By Sandra J. Bouman
“I don’t know if there is an actual word for this feeling I’ve been having,” I continued, picking an invisible speck of dirt out from under my fingernail, “but I just want to drop everything, fly back to Oregon, drive to the coast, lay down on the beach, and let all the tiny creatures in the sand carry me off into the ocean.”
My eyes were closed as I said this. In my mind, I could almost see the blue to purple to pink to orange of the setting sun glistening across the horizon, I could almost smell the rain and the salty sea air churning over the water, and I could almost hear the thunderous heartbeat of the waves crashing rhythmically against the rocky cliffs. I had this feeling a lot nowadays, unsure if it made me happy or sad. Maybe it was nostalgia. It wasn’t exactly a memory, but it was something I was desperate to return to all the same.
I didn’t really want to, but I opened my eyes anyway. Instead of the beauty of a watercolor sunset along the Pacific, I was greeted by the harsh glare of industrial fluorescent lighting overhead and the persistent buzzing of electricity in the walls.
Dr. Anderson blinked. I couldn’t tell if her steely seafoam stare saw right through me or if it just bounced off the edges of my soul when she looked in my direction. Sometimes it was comforting. Sometimes it was unsettling. It made me want to cry either way. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.
“Depression,” she said, very matter of fact. “That is the word you’re looking for.”
“Depression?” I replied, rolling the word around on my tongue as if I had never used it before. Of course, I had used it before. And I would use it again. “Depression.”
The doctor nodded. She uncrossed her legs at the ankles and re-crossed them in the other direction.
“But I don’t want to kill myself or anything,” I told her practical shoes. I closed my eyes again to hold onto the sunset a little longer, but it wouldn’t stay. I knew I couldn’t keep it. The colors faded into the nothing that was the back of my eyelids. I sighed and opened them again. Dr. Anderson was still studying me, never giving away her own feelings as she probed around for mine.
Raising an impossibly straight eyebrow, she asked, “You don’t want to do it yourself, but you’re fine with sea creatures doing it for you instead?”
I opened my mouth to issue a rebuttal, then decided against it. “I see your point,” I said.
I had always been a bit of a pessimist—a negative Nancy, if you will. I was my own worst critic and introspective to a fault. I noticed almost everything, and almost nothing I noticed was good. I never thought of myself as depressed, though. Maybe I wasn’t happy all the time, but I wasn’t what I would consider sad, either. Not really. Sure, I had the odd intrusive thought every now and again, but didn’t everybody? The occasional, “What if I just let go of the steering wheel and see what happens?” Or, “What if I stayed in bed forever with the covers over my head, collecting dust?” Or the ever popular, “Would anybody really miss me if I was gone?” But I didn’t actually want to hurt myself. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I was a wimp when it came to pain. I couldn’t even wax my eyebrows, let alone off myself. I didn’t want to be dead, I just wanted to be done. I wanted peace.
I didn’t know what to say next, so I didn’t say anything. As usual, my thoughts moved a mile a minute, but I could never get them to come out right. My anxiety was the reason I was there in the first place. It was immediately obvious to everyone. More of a “no kidding” than a “what if.” Racing thoughts and panic attacks on the surface seemed like more of an urgent issue than the—well, nothing—that lurked beneath. Out of sight, out of mind for whatever was down there. That is, until the anxiety meds started working. Once that cloud lifted, there was nothing there to hide the nothing anymore. I used to joke that my anxiety was all that was keeping me going. I guess it wasn’t really a joke, after all.
“Here,” Dr. Anderson said, breaking the silence that only ever seemed awkward on my end, “Why don’t you try this?” She handed me a small, iridescent rectangle. Accepting the offering, I flipped it over in my hand. It was a sample of a medication whose ridiculous name emblazoned on the packaging I couldn’t even begin to pronounce.
“Take it tonight before bed,” she instructed. “It might even help you get some sleep.”
“Thanks,” I replied. But I doubted it.
