Walking on Water and Passing Through Fire
Gabrielle Reid Would you rather drown or be burned alive? Depression is like living under water. Every movement is through pressure; the water drags behind you, is reluctant to part in front of you and covers your whole body. You are caught in it, fighting your way through it, just trying to make it to the end. You are told you have the control – with strength and determination you can swim through the water and go anywhere you want. But you do not decide the boundaries, the size and depth of the ocean. The tide carries you away from the beach and in a new direction until you are tired and cold. At any moment you could be tangled by seaweed, or be taken by the current and thrown into a cliff. Your chest aches with the need to breathe where there is no air. I was fourteen when I was first dragged under. I don’t remember how it began. I may have been standing at the edge of the beach for years, letting the waves wash over me and feeling the warmth of past sunlight that lingers in the water. I may have been dumped by the first wave that I stepped into. What I do remember is how quickly Depression became a rhythm that beat against the shore. I remember not realising I was caught in a rip until it was too late – the air knocked out of my chest, panic rising in my throat as I kicked upwards and grappled above my head, desperate for my fingertips to find something other than water. To my friends, it may have looked like indulgence: dipping beneath the surface for a few seconds before regaining control. But those friends did not feel their soul caught and squeezed under the ocean. Depression does not just cloud your judgment; it clouds your whole vision of the world. Underwater, light is distorted, hit by a mallet of ripples until it gives way. The images you “see” are not reality. Shapes are stretched and hope is shrunk, moving through the water as small and elusive as a lost earring. You can try to focus, but wavelets get in the way and salt stings your eyes. Depression takes over until you forget what land looks like. I wanted nothing more than to break the surface, even if that meant being burned alive. Self-harm is like being lit on fire. It starts off warm and promising, a release from the cold and wet. This is something known, something comfortable. Man mastered the flame centuries ago, tamed it into campfires and candles. Then it consumes you. Your sweat is no match for the heat, your skin destroyed in a matter of seconds. You cannot run away from the flames; they are attached to you. Your body is the fuel, your mind is the oxygen, your pain is the heat. And the fire burns on. The first cut was curiosity. Tangible, visible, healable pain. Like an addict’s first cigarette, it seemed harmless and I seemed in control. But fires are not just for toasting marshmallows. Fires are more than Daddy reading bedtime stories and chimneys for Santa Claus. In Australian summers, a bushfire can turn the world thick with smoke, as ash settles across rooftops and swimming pools. Life itself can be torn apart by flames. It is easy to reason away Depression and the motivations for self-harm. I lied to counsellors and popped pills, listening to the doctors tell me about serotonin levels in my brain. I heard their words as garbled noise under water. They spoke of chemical reactions – I thought of flammable substances, supposed to make fireworks in my brain. The only reason I could walk on water was the hand that I held, a hand that had mastered the waves before. The only reason I could pass through fire was the hand that had guided three men through a furnace centuries ago. It belonged to a man who spoke of living water and baptisms of fire; it was the hand that holds the world. I have a fear that I never talk about. That my children will grow up underwater, and I, in the lifeguard’s chair, will not know how to save them. That they will be eaten by flames and I will not be able to find the hose. That they will have only one choice: drown, or be burned alive. |
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About the Author:
Gabrielle Reid lives in the bit of Australia where the council sends warning letters about kangaroo attacks. Her work has appeared in Tincture Journal, Slink Chunk Press and Story Shack Magazine. You can find Gabrielle online here or on Twitter here.
Gabrielle Reid lives in the bit of Australia where the council sends warning letters about kangaroo attacks. Her work has appeared in Tincture Journal, Slink Chunk Press and Story Shack Magazine. You can find Gabrielle online here or on Twitter here.
