not broken/never healed

a day of depression, acne stickers, and a waterfall of piss

my eyes open to the sight of the first snowfall of 2025. white clumped trees peak beneath the crease of my broken, misaligned blinds. not quite closed, not quite open. i watch the white flurries blur across the window screen, and i fight my fingers as they go to reach for my phone, a sticky habit that has returned since my latest bout of depression. my morning journal sits longingly on my bedside table like a patient lover waiting for her paramour to return from a night of illicit affairs.

my eyes close again, returning to the darkness, where i dream of moldy brita filters and men who desire to rape me. these dreams don’t comfort me but, make me ache with a familiar hunger. i try to stay in this world for as long as possible before i can no longer deny the heavy pressure building beneath my pelvis. my legs fling out of bed before my eyelids even open, and i am carried to the stone tiles of my bathroom floor. as my warm butt cheeks meet the cold porcelain, my consciousness enters the waking world with a waterfall of piss.

this is the worst part of my day.

silence gives room for the running list of ways that i have failed the night before, the day before, the week before, the lifetimes before. evaluating all the ways i could have done better, the habits i should have quit, the tasks i haven’t finished, the ideas i have left raw, uncooked, rotting without refrigeration.

i wrap toilet paper around my hand twice like i have since i was 8, producing a plushy pillow for wiping.

i think about “neo” my most recent and most devastating ex. he learned how to say, “christina uses too much toilet paper” in chinese just so, he could bond with my parents over my bathroom indulgence. he knew the childhood stories of clogged toilets and emergency overflow and bemoaned the frequent supermarket trips to supply my excessive use.

i lift my right cheek and wipe, leaving my waste in the basin to be flushed another time, along with my unresolved feelings for him.

my gaze avoids the scale, fearful of seeing a number that’ll transport me back middle school. a time of double-d victoria secret push-up bras and belly fat outlined in sharpie. i rush back underneath the covers of my electric blanket, it’s artificial warmth pushing away thoughts of tight tank tops and scissors not made for skin.

eyes closed again, i realize quickly that i cannot return to the cloudy nothingness of sleep.

rising again, i go to the mirror and stare at my bloated and battered face.

my fingers begin my cycle of self-injurious cleansing. pushing white heads until my skin bleeds and then pasting my injuries with acne stickers, hoping they’ll hide the scars. my skin, marked by my own fingers, is freckled with dark spots made from the pores that i picked clean. weeks will go by where the skin will heal and the scars will lighten until yet again, i break-out and start the cycle over again.

my face fully bandaged. i resign to my bed and go on my phone, escaping from my world into another.

i scroll through LUSH sub-reddits, substack essays from moody influencers i used to follow on instagram, and black friday deals that don’t make the $250 boots i’ve been eyeing any less affordable. i numb on these fantasies until it’s time for my weekly scheduled video call with my two best friends “maverick” and “queen”.

i tell them i’m depressed again. i look for joy in slices of pumpkin pie and stolen bites of grocery store cheesecake. my internet sobriety hangs by a slowly dwindling thread made of my ego, pride, and fear of calling my sponsor and hearing, “i told you so”. i’ve brainstormed potential exit strategies to escape this spiral of sadness: get a 9-to-5, move to asheville and join an artists’ commune, or start taking anti-depressants or anti-psychotics (not sure which).

maverick nods like he understands, and he mostly does. like me, depression is familiar foe like a childhood frenemy you can’t ever be rid of. maverick’s healing journey has varied from medications to meditations, psych wards to peyote, ultramarathons to ultimate surrender. also a person of color who grew up in white suburbs, he and i know what it’s like to suppress.

his dark brown eyes scrunch with concern, “wasn’t the last time you felt depressed like this around the holiday season?”

before i have a chance to respond, queen interrupts. queen and i met through an internet addiction recovery program. she and i used to be co-sponsors, helping each other through the 12-steps of recovery but after i relapsed, we had to break up and become just friends.

“no, she always gets depressed and relapses at the six month mark. this is her pattern,” she says in her matter-of-fact ukrainian accent.

maverick retorts, “but last year during thanksgiving, i think she was also not doing well. when i was kid, the holidays were rough so, this time of year always makes me depressed.”