*************************************************************************
Large red numbers floated in the darkness across the room from me. 2:41 A.M. I scowled as they turned into 2:42. My body was pinned beneath no less than three weighted blankets, a raggedy childhood quilt, a cooling migraine eye mask that really didn’t do much, and a cat, but I was still awake. I wouldn’t say I was wide awake, as I had actually taken the pills the doctor gave me as instructed. Despite the medicine making me loopy and a little light headed, I remained decidedly not asleep. Rolling onto my side did nothing but disturb the cat, who yelped as she jumped off the bed, then slunk off into the next room with a disgruntled “mrrph.” She’d be asleep on the couch in five minutes.
I rolled back onto my back and stared at the ceiling. Three small plastic stars glowed faintly beneath the thin layer of paint where the landlord had inexplicably tried covering them up instead of removing them. I often wondered about the child who used to fall asleep under their soft green reflection. Did the stars help them fall asleep quickly? Or did they, too, spend hours tracing the constellations, waiting for relief that never came?
The anxiety that accompanied my chronic insomnia had mostly disappeared, but the sleeplessness and dread remained. I didn’t worry that I would be tired in the morning. I knew I would. And I dreaded the day ahead instead. Why couldn’t I sleep? Hadn’t I done everything I was supposed to? The caffeine withdrawal headaches had been brutal. Why did I torture myself if nothing ever worked? I wanted to go to sleep and not wake up for a month or two. Not dead, just done. I wanted peace.
The small oscillating fan on my nightstand sent cool air across my cheeks, while the larger fan in the corner by my dresser rustled the bits of torn paper in the waste basket beside it. I didn’t really use the trash can in my bedroom much. It was mostly there for the tags I yanked off of new clothes before shoving them in the hamper or the tissues and cough drop wrappers I tossed at it when I was down with a cold. Although, truthfully, most of those things usually landed on the floor.
Right now, the waste basket merely contained the ripped up pieces of a small slip of paper Dr. Anderson handed me on my way out of the appointment which had the name of the drug I couldn’t pronounce scrawled across it in surprisingly neat handwriting. Sure, she could have done it all digitally, or called it in, and perhaps she would have preferred to, but I told her it would mean more to me if I could hold it. My scattered brain might recognize the weight of a piece of paper right in front of me. If I couldn’t touch it, it might not be real. My inbox often overwhelmed me, and I could easily ignore an automated phone call from the pharmacy. It took her a while to find the one last prescription pad she had hidden away in the bottom of her desk drawer, but she didn’t push back on my request. Dr. Anderson had more patience in her little finger than what existed in my entire extended family. And how did I repay this patience? By tearing the prescription in half, tearing those halves into thirds, and throwing them all away. So it goes.
I tried counting sheep and listing the decimals of pi. I tried singing the alphabet backwards and naming all the states in alphabetical order. I even tried crying. Not a single tear. Nothing but frustration.
I groaned and looked at the clock again. 2:48 A.M. I pulled the useless migraine mask down over my face and buried my arms back under the blankets. It was going to be a long night.
*************************************************************************
I opened my eyes to a flat, gray sky. It was brighter than it should have been without a visible sun overhead. I had to squint, but still couldn’t focus on anything. I wasn’t quite sure where I was. A light drizzle of misty rain began to collect in droplets on my hair and eyelashes. Either I was outside or my upstairs neighbor’s pipes burst. When I went to wipe the moisture away, I discovered that I couldn’t move my right arm. When I tried to move the other arm, I discovered that I couldn’t move at all. I heard the scuttling noises first. Then I felt the restraints. Like Gulliver tied down by the Lilliputians, I was flat on my back, wrapped in thick bands of seaweed. It wasn’t wrapped tight enough to hurt, but I couldn’t pull myself free. Who did this to me? I couldn’t crane my neck very far, but I didn’t see any tiny people nearby. Nor did I see any people at all. I couldn’t remember what Lilliput was supposed to have looked like, but I didn’t think this was it.
“That would be ridiculous,” I thought to myself, shaking my head figuratively on the inside, as I couldn’t do it literally on the outside. “Lilliputians aren’t real. They belong in fairy tales with dragons, ogres, and mermaids.”
