| fog (masculine noun) | /bʀujaʀ/
Sometimes there are moments of great sorrow.
After two weeks of paid vacation, I found myself dreading going back to school. The students don’t give a damn about English, or me, for that matter. There is constant chatter, an obnoxious buzz, in every room. I have to yell to be heard. And after having spent hours preparing fun lessons for these kids, I had a group who was falling asleep, giggling, and distracting everyone else. I almost burst into tears and walked out of the room.
On top of this, I only had a 30-minute lunch break, so I survived on vending machine coffee from 9AM until 6 PM. It was raining. The bus was late. I was cold. I went home and collapsed.
You see, depression is like a fog. I watch it descend. I know this depression isn’t me, but it is mine. It darkens my thoughts and skews my perspective. It feels like a physical weight resting on my chest, and I am crushed beneath it. I barely have the strength to pick up my phone and cry. When I feel this way, I’m scared. I know it’s not just that quotidian sadness, the type that’s cured by chocolate and conversation.
During these dark hours, I recall my moments of joy: laughing too loudly on a quiet tram (and subsequently evoking sneers from our fellow passengers); bundling up and walking through Amsterdam, where the canals acted as watery wind tunnels; a warm embrace from a new friend; the inability to cope with the astounding beauty of this place; and the realization that this is what you wanted, this is what you really wanted. These thoughts carry me.
And today the sky was blue.