6 years old:
The sand sticks to your bare feet as you walk on the beach with your parents. One hand is in your mom's and the other in your dad's as you walk between them, towards the water's edge. The waves gently roll towards you, stopping just shy of your toes.
"You want to go for a swim, sweetheart?" Your father's voice drifts down to you as you stare longingly at the water. Nodding vigorously, you look up at him, hopefully.
"Can we daddy? Please?"
He laughs at your enthusiasm, lifting you into the air. "Of course we can, baby."
He places you on the ground and you make a beeline for the water before the firm tone of your mother's voice stops you.
"Wait a second."
You turn around and your mother is smiling and waving a bottle of sunscreen in the air. "You don't want to turn red like a tomato, do you?"
Shaking your head, you run back to her and jump into her arms. She catches you easily and you both laugh as she pushes some of the coppery strands of hair out of your face. She places you down before squirting some sunscreen onto her hands and lathering it all over your pale skin.
"There you go, honey. All ready to go."
"Thank you, mommy." You reach up for her and she bends down enough for you to plant a wet kiss to her cheek. She smiles and gently pushes you towards the water, waving at you as you run into the waves with your father, your laughter blending into the sound of the wind and the water.
10 years old:
You're met with silence when you enter your house, which doesn't surprise you at all. This is how it is every time dad goes to Washington for his political meetings. Mom stays in bed all day, most likely drinking wine or in a drug-induced slumber.
Placing your backpack on the ground, you step inside. As you enter the kitchen, you're met by a stench that seems to radiate from the counter. Amongst the many bottles of pills and wine, you see what looks like the sandwich you made your mother for dinner two nights ago. Pinching your nose, you throw it into the garbage, along with the empty wine bottles cluttering every surface.
The kitchen looking a little better, you make your way upstairs, heading for your mother's room. It had become routine to check up on her, make sure she was fine. From the doorway, you see a lump under a blanket with wisps of red hair poking out of the top. Stepping into the room, you walks to he rmother's bed, not even bothering to tiptoe anymore because mom can sleep through anything in this state. You lift the covers up to expose her torso and you watch to see the rise and fall of her chest. This had become a habit for you ever since she started acting like this, spending the entire day in bed, not responding to you.
As you watch, her chest doesn't rise and fall to the rhythm of steady breathing as it normally does. You grab her wrist, momentarily shocked by the coldness of her skin, before you focus, checking her pulse the way you learned in health class. Nothing.
Panic starts to overwhelm you but you push it back, taking a few deep breaths, trying to figure out what to do. You grab the phone, punching n 9-1-1 and wait for the operator. When the calm voice on the end tells you they're sending an ambulance, you drop the phone, numbly waiting for the paramedics to come and tell you what you already know.
20 years old:
Sweet relief.
You stare at the bottle of morphine in your hand and you can feel the needle in your pocket. Part of you is screaming to stop, to put the needle away and get the hell out of there but it's being drowned out by the image of the man who you couldn't save. The man whose family is crying in the waiting room as he's wheeled away on a stretcher with a sheet covering his face.
That image is quickly replaced by your mother's pale face from that night ten years ago. You could have saved her. It's your fault she's dead. If only you had told one of your teachers what was going on. If only you had gone to check on her before cleaning the kitchen, she'd still be alive. If only...
You plunge the needle into your arm, letting the clear liquid run through your veins, blocking any more thoughts and images from entering your mind. Your vision starts to blur and you feel as thought you're underwater. You place the bottle of morphine back on the shelf and quickly throw away the needle just as the door to the storage room opens.
"Dr. Tancredi, they're ready for you in theatre 6," the young nurse says, gesturing behind her towards the theatre.
Your head is suddenly a lot heavier as you nod. In a completely steady voice you reply, "I'll be there in just a moment."
The nurse leaves and you're alone once again. Leaning your back against the shelves, you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding. Risking all those years of studying and busting your ass in med school just for a temporary relief. This is what your life has come to.
Taking a deep breath and mentally shaking yourself, you leave the room and head for theatre 6, bracing yourself to see yet another suffering human.
29 years old:
You stare into the bottle of clear liquid, contemplating what you're about to do. The events of the past few hours race through your head.
Michael breaking out of prison. Never loved her. Used her. Leave the door open when you leave.
The jumble of words that through her brain, ebbing away at what's left of your sanity. You only know one way to make it stop, to get rid of all the pain that you're feeling. Except this time, the pain is stronger than you've ever had to deal with and you doubt a temporary release can help you now. You doesn't want a temporary release anymore. What you crave is a permanent one.
Sticking the needle into the bottle of morphine, you take a higher dose than you've ever had before and plunge it into your arm, barely registering the prick of the needle. As the clear liquid spreads through your veins. you wait for your escape. Your permanent escape.
33 years old:
"Faster daddy, faster!"
Your son screeches in laughter, his small hands gripping the chain on the swings as his father pushes him.
"Mommy, look at me! I'm going to touch the sky!" His laughter is infectious and you giggle at his adorableness as you make your way towards your husband, wrapping your arms around him from behind.
"Look at him go," Michael says, turning around and wrapping his arm around your waist, pulling you against him. You lean into him, the warmth of his body welcoming you as you wrap your arms around him.
You think of everything you've been through to get to this moment. You've been hunted by government agents that want you and your loved ones dead. You've been held at gunpoint more times than you can count and been tortured various times. The scars on your back can prove that. You've seen and done more terrible things in the past few months than you have in your entire life. But you know that you would do it all again if it meant coming back to this moment, now. It was all worth it.
You think about your life, about all the pain and suffering you've had to endure and you wish that you could go back and tell your past self that it gets better. You could have stopped yourself from picking up that bottle of morphine, from spending years blaming yourself for your mother's death, from trying to commit suicide a few years ago. You have many regrets and you know you'll have to live with them but, at the same time, you know that those regrets are part of what made you the person you are today. And you don't regret the person you've become - you've learned to love her. And you've taught her how to love others again. You no longer worry that everyone you love will leave you, or that you are somehow responsible for everything bad that happens. Now, you live in the moment, surrounded by people that love you, and you couldn't be happier.
This is dedicated to anyone that is/has ever battled depression. Just know, you're not alone. And I promise you, it gets better.