“no, it’s always at the six months.”

i listen to my best friends debate what they think caused my depression this time. i feel resigned at their loving but, unhelpful discussion. i’m all too familiar with this response.

being someone who’s struggled with mental illness her entire life, i’ve heard many potential ideas as to what could be wrong with me, anecdotal diagnoses if you will.

here’s are all the working theories:

people who don’t know me:

• fellow writer - being young

• bookstore owner - not having enough “fun”

professionals:

• current therapist - adhd, bipolar, premenstrual dissociative disorder

• old therapist - generalized anxiety disorder

• a psychiatrist who i talked to on zoom for 30 minutes: adhd

loved ones:

• my sponsor - workaholism, food addiction, internet addiction, under-earning addiction, creative constipation

• my boss - bipolar disorder

• my brother - living at home with my parents

• my mom - laziness

inner circle:

• “queen” - 6 months of sobriety leads to depression which leads to relapse which leads to mental breakdown

• “maverick” - seasonal affective disorder, bipolar, unresolved childhood trauma

• “neo” - dopamine addict

my ride-or-die:

• myself - all of the above

as a child, the responses to my depressive episodes were typically, “you’re being dramatic.” or “you’re trying to guilt trip me.” as an adult, the responses are now “here’s what i did that worked for me.” or “you’re doing great though!” or “are you seeing a therapist?” all of these phrases have the same meaning:“YOUR DISCOMFORT MAKES ME UNCOMFORTABLE.”

pain isn’t something to be resolved but to be witnessed.

as i listen to my two best friends argue, i think about how many times we’ve been in this same place. they’ve watched me cry so hard snot dripped, they’ve listened to hours of me ranting, they’ve given me impromptu therapy when i couldn’t afford a real therapist. i think about how much they love me and how much my pain hurts them.

it’s hard to be angry at them for having such a human response, and i’m fucking pissed that, in this moment, they’re making my depression about their desire to solve my pain.

rather than assume, i wish they’d ask.

“what is your depression like for you?”

“is it worse in the morning or at night?”

“how have you been eating?”

i evade their theories, stating that i think both of them are wrong, and i switch the subject to ask about their life problems. we talk for an hour, and then i rush off, stating i’ve delayed my visiting family long enough. i have aunts to entertain.

closing the laptop screen, my eyes glance again outside my window. the snow is hurdling down faster than before. it’s not just a snowfall; it’s a blizzard.

this period of depression began about a week ago. shaking brown leaves still hung on the edges of barren branches, and growing piles of forgotten foliage littered on the twisting sidewalks. the sky was grey but without rain or snow. gloominess leered in the air.

i remember walking downstairs to grab a handful of snacks to gorge myself with when my dad asked me how i was.

“i’m okay,” i sighed.

he gave me a hug, “yeah, me too.”

putting on his winter coat, “i’m going to go for a walk, if you want to come,” he said. he never pressured me. he offered with the ease and lightness of a leaf floating in the breeze.

“sure,” i replied, even though the depressed part of me didn’t want to do anything but eat, sleep, and lie in bed.

as the garage door opened, the chill prickled my warm skin. cold air filled my lungs. my hand reached for my dad’s.

i smiled, “i love you baba.”

he smiled too, “i love you too baobei.”

we walked hand in hand, hands swaying with each step. the sidewalk curved and swerved and straightened. its pavement no longer flat and gray but instead multicolored with layers of fallen leaves. our boots pushing through mounds, clearing a path as we move.

“i’ve been really depressed lately, and i’m not really sure what to do about it.” i shared.

“me too. you’re just like your daddy.”

the thought made me feel proud.

he continued, “i get depressed now and again, and i smoke sometimes to get through it which i know is bad. but now, i just have to accept it. i live with it.”

“yeah but, i just wish i knew what was wrong with me. it’s hard enough doing all this up and down but i don’t even understand why. i have a couple of theories.”

i talk him through all my ideas, solutions, and plans to fix my mental state and change the way i feel. i discuss graduate school, office jobs, and moving away. we walk past christmas lights, white mansions, and lawn signs. we go back and forth working through my running list until we are turning back around into our suburb. i see our yellow-painted house in the distance. my window isn’t visible from this angle but, i know it’s still there, looking out at gray world that we’ve been living in. as we round the corner, going straight on a pathway towards home, my dad, at a loss for answers or antidotes, instead offered something much more substantial, a momentary reprieve.

“let’s just give it some time baobei. you’ll figure it out eventually.”