The Other Side of the Mirror

There's a metaphor a friend of mine came up with. "Life," she philosophized, "Is a cup of spilled hot chocolate that no one would even care to clean up." I can almost imagine a small sad smile that accompanies the sentence.

The image I form for myself is: trapped on the other side of a mirror. Like Alice, I went through the looking glass and into another world. Unlike Alice, I can't get back. My reflection took my place, and I only flash into consciousness - awaken - once in a while. I "wake" in the middle of a sentence, thinking where am I? What am I doing here? A fraction of a second later, I'm on the other side.

(I wonder if anyone knows what I'm talking about.)

One thing I'm pretty sure of: I don't have a split personality. It's depression. (That is, I think it is... more about this later.) I'm always me, it's just that sometimes... I'm not.

(I'm not making any sense, darnnit.)

Perhaps I should start with some background information.

*** ***

From the beginning, they all said I was bright. I seemed to understand more than peers, and act more mature and responsible. I was reading classic poems at three (if my parents' memories are to be believed). However, I was naive, trusting - as children are.

This combination directly lead to the shattering of the world, as I knew it.

I was eight when I first found out about my other parent (my dad)'s affair, via a "I'm sorry, but I'm married" break-up email. It was cc'd to my mom, and also accidentally to me.

(Not the first affair nor the last, as it turned out.)

Let me explain the enormity of the situation, as it occurred to my 3rd-grade self. I was (mentally) old enough to know adultery meant "an extra-marital romantic relationship", and (emotionally) young enough to feel adultery meant "a complete betrayal of love and trust, and a shattering of the world, which I had always thought was perfect".You see, young kids really do believe happily-ever-after always happens in real life. Not maybe happens. Always happens. They believe it with the whole of their hearts.

I don't remember much, but I know I didn't mention any of this to either parent. I kept it inside, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend nothing had happened nor changed. It was harder and harder to give dad a hug after he came home from work. It was harder and harder to trust.

I guess you could say I started to go out of my body. Not literally, of course. What I mean is, I started to put my body on autopilot mode, making it look bubbly and laugh at jokes. I locked my emotions - me - inside, and made myself stay. I could go through a day and (almost) kid myself there was nothing wrong - and fool everyone else, too.

Soon, however, it started to go wrong. My body was stuck on autopilot. I lost the key I locked myself with. I couldn't show what I was truly thinking deep down inside, because I had suppressed it for too long. I was a victim of my own facade.

Oh, the irony.

That's what I mean by the other-side-of-the-mirror image.

That's why I decided to start this blog: maybe, by writing down what I feel, with no one immediately on the receiving end, I could stop pretending in real life.

*** ***

I reread what I wrote above, and (to me) I make myself sound like a self-pitying, whining, spoiled wanna-be victim. I really hope I don't come across that way to you.

*** ***

I started to suspect depression about six months ago.

I didn't have interest in anything, and what I used to like didn't seem fun anymore. I felt utterly alone, guilty, scared, and hopeless. I was fatigued. I wan seriously contemplating suicide. These signs had been around for a few years, but half a year ago they started to escalate, and I began to see some meaning in them.

I looked up depression on the net. I found books in the school library. The more I read, the more it made sense. Finally, I summoned enough courage to talk to my mom.

"Mom... do you think... I might have... depression?" I squeezed out the words.
She looked surprised. "Of course not! You don't have depression."
I shrugged.
End of discussion.

*** ***

So I'm not entirely definite that I have depression. Nevertheless, I'm pretty darn sure.

I'm scared of writing this, scared of what other people might think or say about me. However, I must try to speak my mind here and not care too much. That's the only way to return through the mirror.