"I Can Only Describe It Through Memory"
An artsy one with some emotional baggage. | Experimental Autofiction
To be honest, I hate last month’s story, which is a little weird because I feel there are paragraphs in there that contain some of my best writing to date. Funny how that works. Though it’s not the first and last time I’ll dislike something I’ve put into the world.
The good news is that I’m feeling better about the next few stories I plan to release (fingers crossed it stays that way). There seems to be a pattern where I write something I hate every few months only to be followed by work I tend to be proud of.
Maybe that’s the process.
I am nervous about this story. Even though it’s fiction, it comes from a very personal place. I guess that can make it a bit exciting, but I don’t know how I’ll feel about it in a month. I guess I’ll let you know.
Thanks for reading. I’m glad you all are here for the ride.
Art by
I can only describe it through memory.
The moments I’ve oscillated beyond the standard operating procedure. Where life's joys turn numb, taste buds lose their sense of pleasure, and the fragile psyche loses its grip.
It is difficult to grasp. Elusive to define. A vivid dream that haunts you after waking.
Attached like a leech. This mammalian brain, unable to conjure the magic of language to reveal it.
It was there as a boy, crossed-legged on the floor, eyes glued, unwavering, into the glass tube of a story machine, bearing witness to a wily coyote failing in its attempts to capture the elusive road runner.
I could not have been more than four or five.
Young. Innocent.
Disturbed that I would die—unlike the coyote, who could fall from great heights, be smashed by large rocks, or be burnt to a crisp by the explosion of misplaced dynamite only to return unharmed.
I do not know how I knew. I only remember wishing I was the cartoon.
A wish that did not come true.
Again at nine, awoken from its slumber as I stood bare-naked after a hot shower, steam perspired on the mirror. Deep brown eyes glared back at me as I thought of it.
The end. An end to everything.
Time and space flattened. Joy eviscerated upon the light particles that formed the contours of my face as I considered annihilation.
I ran.
Because I was not yet self-aware to know one can never outrun it. Running only fuels it. Stimulates the negative loop of it.
Again.
And Again.
AND AGAIN.
Each sole of my foot pressed in panic against the linoleum. I searched for comfort in my mother's arms, naive enough to believe she could dispel it. Tears fell like heavy rain, a voice scratchy with helpless pain, and a declaration, I don’t want to die.
But there’s nothing I can do about it. I was born into it. Now, I’m a slave to it.
Again, at nineteen, a psychotic episode induced by a desire for psychoactive pleasure. Trapped in a stranger's house. Each agonized breath entangled with eternity. Alone with a shadow long harbored on a musty couch, the beep of a dying fire alarm, and isolation.
Every fifteen minutes, it would come—a recurring loop of dread. The hologram of my mind, unprepared for its warping. The illusion of self melted into the popcorn paint. A severance from reality.
Did it even exist?
Did I?
The only certainty was the wound. Left unhealed, it's scar embedded. Uncertain if it ever will.
Depression. The Big D.
It hangs around like that. The air, hard to force into your lungs when within its grasp, even if you find the surface. A slow death. A curse.
It has a way of quietly digging its roots into the amygdala. Its sharp teeth burrowed into an unspoken pact of meaningless. A search for answers makes its rhymes and reasons less clear.
Years.
And Years.
And Years...
A cycle of hibernation, then, a dark bloom. Joys of youth withered down into doldrums of adulthood—a weary look into the thinning mortal coil.
A symptom my son has yet to know.
A little boy, cross-legged on the floor, watching cartoons on the TV with joy on his face, wonder in his eyes, and tiny hands clasped together.
I fear for him. The world he’ll inhabit. The trauma he might live.
What will he only describe through memory?
Have you had experiences with existential dread, depression, or anxiety? How does it feel to you? How do you describe it?
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