Buried in sand

It feels my mind is at its most creative first thing in the morning when I wake up. Maybe that is when minds are at their peaks. They say you forget something like 90% of your dreams after ten minutes of being awake. I would footnote that but I can’t remember where I saw it. So, in those ten minutes, I feel like the door from your subconscious mind to your conscious mind is momentarily open. I picture one of those old creaky doors at a mansion slowly closing.

I know some people advise keeping a notepad and pen close to your bed so you can jot down your thoughts  quickly, when you first wake up, before they disappear. Well, today was such an occasion for me. It wasn’t so much a dream as it was a vivid analogy that popped in my head as I lay in bed.

It all began with a thought, not the imagery or scenario, but a voice in my head. Someone was speaking to me. It wasn’t my voice, I don’t think. It may have been a voice from some show or documentary I had recently watched. The voice said, “You like to wallow in your grief.”

And it got me thinking. Do I really want to get better? Have I grown so accustomed to feeling this grief and pain that the idea of living any other way now scares me, or is not even appealing to me? It has been so long now since my mother passed (14 months) that I wonder to myself does the pain part even exist anymore? Am I just wallowing in the grief aspect - clinging to it like a pillow?

Now the scenario begins forming in my mind. Everyone has an analogy for grief or depression. As a matter of fact, I just heard one today that is perhaps the most common analogy. It is the one that says depression feels like being underwater and trying to get your head above water to gasp for some air. But every time you do manage to come up for air, a huge wave comes and pushes you under and you find yourself trying to gasp for air in an unending cycle of huge waves. It kind of put a damper on my excitement for my analogy, but here goes anyway.

I began thinking of grief and depression as being buried in sand on the beach. I think everyone has done that at least once, right? At first it is kind of cool, literally and figuratively. The dirt below the sand feels relaxing and soothing as it secures you in the clutches of the earth. A huge hug from Mother Nature as it were.

Now is a good time to mention I looked up the definition of the word wallow to make sure I was using it in the right context. Come to find out, it is being used in the exact context of the definition of the word.

wal·low

/ˈwälō/

verb

1. (chiefly of large mammals) roll about or lie relaxed in mud or water, especially to keep cool,.
   "watering places where buffalo liked to wallow"
   
   

Perfect.

Back to my analogy. After a while of being buried in the sand, the novelty of the whole thing wears off. “Alright guys, get me out of here.” It is no longer fun. Your body is paralyzed under the weight of the sand. Your head is burning from being exposed to the sun so long. You look around and see everyone going about their life as usual. No one is paying any mind to you. They are listening to their air pods, unpacking their lunches, reading their books. But you are just laying there, entombed in sand.

You try wiggling out, but you can’t do it yourself. You need help. You cannot do this alone. What once felt comforting is now scary. Am I going to die like this? Does anybody care? I can see life around me continuing like usual, but it is moving away from me.

Just when you think it can’t get any worse, a rogue wave comes up on the beach and momentarily submerges your head and almost drowns you. “I could have done without that” you mutter to yourself after the wave has retreated.

You feel like you are never going to get out so you begin to accept your fate. You give up. This is how it ends. You will be engulfed in this grief forever until you die.

And that is what grief and depression feel like to me. And the longer you stay in it, the harder it is to get out. The more time that elapses, the more the dirt below gets muddier and stiffer from the rogue waves that periodically smack you in the face.

I can hear you now saying, yeah, well some people can come by and dig you out. It may take some time, but with some help, you can get out. Then you slowly get to your feet, shake off the dirt/grief from your body and go on with your life. Right?

But when you are laying, buried in the sand, you don’t think like that. You just think you are going to die like this. Everyone is leaving the beach. Soon you will be all alone. All alone on this big old beach. Your head/brain is fried. You are just waiting for that next wave to come in. Which wave will be the one to do you in? You are waiting for the darkness as you see the sun set. It is beautiful, yet scary at the same time. And you just pray that the tide won’t reach you and submerge you for good. Or maybe that would be a welcome thing at this point.

But, you like to think that maybe someone will be walking their dog all alone on the beach, taking in the beautiful sunset. They will see your head poking out of the ground and release you from your agony. Place whatever name you want on that individual walking his dog who saves you. Call him your newfound God. Call him the therapist you just met. Call him one of your dear friends you haven’t heard from in years.

I guess I am still keeping my eyes open for that one person walking his dog, wary of the fact that the sun is setting.