Will It Ever Stop Being Enough?

 

Every night before I go to bed I do one thing: slowly open the door to my daughter’s room and stand over her, hand gently pressed on her head or her cheek or her stomach, and I smile.

Call it my melatonin. Therapy. A 35-pound zoloft with blonde curls.

After a hard day or week or quarantine or year, I know that if right before I go to bed I can look at her little nose; if I can feel her chest bounce up and down; if I can watch her just barely smile in her sleep, that there’s a better chance I might be able to get some sleep of my own. But it’s been all hard days recently. Every day has been a struggle.

It’s not like this is the first time this has happened to me. My mom died when I was 14-years-old and since that day I’ve dealt with bouts of depression. Sometimes it eats up a few hours of my day, sometimes it plays out like a long weekend, but rarely – through the power of therapy and distraction – has it lasted much longer than a week.

But what happens if it does?

What happens if those days just fold into months like they used to?

What happens if I can’t get off the couch or look at a text message from a friend because I’m so sure it will feel like work and dread and effort that I just don’t have?

What happens if I go back to being the guy I used to suffer through?

That guy sucks.

I’m very lucky in my battle with depression and anxiety, on the whole. Aside from one time as a teenager, staring out of my back window and wondering if jumping would solve the problems that a dead mother can bring a family, I’ve never really had to deal with self-harm. Maybe one other time did I ever feel like I was really losing a grip on my ability to calm the voices and the doubt and the imposter syndrome that plagues me in a usually mild and almost genial way.

My depression, save for those instances, was almost just a moody friend that I have to deal with every now and then.

Then I had my daughter, Merrow Amelia. Named in part for that mother who missed my graduation, my first stand up show, my wedding. That mother who missed me becoming me. That mother who would have gladly taken that name back if it meant she could hold my daughter.

And that daughter, like every daughter does, changed my perspective. She changed my world.

For the past almost-three years I have learned to stop sweating the small stuff in a way that feels more tangible than when a boardwalk t-shirt says it. When depression hits, which it still does, it’s a lot easier when I can look at this perfect little human with outrageous curls and her mother’s hazel eyes and the bravado to dance at a moments notice, even if it’s to a terrible Maroon 5 song over the grocery store speaker.

For the record, I’m not saying all Maroon 5 songs are terrible; some are bangers.

And even though self-harm has been such a fleeting thing for me, not a condition I ever feel like I’m leaning into, it is nice to know that effectively, I can look at a perfect example of why I wouldn’t trade this life for anything; and why I certainly wouldn’t ever want to shorten it.

I can hear her little voice incorrectly sing the words to a Moana song, and then I can watch her nail the chorus like she knew it the whole time. I can play dinosaurs with her, even though they’re all named Dada and Mama and Merrow, and even though they’re usually just hiding from other dinosaurs. I can help her out of her highchair when one of her favorite songs comes on a playlist because she’s begging me to dance beside her before she finishes her mac & cheese.

I have proof that I need to be here. I have proof.

But I also know that depression and anxiety are a disease. I know that the two can trick even the smartest person, and they have. They can cast a spell in a way that can be disarming, as I’m sure most of you know. The fact is, as we move through this life, we’re all going to become more aware of how quickly it can change for some people. It might be a celebrity, a teacher you loved, or a friend you knew inside and out… but someone you know will die by suicide.

Depression is equal opportunity.

And you don’t need to die for depression to take your life away; I’ve seen it first hand. You might not pass away but you can kill the life you have.

I’ve done it before. I’ve seen it in action.

Depression can make you a friend that isn’t around or a coworker who keeps everyone at arm’s length. Depression can make you a shit father or a partner who stops showing up. Depression can make you not you. And in that way it can end your life too.

It can happen to anyone.

In this moment, though, there’s no way it can happen to me. I have proof, right?

So how do we find those things that tether us? How do we recognize the people or ideas that can ground us when the nights get stormy and the loneliness feels inescapable?

I’m lucky, because mine refuses to leave my side.

Sometimes when I’m in that room, staring down at the outline of big hair and unicorn pajamas who makes me feel like I really did one thing right, I let myself linger. I let myself stay, collecting her tiny breaths and smiling at those cheeks that still haven’t shed the baby fat I so desperately love. I let myself bask in this reality that loving her would keep me from ever doing something stupid.

And on a night like tonight, at three in the morning, staring at my laptop in the dark, I can make a promise that I hope I keep.

It will always be enough. Always. I won’t voluntarily miss out on even one second of her.

And if you click on the picture below, I’m sure you can see why.