Bored and physically limited thanks to my fractured foot, I embarked on the project of cleaning my deck one evening this week after work.
It had remained largely untouched since last summer and, as a result, was astoundingly filthy. I last sat out here in August, when Phillip was still around and had a mysterious obsession with licking dirt off the dusty wooden beams. He died on Aug. 20, I disappeared for six weeks, and by the time I returned, the Cameron Peak fire was raging, filling the air with thick smoke and raining ash. Seemingly overnight, the stuff falling from the sky became snow, and winter set in.
My modest patio — and its rug, table, and chairs — had therefore accumulated all the ash, dirt, precipitation, and falling leaves of the past nine months. One swipe with a wet rag was enough to cake it in black.
The cleaning process took several evenings. Not only were there layers upon layers of filth to scrub off every single surface, but my rug (and thus, the wooden floor underneath) was soaked. Propped on my table and chairs, my rug took a few days to air out, allowing me to more easily beat the dirt out of it as well as sweep the floor underneath.
After wiping down the furniture, polishing the windows, vacuuming the carpet, and hobbling back and forth between my kitchen and the deck with buckets of soapy water, I finished about an hour before sunset on Thursday. I sat in one of my black, aluminum chairs for the first time in months, drinking some fizzy apple cider vinegar beverage from Trader Joe’s and watching the evening storm clouds march across the sky.
The déjà vu that washed over me in that moment was alarming in its clarity; I could taste the Modelo, Cuban food, summer rain, and despair that consumed my life a year ago.
I remember those days more vividly than I’d like. I was unemployed and aimless, my head quiet. My dog was dying. I’d sit outside on my deck in the evenings, drinking too many beers or sugary cocktails, trying to read, and savoring my first summer of mountain storms.
At that point, it was becoming clear that the pandemic wouldn’t be over anytime soon. Though the days were growing longer and warmer, it did nothing to change my mood, and hope began to slip away.
I won’t go through all the events that led to my depression sinking me into the deepest mental pit I’ve ever been in. But the result was that, for many weeks, I desperately, earnestly wanted to die.
I had a loose plan, which I’d be free to enact after my dog, who was so hovering so near death’s door that I scheduled (and canceled) multiple euthanasia appointments, finally died. Once Phil was gone, and I had fulfilled my promise to shepherd him through the last years of his life, I would jump in my car and drive west until I hit canyons. Then, Thelma & Louise style, I would gun it off the edge and get to fly through the air for a few brief, exhilarating moments before the lights went out.
I craved this. It was all I could think about for weeks. Each second of those bright, sunny days was agony. That awful feeling in my chest — which I can only describe as depression and grief dialed up to their most intense settings — was so physically and emotionally painful that it was genuinely unbearable. I would sit on the floor in my living room and stare at the ticking, analog clock on my wall. I would force myself to survive for just five seconds, breathe in and out, then survive for five seconds more. Count, and breathe. Over and over.
The mornings were the worst. I tried to wait at least a few hours after waking up to start drinking. But the instant I took that first sip of tequila or rum or whiskey, the feeling subsided to bearable. I’d keep drinking until I blacked out — and then the feeling wasn’t present at all.
I told my therapist it was bad, but didn’t give details. I couldn’t leave Phil while he was on his last legs, which meant I couldn’t let her report me.
But days, then weeks, went by, and Phil didn’t die. Every time I called the vet in tears to make an appointment, thinking it was time, he seemed to hear me and perked right back up. Deep down, I was thankful for every additional day I got with him, but enduring this was torture.
Phillip was always stubborn. I think, on some level, he understood what was happening — not just with him, but with me — and grouchily rallied time and time again to say, “Fuck you, Mom. I guess I’ll continue to suffer so I can make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
As I sat around, miserably waiting for him to die, my therapist gently tried to coax me to help myself. What if he lived for many more weeks, or months? I could not go on like this forever.
At the beginning of July, I begrudgingly started Prozac. And, in line with the doctor’s and pharmacist’s demands recommendations, I quit drinking.
It wasn’t instantaneous, but gradually, the feeling in my chest went away.
As I sit on my deck on this cloudy Saturday afternoon, I realize that I would have been shocked, and maybe a bit horrified, to know I’d still be here one year later.
It doesn’t seem so dramatic now. Of course I’m here. Of course I’m leaning on the same glass table, reading some newly released novel, and watching the storm clouds gather.
We may not change completely, but reflecting on last May, more feels different than the same.
For one, I am sitting out here alone. Phil is not licking the ground or clawing at the screen door; he’s in a sealed, floral box on a shelf just a few feet behind me.
My can of beer is now a can of lemon-strawberry seltzer. I’ve been sober for 10.5 months.
I’m employed full time, and am making enough money to be able to add to my savings every month and buy everything I need. (No more forgoing meals for the sake of frugality.)
I’m on good terms with my family. I maintain my boundaries, but am learning to do so in a kinder, respectful way.
The two looming losses I was dreading are now in the rearview mirror. The grief is still there, but after having these two pillars knocked out from under me, I was able to start building a new, more stable foundation.
I write, sometimes. I can sit down with my computer, spend hours draining my swirling thoughts, and, almost miraculously, feel better afterward.
I’m fully vaccinated, and so are the people I care about. There is a light at the end of this pandemic tunnel.
And perhaps most significantly, I’m content. That’s not to say my depression is gone (it’s not), or life is wonderful now (lol). But I no longer wake up thinking, “Oh God, not this again,” or feeling like I want to skip out on whatever life still lies ahead of me.
As summer dawns again, and the warm, earthy, metallic smell of rain on asphalt steams up to my second-floor patio, I feel a sense of peace and, even more incredibly, hope.
