Is it normal that I'm the happiest person in my family. When I'm really faking it. Being strong for everyone else. So the family won't totally fall apart. Each person is suffering in their own depression. Slowly suffocating on their own terms.
I just spent the last two hours in a bar. Not for me. But for my father. Who is severely depressed. Everything he has worked his life for is slipping through his fingers. The love of his life, the woman he treasures doesn't know who he is. Is falling through the cracks. Farther and farther away from him. I watch him drink beer after beer, as I sip my sprite. And I wish I could be the one getting drunk. I wish I could be the one letting go. But it's never my time. I must always be strong.
And then I drive him home. Once again the responsible one. Never let off the hook. We laugh and joke. About her funeral. What we would say for our hespedim. How he would announce his engagement. We are sick. Sicker than people could ever know. Then I say that no eulogizing is allowed in Nissan. And we laugh some more.
We get home and I tuck him into his bed. And then I sit here in a quiet house. Alone. And I feel nothing. A lifetime of nothing, I think about all the people I've lost. Who've left for one reason or another. Those that I cut out. Some that I've pushed away. All gone. To constantly protect myself. Because it's the only way I could continue to function. How much could a human being withstand. How can I survive when the past refuses to let me go. Holds me hostage. Floods my mind. The present stretches out, pushing the future away from reach.
Where's the hope. What does hope even mean. It's all unattainable. So forgive me if I don't have energy to respond. To be the person you need me to be. I'm doing the best I can. And that's as honest as you're gonna get. I'm still alive. And that's a daily struggle. I'm still alive. For now.