Every What If, Every You If?

Preface

Depression is often assumed to be the result of identifiable causes. . . trauma, loss, chronic stress, or life altering events. And while these are valid and common triggers, there exists another form of depression that is less understood, more difficult to articulate, and often overlooked. . . the kind that arises without a clear reason.

"Here's your medication. . ." 

My eyes remained outside the window. The sky is blue. The clear road is calming. The humming birds, the barking dogs, the meowing cats are music to me. The green field is now blanketed by a light snowfall, each flake settling gently on the grass, making it shimmer faintly under the pale light. 

I closed my eyes willfully. . .  as if doing so could summon something real. Something has passed. . . something I know I can never reclaim, even if time itself longed to return to yesterday, even if time begged to rewind itself.

And for a moment, it did. I was back in that open field, breathless and laughing, running after snowflakes with outstretched hands, trying to catch them before they melted on my skin. Before all of this.

But the memory slipped through me like cold wind through broken windows. I swallowed hard. My throat burning, like I'd been holding back too many things for too long. My eyes began to blur as the memories sting badly. 

The nurse is now contacting me with a sign language which I don't know why people around me bother to use that. They clearly don't understand me. It's not like they ever tried to know me. Not like it matters anymore. No one here recognizes me. Not my voice, not my silence. Not even the weight I carry just to stay upright. No one even bothers to witness the slow unraveling of whatever's left of me in this institution.

They cannot contact my relatives because I have none. They cannot contact anyone I am related to, to file my documents. . . to make my diagnosis clear. So they'll identify me.

They only know my name. That's the only part they're allowed to touch.

I looked away, back at the wind. I heard the long deep gasp from the nurse.

"I'll come back once you're checked by the doctor, Geto. . ."

How annoying the humans are. They rely so heavily on their voices, as if constant talking alone proves their usefulness. . . as if words are the only function they know how to perform. As if they are, in the end, indeed helpful if the person didn't die. . .  even if the person lived. As if the soul had drowned beneath the shore. . . yet they still label them helpful- just because they once all stood for her. . . or for him. 

The next day, still the usual. Nothing's new. They'll serve me a tray of few slices of fruit, a small portion of rice, and rationed dishes, that even against my will, I'll eat them all. I don't wanna be skinny. It'll make me ugly.

I was served differently from others. I don't think they knew what to do with me. I wasn't the worst patient they'd ever had. . . but I was the one that made them worried and struggle a lot. Like I was the last person they wanted to be responsible for.

I sneaked out to steal something sharp from the private facility. I wasn't supposed to be here wandering beyond the monitored corridors of the private facility, but desperation has a way of making silence feel sharp and necessary. Luckily, I'd been observant for so long that I'm enough knowledgeable about the patients, nurses, doctor's usual routine. I'd memorized the nurses' shifts, the way the doctors took their coffee breaks at exactly the same time, the routes the other patients followed during their daily routines. No one noticed me much, and I used that to my advantage.

By now, they were probably all gathered in the private counseling room wherein they're in the circle to share thoughts to connect with other people. I couldn't believe they were capable of doing that, especially after everything they've been through. After all the trauma, all the breakdowns, everything that landed them here in the first place.

I hate it. I hate people. I hate how dumb they are. . . how clueless they are. . . how helpless they are. 

I fucking hate it. 

"I heard there's a new patient admitted. His parents chose to abandon him. If his condition doesn't improve, and he didn't somehow manage to show a progress. . . have you thought about how you'll manage his care in the long run?"

The blood stained my white partnered clothes. I stopped from cutting my wrist when a few doctors passed by my room. I closed my eyes, stopping myself to whimper from the sting I felt from the cut in my wrist. I watched it slowly flow down to my elbow. 

The conversation made my heart cold. The same situation made my mind drowned by painful memories. The similar event in my life made the cut that bleeds numb and pain-free.

"What is his name again?"

My heart nearly dropped to the floor as my vision blurred around the edges, a dizzying wave crashing over me. I could barely feel my legs. I could barely see the white long hallway. A cold rush surged through my veins, and my knees buckled beneath me. I could barely see how the light is steady before and now they're eaten by the darkness of my thought.

Just exact where I almost faint, my eyes dropped to the patient display name.

"Satoru. . . Gojo."

Satoru. . .  Gojo?

"Geto!" 

I couldn't respond. My mouth wouldn't open, as if it had locked itself shut. But I really won't. . . I don't ask for help, or even a hand. I don't ask anyone to be with me.

My hand nearly touched the wall for support, but I lost consciousness before I could steady myself. 

"Geto!" Other doctors shouted, horrified.

Most of the patient looked at me pitifully. But they're not one of my concerns anymore. Their eyes were full of emotions but but only his held me still.

Because just before the sliding door closed, his blue eyes landed on mine. . . emotionless.

The dawn. The daybreak. . . The enlightenment. 

I don't see any of it on his eyes.