In high school, and throughout the first half of university, I never stopped writing.

I would write poems, stories, journals; and send them out into the universe. If you asked me at the time, I perhaps would have played coy. But I can honestly say, I wanted more than anything at the time for people to discover them. I felt like I had been writing forever to try and get these feelings out. An attempt to try and tell the people I wanted to talk to the things I wanted them to know.

Music blaring, I would plug away noisily night after night. Waiting for the right person, to find the poem, story, or journal that I had written for them. To tell them that I was sorry for that time I fucked up. To tell them that I was still around, in case they were wondering. To tell them…this is me. I am right here. Please, come find me. Now.

I never truly saw this as a sign of loneliness or desperation, but merely an attempt to reconnect with people I had lost. People I still cared for a great deal, but had lost for whatever reason. I know I have always had an exceptionally hard time comprehending how we are supposed to meet people, get to know them, and utterly fall in love with so many parts of them (romantically or otherwise) and then simply…let go. Why would I ever want to let go of someone that I had grown so close to? Even if we were bad for each other, even if things just didn’t work out, even if we just drifted apart as time went on. They are a living, breathing, person. The idea of letting go of them has always seemed ridiculous.

Perhaps this notion is exactly why I struggle so frequently with thoughts of the past. Biking to work, marking papers, falling asleep. When suddenly I am reminded of them. Not just one person, but a mixture of pieces of them. Pieces of everyone, here and there.

G’s shaggy hair, brilliant smile, loving embrace.

A’s leather coat, watchful glances, beautiful guitar playing.

M’s blue eyes, playful laugh, wrestling escapades.

All of these, beautiful and sometimes sad things, start to weigh me down. As if I am trying to swim but my feet keep getting stuck along the bottom, drudging up all of this mud. My head starts to spin, and I feel like I could lay down with these thoughts and sleep forever.

I have heard of so many mantras, about living in the present and focusing on the now. What it must be like, to maintain a focus on the present day for longer than a few moments at a time. I realize this is symptomatic of my depression, and my anxiety. But I like to believe that there is some positive part of this all. That I am just a person who struggles to let go of others, of their memories or the thoughts of their presence, because it kills me so.

But on the other hand, at what point do I stop dragging myself down? At what point do I finally decide that these crates are important, but not important enough to let the whole damn ship sink.





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