Facing the Waves

Four years ago, I was diagnosed with depression for the first time. Since then, anxiety and sadness have come and gone like waves. Sometimes they arrive with fierce wind and rain, sweeping everything before them. At other times, the sea grows so calm that I wonder whether anything happened at all.

These days, work keeps me constantly busy. The dishes pile up, and the plants in my home begin to wither. They are signs that a wave as large as a house is approaching. After meeting my counselor yesterday for the first time in 10 days, I used up a handful of tissues in tears. Only then could I barely remember that every wave, whatever its force, eventually passes.

Even when a storm seems close, something can still make me laugh for a moment. Recently, it has often been videos of cats or babies. Friends had children one after another from the end of last year, so I have watched those small faces grow through a screen. Their once-unfocused eyes become clear, and soon they look at everything around them with curiosity. Thinking about all the first experiences awaiting them, I want to gently stroke their round heads.

For someone living with anxiety and depression, however, a first experience feels closer to worry, tension and fear than excitement or curiosity. I imagine failing, making an absurd mistake, inconveniencing someone or getting into trouble. Planning how to prevent those imagined disasters can exhaust me before I begin. This summer, I took on my company’s first drama-directing assignment. Although I have worked there for years, every new project feels like starting from the beginning, and I had never worked in drama before.

The hardest part is not always the anxiety, but my inability to tolerate myself. I berate myself for hesitating, for failing to think positively and for struggling again. Before a wave as high as a house, I think about all the firsts I have yet to encounter. I may always pause before them, unable to run away but trying to get through with a worried face. I hope I can become kinder to that frozen version of myself. If I could offer myself the same tenderness I feel while looking at a baby’s shining eyes, perhaps, as the waves continue to come and go, I might one day become an old woman with a gentle heart toward herself.