On loss and depression

The idea of loss, whenever I think of it, I always imagine losing a physical thing or someone. I have always had a problem with loss. It is always hard for me to get over it. It took me years to get over the loss of my grandma even though we weren't that close. I never really understood why until I realized that she symbolized safety, because when I was living in her house nothing bad ever happened. In my memory, her house was always sunny, inviting, and adventurous. There was always something inviting me to explore or interact. There was the big mirror with the old broken phone, where I had fictitious conversations; the wide windows where I waited for the return of my father from work and my sisters from school, and the kitchen with its service door that opened a whole new world of cats waiting to be fed.

After we moved, things took a downturn, and even though I wasn't as close to my grandmother as my eldest sister, there was an invisible line connecting me to her. I often wonder if she felt it too, or if it was just me. Her house was my own playground of wonders, and I think I never had that feeling again. I never felt afraid in her house, and I think somehow my brain tied it to her. When she died, my world became one of fear and trepidation. The one symbol of safety I had was gone and I felt like I lost something big.

Fast forward years, and I am still struggling with the idea of loss. I brush it aside for the sake of productivity. I realized recently that my depression is greatly tied to loss, but not just the loss of things or people, but also the loss of myself.

Along the way, I brushed away facets of myself just like brushed away things I have lost for the sake of productivity. I think when you have a mental illness, all you focus on is being productive without really any goal or plan. Somehow a part of you just wants to do something, anything, to run away from whatever darkness is in there. Work becomes the only escape; another way of numbing the pain.

I keep losing myself, bit by bit. Parts that I lock away inside whenever something doesn't work out. Now, I wonder if there is anything left. Sometimes, it feels like I am just a shell of a person and that someday this shell will disintegrate into dust.