The Grey Fog
a short biographical essay
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I never called it depression and probably never will as it is too vanilla and useless of a word. It was more like a thick, greasy fog which coated and mildewed the tapestry of my life. There were intense times during which I tried to free myself from it. Instead I found myself being choked by the knowledge of hidden, deadly emotions and the pain of a life only half lived. Eventually I would give up. I resigned myself to its continued presence and embraced it as an extension of myself.
It wasn't always there, but it arrived before I began school. I asked too many questions and this seemed to displease my parents. My personality could not abide their disapproval so I had to give up asking questions. Though unasked and unspoken, the questions would not go away, they ran around in my head and loudly protested my silence.
As a young child I was certain people could hear what was in my head and this was frightening to me. In response, my imagination created a secure, ornate and spiritually impenetrable box where unspoken questions could be stored lest someone hear them inadvertantly. Once the questions safely rested inside, a thick fog oozed from the sealed edges and filled my soul. It was always there, just behind the veil of my mind and oozed out of my pours and onto my skin. It was there when I washed and it would follow me everywhere. If I threatened to get into the box for any reason, it would emotionally engulf me and thus preserve the contents safely undisturbed.
Over the years, I found the container also to be very handy and it began to contain unsung songs, unlived dreams and uncried tears. Life as it should be slipped into the box by accident sometime during my early adult life. Tragedy which could not be understood and pain which was too harsh to be felt was filed away. The size of the box and thickness of the fog both grew each time family, friends, schoolmates and others hurt or abandoned me. Drinking parents, molestations by the hands of trusted adults, and the deafening silence associated with these all caused the box and the fog to become permanent fixtures in my soul. It sounds evil, but I am certain that without them my heart would have imploded.
Sometimes during more spiritual moments in my life, I would long for normality, inner peace and healing so I'd attempt to open and empty the box. The fog would choke me and the sounds from the box would deafen me until I safely closed the lid again. Still, I was not the same for having touched the contents. Periods of intense pain and blindingly irrational behaviour resulted. Somewhere in my soul I began to understand that I could not reach those parts of me without coming undone.
After realising the significance of this hidden place, I left it largely untouched until something shifted in my soul. The fog grew too thick and the weight of the hidden became too heavy for me to carry. I knew I had to try again to empty the box. Real life had become a lie and my conscience woke up to demand authenticity. My trembling fingers once again touched the untouchable hurts which somehow were not as painful or untouchable as they had been before. I had an epiphany.
The fog is not an alien substance at all, nor is it really the enemy. It is a protective force of my own creation which is slowly becoming unnecessary. I am becoming a stronger person and despite the pain in my hidden container this creation of mine will never be able to destroy me. The sounds within the box are my own. At one time, they were too harsh and poinant for the soul. Now that I am safe, I can listen to them and heal rather than hide. By handling my past I can embrace the person I truly am. As I heal, the fog withdraws its fingers and one day will be no more. But I will remain changed forever, because it existed once.
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