Dreaming in a Nightmare

Marisa Lucchese, “Breaking Down”

by Cassie

Apathy. Melancholia. Anger. Anxiety. 

These are feelings I know all too well.

The first time I came home from college was for my cousin’s wedding. The wedding was beautiful; it was held outside by the Hudson River. The rented-out area contained multiple cabins for guests to stay the night. It was nice to see my family, and it was fun to dance alongside them. But at some point during the night, my body and mind, being dazed from the alcohol, released my internal sadness. I ran from the reception, across the grass and mud, and headed towards the bathroom. I went into the first stall and let the water rush from my eyes as I collapsed behind the door, trying to be as quiet as possible.

The only thing that made me aware of myself were the voices of my brother and Michael, a lifelong family friend; we often joke that he’s my favorite brother. As they stepped out of the men’s bathroom, I overheard Michael say to my brother, “Let’s wait for Cass,” and while my brother walked away, Michael waited outside the door. I’m not sure if he saw that I was upset, but I smiled and walked through the propped open bathroom door. It was pitch black out, so he couldn’t make out the red blotches that coated my face. We talked and joked with each other as we followed the lit path back to the reception. In that small, unimportant moment, I felt relief and gratitude towards him. Though my sadness returned later, I will remember that otherwise forgettable moment.

I am an introvert, quiet, invisible. Adults have been telling me that I’m “mature for my age” since elementary school. I don’t express emotion easily. I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve. Mine is locked behind concrete barriers conceived from trauma, insecurity, and trust issues. But part of my personality has always been quiet and apathetic, even before the waves of intense depression appeared.

Grey shadows started to take hold of me when I was 10. They seized my identity and planted a seed of depression inside my being. Not only did I develop a continuous state of desolation, but disordered eating and increased anxiety.

I would lock myself within the four white walls of my room and wait until night to cry. My body became accustomed to this watery hour, like a schedule.

The melancholia that shrouded my identity continued to grow. I thought it would disappear if I ignored it. It wasn’t that serious. The one thought that repeated itself over and over during these early stages was me trying to convince myself that I was okay. I know I could never hurt myself. I can’t fathom it. I will ride these feelings out.

The shadows that gripped my soul only got stronger and stronger until they broke through my essence and overwhelmed me completely. They dragged me deeper into myself--a never-ending abyss. When I cried, felt stressed, or anxious, I had a tendency to take too many naps and binge eat. When I was in a state of complete apathy and emptiness and couldn’t find the tears to express my emotions, I would be lucky if I got two hours of sleep and considered it a success if I ate dinner that night.

I wasn’t sure I would ever crawl my way out. How can you escape yourself? How do you escape your mind?

I barely started my senior year of high school when I decided I would never be able to escape. I had walked home after babysitting after school. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel much when I swallowed all of my medication. It was difficult, but once my eyes focused on those tiny white pills pooled in my hand, I didn’t look back. You don’t feel any different. 

A few minutes later, you start to feel “off.”

After an hour had passed, my heart rate picked up. Next, I began to feel dizzy. Then, something that frightened me: I started to hallucinate. I skipped dinner, and as the minutes ticked by, the side effects worsened. I looked pale and sick. When I passed by the mirror in my room, my appearance shocked and frightened me. Maybe it was the hallucinogenic effects that emphasized my skin’s grey and pale tone and the hollowness in my eyes? It terrified me.

When my mother came into the room and saw me, she told my father that we were going to the hospital. I don’t remember getting in the car. I don’t remember my body expelling the toxins.

I remember I found myself in a hospital bed in the ER, an IV pierced into my arm as the smell of antiseptic and vomit stung my nose. I clung to a bag and prepared for its return. Doctors came and went. I heard a woman screaming somewhere across the room, feet stomping across the linoleum floor as beeps and shrill alarms went off, constantly.

Hours later, I was strapped to a gurney, put into an ambulance, and transferred to a different hospital.

My mother stayed with me that night. She slept on the pull-out loveseat to the right of my bed. She’s the only person I could ever talk to; she projected comfort and a sense of ease. We didn’t say much that night. She cried, and held my hand. And that said enough. I awoke, repeatedly, to a different nurse who took my blood pressure. I didn’t get much sleep that night. I felt disgusting; I couldn’t wait to get home and take a shower.

I ended up missing my senior picnic. My friends texted me with a video attached. It showed one of our classmates jumping into the murky Hudson River waters.

I told them I was sick.

I was discharged the next day. That was it. I went home, and life continued. Until I found myself in similar situations two more times before the year was over. Except those did not include hospital visits.

My father never commented on the matter. He never acknowledged it. Or my mental health, for that matter. Our relationship depends on ignoring emotions and feelings; that’s the type of people we are. We’re not like my mother. While she broke down and cried holding me, his response was: “Why would anyone do that?”

I never felt farther from my father.

I told my cousin two years later. It came about over FaceTime while I was in Texas. She glossed over it and continued to talk about herself.

Loneliness is an unfortunate state of being. It’s worse when you are physically surrounded by people who say things like: “You can always talk to me” or “I’m here for you.” Yet, you find yourself standing alone, stuck.

I feel I am sleepwalking through my life. I am not consciously present. I go through the daily motions of life while in a complete haze. But I can dream. I dream of a life in which I break from this habitual sleepwalking—I imagine that I will be normal and participate in the world. I dream the cycle of self-destruction and apathy will end. I dream of possibility, of realistic options, but still, the will and motivation to accomplish such tasks elude me.

People say that “time heals all wounds,” and that is the basis of my dreams, time healing my mind. I have to get through this portion of my life, and then I will be free. But that is a lie. I can’t depend solely on time to solve my problems--time will solve nothing if I remain stagnant.

I have to move forward in life and help myself by taking steps towards betterment. I will begin to understand that I hold the power to free myself from the grey shackles that constrain me, and from the tightness and pressure that exist in my mind, body, and spirit. 

Living can be utterly exhausting, devastating, and riddled with trauma and heartbreak. But there will be moments that bring happiness and serenity. There will be funerals; there will be weddings. There will be death; there will be birth. There will be lies; there will be truths. There will be failures; there will be achievements. When I recall those latter moments, the joyous ones, then it makes all those former moments, the miserable ones, obsolete.