 13. I’ve been mentally preparing for weeks for the fact that I would most likely be alone today. On such an unceremonious day there’s no need to feel sorry for myself. Have to remember that in order to not be disappointed, I have to have no expectations. Maybe, just maybe, none of this really matters. I’ve never really been too fond of my birthday so I feel like this will be just another uncomfortable minefield of nimbly ignoring what this day actually represents - ancient memories, milestones and cryptic broken promises to myself that are better left for another story. No matter the chapter, my depression always seems to be the main star; somehow a pandemic as the backdrop seems fitting. Right now though, this buoyant bomb can’t travel down that path now.
Tonight I quietly wait for 8PM. I wait for my turn to yell while desperately yearning for my comforting dreams after.
Whitney Hill is Founder and Director of SPORK! During the day she works as an Accessibility Specialist, serves on Chicago’s public transit ADA advisory board and is a Fellow at the ADA Leadership Institute. At night she “quietly” controls her anxiety and depression.
If you or someone you know is suicidal or in emotional distress, contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline (1-800-273-8255). Trained crisis workers are available to talk 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Your confidential and toll-free call goes to the nearest crisis center in the Lifeline national network. These centers provide crisis counseling and mental health referrals.
If you live in Illinois: The Call4Calm program launched by the Human Services Mental Health Division provides residents wanting to speak to a mental health care professional. For this free service you can text the word “TALK” to 552020.
Cover Photo: Kkwazzawazza _Kwak