The wall.

“You sound happier,” J said. “Like you’re in a better place.”

He and I always talk periodically, going through phases of lots of conversation and little conversation and brief messages of hug attacks and whatnot. He was there when I broke down so completely and utterly after the second? (third? seventh?) D fiasco two years ago, red glasses of water our only witness.

Ah, depression. My lingering friend.

There was a moment yesterday after practicing my arabesques in the middle of the sales floor and demonstrating fifth position and releve to my coworkers that I suddenly felt drained, dizzy, and on the verge of tears. One noticed, asked me why I stopped smiling. He had teased me earlier, asking if I was always so cheerful and perky. I left work shortly after, not quite sure if I was about to fend off a panic attack or i I was just exhausted after working Black Friday weekend at a store where we had thousands of people milling through during the day.

I’m still susceptible.

The pills are becoming smaller in dosage. I almost feel like there’s a twelve step process to overcoming depression; I’d try to write it out, but my version of depression is different from the next person’s, because depression is nothing but isolating.  J told me how strong he thinks I am, for dealing with everything that’s been thrown my way. It seems like what everyone’s been telling me all along came true. Small steps, one foot in front of the other, and suddenly, it doesn’t look so bleak anymore.

Is my mind blocking out all the hard stuff so I can keep moving forward?

For the first time in a long time, there is no ambiguity in my life anymore. Ambiguity unnerves me, though I crave flexibility. The walking contradiction in me. I suppose that’s what happens when a major relationship ends, leaving questions of “What if” all over its trails, snipped off by a decision of cowardice. I don’t question if he’s my future anymore, and in a way, that helps.

But I’m surprised every time I find myself wondering if he misses me and if I miss him.

There’s less of a haze on everything. I don’t feel so broken into pieces and it’s easier for me to interact with the world again. What seemed impossible three months ago is a small blip on my path today. Maybe it’s the part where I’ve become so busy again, I haven’t had time to think much about myself. Between school work, Retail Job, and the semblance of a social life, depression has sort of been relegated to a dark corner of my mind, permissible only on long drives alone.

Sometimes I feel lonely. But that’s okay.

I’m excited about having a new direction. I don’t feel like such a failure for living at home anymore or working at the mall to save money while I finish this degree. I sleep now, albeit with crazy dreams involving green converses and pizza on my friend’s windshield. I’m even accepting that I may stay in one place for longer than nine months, something I haven’t done since I was in high school.

I don’t write anymore though.

I feel like I have nothing to say. Or when I do have something to say, it’s channeled into my thesis, since I’ve become so engrossed with it. I get excited when non-literary people tell me how interesting it sounds and that they’d like to read it as well. There are no deep lingering thoughts right now; I have no time for them. Perhaps that’s why I was so successful in undergrad, because I never had time.

But honestly? I don’t feel anything anymore.

I’m not depressed. I’m not exuberant. I don’t feel overwhelmed. Nor do I feel stressed. Maybe that’s my body’s way of protecting me, taking small steps forward. My hands don’t shake anymore, and breathing comes easily. I laugh as easily as I did before the depression, but I also find myself distancing myself again. As though the wall has come back up, too nervous to stay down while my mind is so susceptible.

Maybe I fare better with a patchwork wall than I do with none at all.