"I want to walk into the ocean and keep going,” my mother said.
My teakettle started clanging on the stovetop.
My mother was matter of fact about her wish to die.
She said it in the same way she said, “Your water is boiling.”
She said it a few months before she was diagnosed with cancer. She died the following year. She had been trying to walk into the ocean for years, but instead she was wading in a cesspool that turned to cancer.
She’s now dashing through other dimensions, traveling the universe, skipping in and out of black holes.
I ask her in my five-year-old voice,
“Mommy, where does depression come from?”
At first, there is no answer.
Once I heard a formula for depression:
Depression = Rage - Enthusiasm
My mom did not enthusiastically rage. She never wanted to rock the boat because it was easier to quietly walk into the ocean. Rage was shoved down. The more you shove rage down, the more energy it takes to bury it. Soil and stones are heavy. Gravediggers know this. After days of shoveling, the bones hurt, and there is no energy left to live. Thoughts of death come. The burial mound beckons you, “Come, let the soil be your blanket, enter the hole and rest.”
“Mommy, where does depression come from?”
It rolls in like fog. You recognize the signs. I’ll fight it, you say. But the fog gets so thick, you can’t see yourself. Your body gets heavy and you can’t move. The only thoughts that come are ones of self-loathing. I’m not good enough. What’s wrong with me? I fucked up my whole life. I am fucked. Thoughts of death are no longer separate from you. You become the fog.
“Yes, Mommy, but where does the fog come from?”
It comes from a fog machine made in Hell. Its purpose is to divide the part of you connected to the source of all life, your all-knowing soul, from your physical body. It is a trick. The fog seems to come from within, but that is a lie. You think you created your depression, but that is a lie. The truth is you forgot who you are. You are love. You forgot your power and its divine source. The fog ushers in forgetfulness and it is so seductive. It feels good to forget. The pain of living in a physical body, the pain of loss, the pain of the systems of the world is intense. Under this pressure, we crack. Through the crack, the fog enters. We allow it in so that we can forget.
“Mommy, how do we remember?”
To remember, you must return to the gravedigger’s dark hole. You will enter naked and lie down. You shed your tears. The soil becomes wet and turns to clay. Tears pour as swift as a waterfall and fill your grave. It seems you will drown in tears. You shall not drown. You remember how to breathe. You have done it before in the womb.
Mother Earth and three Goddesses hold you. They say, “Whatever you have buried, let it resurrect.”
Every cell in your body becomes a firestorm of rage, burning out all particles meant to silence and shame. You thrash. It hurts. With one push from above, you are ejected from the amniotic ocean and into the arms of the Goddesses. You see yourself from HER eyes:
a newborn,
naked and beautiful and innocent
with love and fire,
rage + enthusiasm.
The three Goddesses dip their hands in a basin filled with your afterbirth.
One anoints your body with your holy tears and says, “To remember you are love.”
One anoints your body with your clay and says, “To remember the grave and the womb are one.”
One anoints you with the very thing you had buried so long ago. Under the layers of soil and rock, such pressure turned it to sacred oil.
She anoints your body with your sacred oil and says, “To remember your purpose.”
And that’s what my mother said.
My teakettle started clanging on the stovetop.
My mother was matter of fact about her wish to die.
She said it in the same way she said, “Your water is boiling.”
She said it a few months before she was diagnosed with cancer. She died the following year. She had been trying to walk into the ocean for years, but instead she was wading in a cesspool that turned to cancer.
She’s now dashing through other dimensions, traveling the universe, skipping in and out of black holes.
I ask her in my five-year-old voice,
“Mommy, where does depression come from?”
At first, there is no answer.
Once I heard a formula for depression:
Depression = Rage - Enthusiasm
My mom did not enthusiastically rage. She never wanted to rock the boat because it was easier to quietly walk into the ocean. Rage was shoved down. The more you shove rage down, the more energy it takes to bury it. Soil and stones are heavy. Gravediggers know this. After days of shoveling, the bones hurt, and there is no energy left to live. Thoughts of death come. The burial mound beckons you, “Come, let the soil be your blanket, enter the hole and rest.”
“Mommy, where does depression come from?”
It rolls in like fog. You recognize the signs. I’ll fight it, you say. But the fog gets so thick, you can’t see yourself. Your body gets heavy and you can’t move. The only thoughts that come are ones of self-loathing. I’m not good enough. What’s wrong with me? I fucked up my whole life. I am fucked. Thoughts of death are no longer separate from you. You become the fog.
“Yes, Mommy, but where does the fog come from?”
It comes from a fog machine made in Hell. Its purpose is to divide the part of you connected to the source of all life, your all-knowing soul, from your physical body. It is a trick. The fog seems to come from within, but that is a lie. You think you created your depression, but that is a lie. The truth is you forgot who you are. You are love. You forgot your power and its divine source. The fog ushers in forgetfulness and it is so seductive. It feels good to forget. The pain of living in a physical body, the pain of loss, the pain of the systems of the world is intense. Under this pressure, we crack. Through the crack, the fog enters. We allow it in so that we can forget.
“Mommy, how do we remember?”
To remember, you must return to the gravedigger’s dark hole. You will enter naked and lie down. You shed your tears. The soil becomes wet and turns to clay. Tears pour as swift as a waterfall and fill your grave. It seems you will drown in tears. You shall not drown. You remember how to breathe. You have done it before in the womb.
Mother Earth and three Goddesses hold you. They say, “Whatever you have buried, let it resurrect.”
Every cell in your body becomes a firestorm of rage, burning out all particles meant to silence and shame. You thrash. It hurts. With one push from above, you are ejected from the amniotic ocean and into the arms of the Goddesses. You see yourself from HER eyes:
a newborn,
naked and beautiful and innocent
with love and fire,
rage + enthusiasm.
The three Goddesses dip their hands in a basin filled with your afterbirth.
One anoints your body with your holy tears and says, “To remember you are love.”
One anoints your body with your clay and says, “To remember the grave and the womb are one.”
One anoints you with the very thing you had buried so long ago. Under the layers of soil and rock, such pressure turned it to sacred oil.
She anoints your body with your sacred oil and says, “To remember your purpose.”
And that’s what my mother said.
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