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“What’s making you not fill it?” I asked as I put it back with the other sheet on the nightstand.
“Things have been a little better lately,” he said, leaning on the doorjamb. “I guess I’m waiting to see if it is a fluke or not.”
“I get that,” I agreed, nodding. “I was on that one for, like, two years,” I admitted, this time surprised at my own willingness to share. I didn’t even tell Lexy when I was taking antidepressants because I knew she would worry too much.
“Yeah?” he asked, brows lifted.
“Yeah. In my late teens,” I told him. “I’d been trying to get Lottie and I out of the rough area we’d grown up in. And shit was… hard. And I was… I wasn’t in a hole, like you describe. I was just angry. I was fucking angry every moment of every day. I didn’t know it for what it was until I looked it up and realized it was how depression manifests for some people.”
“Didn’t know that either,” he admitted.
“Yeah. And I tried to do the talk therapy thing,” I said, smirking.
“But you’re about as open as a vault?” he filled in, dragging a little laugh out of me.
“Yeah. That therapist sent me to the dude who gave me the meds.”
“And they worked?” he asked.
“I wasn’t so pissed off. I wasn’t constantly biting peoples’ heads off, or getting frustrated at the smallest of things anymore. It let me focus enough to get shit back in line. Got us out of that area, moved here, got my job that I love, got an apartment. Life got… better. And I thought it was time to wean down and see if the anger was gone.”
“Was it?”
“Depends on who you ask,” I said with a big smile. “I mean, I am not a sunshiny person like my sister is. And people piss me off sometimes. But that’s just who I am. It’s not depression, not anymore.”
“It never came back?” he asked, and I could hear the hint of fear there. I remembered that same concern when I’d been weaning down on my meds and felt really off-kilter for a while as my system readjusted, worried that I was going to find that I was still as angry, or worse yet, down. But I eventually leveled out.
“I mean… I think we are all kind of susceptible to getting down from time to time. But I think that’s human. I haven’t gotten to a place where life had no… no joy or no meaning anymore. Or where I felt like I was too overwhelmed to function. If any of that happened, though, I wouldn’t hesitate to get on the meds again. You gotta do what you gotta do to feel like life isn’t a slow slog toward death, right?”
To that, he let out a little snort.
“The slow slog toward death. Yeah, that kind of explains it perfectly,” he agreed. “I told my mom I would talk to the therapist, that’s why I have the meds. But I’ve been doing some other shit to see if that makes a difference.”
“Like what?”
“Like stopping shutting myself up in the house alone all the time, sleeping. I’ve been making myself go to the club instead, be around friends and family, working out more. Shit I read online said that for some people, lifestyle changes can make a big difference.”
“Like working out and being more social?”
“Yeah. On top of hobbies and finding a ‘purpose,’” he said.
“Purpose,” I repeated.
“Right? Fucking weird-ass concept. But I’ve been asking some of the guys and girls around the club about that, and, apparently, they all feel like they have it.”
“And what did these articles say to do to find what your purpose is?” I asked.
“Figure out what shit you care about. Reflect on what matters most. Know your strengths. Then, if you kind of figure out what venn diagram is between all those things, that’s your purpose. Or, you know, volunteer and shit like that.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“I don’t know that I have a purpose, according to that. But I’m not depressed.”
“You do, though. You like your work, you love music, you love your sister…”
“I don’t mind sharing my music love to help with your cause,” I told him. “So, let’s get it moving along, huh?” I asked, suddenly feeling really exposed.
For the next hour or so, that was all we did.
Setting up his record player and boombox, talking about how they worked, arranging his records and opening his CDs. Then, of course, giving some of them a listen.
“Sister?” Finn asked when my phone relentlessly started to ring.
Lottie refused to be ignored.
So when she called, she called until you picked up.
“Yep. She’s relentless,” I said, reaching for my bag and pulling out my phone. “You’re obnoxious,” I answered.
“You love it,” she said. “Where are you?” she asked. “We are supposed to be going to dinner.”