But someone had to be responsible for this. Or rather, something…
The scuttling grew louder. From what I could see out of the corners of my eyes, the sand surrounding me seemed to be moving. I could feel it pulsating, undulating, almost breathing beneath my immovable limbs. It kind of tickled, actually. Stifling an unwelcome giggle, the sensation grew and grew. It was almost as if thousands of tiny legs and thousands of tiny claws were grabbing me, and pinching me, and digging into my skin. Not almost. There were thousands of tiny legs and thousands of tiny claws grabbing me, pinching me, and digging into my skin. I wanted to scream. Or vomit. But the clump of seaweed gagging my mouth prevented me from doing either. The taste wasn’t all that bad, but it reminded me of all the reasons I didn’t care for sushi.
In the span of a heartbeat or two, my emotions went from fear, to disgust, to anger, to confusion, and back to fear again. What on Earth was happening? How did I get there, and how could I get out of there? I let out a whimper, as that was the only thing I could do. But why was it the only thing I could do?
As if in answer, the rain stopped. The last few drops rolled down my face as the gray sky split directly down the center, beams of light bursting through. I couldn’t turn away, so I squeezed my eyes shut against its brilliance. Warmth radiated from the beams as they caressed my skin, sending shivers down my spine. When the feeling passed, I opened my eyes once more. I gasped. Dozens of trips to the coast. Hundreds of sunsets. None of it compared to this. I didn’t know my eyes could comprehend such colors. Nothing had ever been so beautiful. I had to force myself to look away from the dazzling ball of orange light making its way down toward the horizon. I would have gladly burnt holes in my retinas to stare just a moment longer. Weeping would have been a viable option if I could actually cry. There were no words. It almost made me forget what was happening. Almost.
I jolted back to reality, as the tiny creatures in the sand began to move slowly toward the water, carrying me with them over their heads like an oversized body surfer. I laughed again, out of sheer disbelief of how ridiculous this was. I never liked to look too closely at the creepy crawlies of the Oregon coast, but I could imagine them just fine. I shuddered at the thought, which only made them hang on tighter.
Dr. Anderson’s face popped into my head, like a lion in the clouds, her clear, steady voice telling me, “Be careful what you wish for.”
“I never wished for this,” my thoughts protested. “I never—”
Dr. Anderson’s ethereal face lifted an eyebrow.
But I had. I did.
This was exactly what I wanted.
The tiny creatures in the sand were carrying me to the ocean. Why? Because I asked them to.
*************************************************************************
I don’t know how long it took to get the rest of the way down the beach. It might have been seconds, or it might have been decades, but I squealed in a frequency only dogs can hear as soon as that first icy wave broke over my seaweed bound feet. I had touched that water many times before, but it had been a few years since I left, and I guess I forgot how cold it could be. I missed the ocean so much it hurt, but I didn’t want it back like this. My breath and my heart quickened. This wasn’t what I wanted. This wasn’t what I meant.
Or was it?
Suddenly, all the anxiety evaporated from my body like a demon fleeing from the holy water of the Pacific Ocean. My breath and my heart steadied. This was the time, the place, and the moment in which I was meant to be. There was a sign in my kitchen that said that. I guess this is what it really meant. All I needed was to surrender. So I did. The water lapped around my legs, then my torso, then my arms, as the creatures carried me further and deeper into the ocean. Soon, the only part of me left above water was the very tip of my face. I never learned to swim, which was something I should have regretted in that moment, but I didn’t. I wasn’t scared. I was calm. I didn’t feel fear. I felt ready. For perhaps the first time in my life, I felt ready.
The placement of the seaweed prevented me from taking and holding a deep breath, but somehow that didn’t bother me. I didn’t even close my eyes as I became fully submerged. The first thing I noticed was the silence. Water filled my ears, muffling all sound. I had a nightmare like this once, but that all-too-familiar heart-pounding panic didn’t come. I didn’t feel the pressure of the water closing in around me. If anything I felt relief, as the creatures let go and the seaweed binding me loosened and drifted away. I floated just under the surface for a moment. The colors of the sunset radiated all around me as if I was caught in a kaleidoscope with tiny bursts of light like fireworks raining down from above. Frozen in awe of its beauty, I floated for a moment longer before realizing I could move again. My body free, I kicked upward toward the surface, forcing my head above water. Maybe I wasn’t so ready after all. I gasped for breath as the salty sea air filled my lungs. But something didn’t feel right. My throat tightened with each subsequent breath. Something inside me lurched, pulling me back toward the water. Instinctively, I held my breath as I plunged back beneath the waves. But just as instinctively, I let it go as I sunk down and down, the last of the air leaving my body in a trail of bubbles.
I expected it to hurt more, drowning. I expected it to burn. I expected to feel dizzy, at least, before fading into darkness. But it didn’t. I didn’t. I opened my mouth. Water flowed in. Then, water flowed out. But it didn’t hurt. Nothing hurt. In fact, I felt wonderful. But how was that possible? Was it really that quick?
An odd lightness took over my body, even as I continued to sink lower into the ocean. I could no longer see the colors of the surface, but somehow I could still see everything around me. A beautiful fish of a species I had no name for swam toward me. It paused, staring at me as if it recognized me, then swam on. I wanted to get a better look, so I tried to stop myself from sinking and pushed forward with my legs. Although, it wasn’t legs that propelled me. With a speed I had never felt before, I found myself gliding through the water with unprecedented ease, swirling and twirling as if I were dancing.
“What in the world?” I thought, peering down to where my feet ought to be. But instead of feet, I had fins. Not just fins, either. I had an entire tail. The tail—my tail—was covered in shimmering golden scales and ended in a flowing, pearlescent fan that swayed in the water like feathers in a breeze. I looked like a mermaid. No, not like a mermaid. I was a mermaid. Somehow, against all odds and reason, I was a mermaid. I held my hands in front of my face. They were still the same. My head, my arms, my chest, my stomach, all seemed to be the same, but there was a tail where my legs used to be. It should have been awkward, trying to kick individual legs where there weren’t any, but it was as if I had been swimming with a tail my whole life. I dove down and turned around and looped up and back and sideways. It was fantastic. I couldn’t remember the last time I smiled so much.
“Is this what happens when you die?” I wondered, marveling at my glistening tail. “Have we somehow gotten angels and mermaids confused somewhere along the way?” My hair floated out in a circle around my head like a halo. I could see where things might have gotten lost in translation somewhere. I mean, if Cinderella’s fur slipper could turn into glass, maybe what once was a tail had transformed into wings. I propelled myself forward again. There was nothing above or below me but blue. This had to be what it felt like to fly.
“But how could I be dead?” I wondered, as a wave of peace washed over me. “I have never felt more alive.”
*************************************************************************
I bolted straight upright, sending the cat flying, and gasping for air I didn’t think I needed anymore. I took a deep breath, held it, and let it out slowly. I blinked a few times, trying to regain my focus. I looked up at the red numbers across the room. 5:55 AM. A sliver of light was peeking in through the bottom of the curtains. My heart swelled for a moment, then sank as I threw off the mountain of blankets and looked down. Legs. I wiggled my toes to be sure. No fins, just feet.
I laid back down and closed my eyes tight. I was meant to be a mermaid, I was sure of it. I had never felt so alive. It felt so real. How could I have been asleep? I wiggled my fins again, and opened my eyes. Feet. They were always feet.
So I slammed those feet to the floor and walked over to the window. I threw aside the curtains, facing the light head on with both eyes wide open. It wasn’t a sunset over the ocean, but all the colors were there. Yellow to orange to pink to purple to blue. A sunrise over a landlocked parking lot could be beautiful, too, I supposed. I looked down at my not-a-tail as the cat rubbed against the back of my legs. I picked her up, kissed the top of her head, and set her down gently on the bed. I followed a beam of sunlight from the window to the trash can by the dresser. The fan was still rustling the bits of paper inside. I reached in and gathered up every single piece, hoping I could remember where I put the tape.
“Well, if I can’t be a mermaid,” I told the cat, “maybe this will help.”