A little while ago, I sat in front of my computer looking at the screen as the doctor asked me a series of questions during my virtual appointment.
“What do you enjoy doing right now?”
The question caught me off guard. I wasn’t sure how to answer. To many outsiders, I continue to be functional. I thought about the Duke, eating my favourite foods, and playing dodgeball. I know I like all these things in theory, but I’ve been doing them in a fog. Often dressing up more than usual to distract from how hard it is to get dressed at all.
January 2020. The day after Snowmageddon.
As these things went through my head like molasses— I realized I couldn’t think of anything I enjoyed at that moment in time.
But then I thought about my photos. The photos I share on Twitter and Facebook.
You know, the sunrises and the sunsets— usually labeled with “This morning.” and This evening”.
February 2020. One of the last sunrises I could see in colour. Len was gone soon after.
I used to share my photos when I was lonely. Each morning as the sun peaked up over the horizon, I would look out and wish there were people to share it with. So I’d take a picture, post it, and feel less alone.
As my friends and support in Newfoundland and Labrador expanded, I would feel a little less lonely and more like I was privileged.
Still, I was fighting with another demon. The darkness of depression during the lows of my Bipolar II.
The world would go dark. Fog as thick as molasses would creep up and surround me- eager to remind me I have a chronic illness that seems to dislike treatment. I’d look around me and know things were beautiful to others, but for some reason, my brain couldn’t register it.
This was so hard to take. my sister begged me to take photos again after Len left. I look at it and still feel the grief.
A few years ago I woke up to what I knew others would see as a gorgeous morning. I took a picture and tried to see what others would see— but couldn’t. However, something inside of me knew it was worth sharing.
The fog was so thick it felt like there was nowhere to go— I didn’t want to share that. I wanted to share a sunrise I couldn’t register as beautiful— but knew everyone else could. I typed “This morning.” and hit post.
I believe this is the first photo I labeled “This morning”
So began a tradition. Posting my morning and evening photos when I had the chance. Sometimes I was depressed. Other times stable. Sometimes wildly hypo-manic.
May 2020
Then 2020 hit.
It didn’t just treat me awful— it treated the entire world awful. It would be narrow minded of me to not acknowledge that.
But over in my Petty Harbour-Maddox Cove corner— most of the year was spent in a thick darkness. Occasionally I would rapid cycle and experience a frightening hypo-mania, but as summer slipped by, the fog settled with no sign of leaving.
During the months of 2020 I would sit in front of my computer with a blank stare. One of my best friends would later describe looking into my eyes and seeing lights on but an empty house. I would slog through work, staying up late to accomplish what I could usually do in a regular day. If no-one was around I wouldn’t do dishes, cook, shower and would leave the laundry piled up.
There was no joy. I was desperate to be reminded it existed in this world. I cried for Len. In the fog, everything seemed black and white.
But there was these sunrises and sunsets. Brilliant pink and red, soft blues and pastel pinks, and blues so bright people would take pictures of it.
I knew in my head these moments were beautiful, but my eyes couldn’t register them. I’d take the pictures anyway. I’d sit on the floor of the shoe and try to get the right angle— knowing that even though I couldn’t see it, others would.
So I would post:
This morning
This evening.
People would like them. People would comment. I’ve never really wanted to chase likes. I want to educate people about mental health and let those who are struggling know they are not alone. However, I will admit, I came to love that people would like my morning and evening photos.
For a selfish reason.
I couldn’t see the beauty. Sure, I would KNOW it was a nice morning or evening, but I couldn’t see it. I would see black and white through a fog.
But when people liked my photos, it was a reminder that there IS beauty in this world worth living for and that I am fortunate to live here.
It was a reminder that one day I would live to see what they see. That there is a light. It was confirmation that joy is in this world. It led me to ask what was the best part of people’s days and weeks on Twitter— not because I believe in toxic positivity— but because it would be a reminder that joy is out there even when I don’t feel it.
July 2020
Knowing that people enjoy photos of The Shoe, morning, evenings, the ocean is a reminder that in my world there is colour too. One day I will appreciate the colours like they do. I usually say it brings me joy to share the shoe with others, but it’s more complicated than that. It reminds me to live for that joy later.
Through all the darkness— it’s like all these strangers seeing the colours is confirmation that I’m holding on for a reason. That fighting to get better is important.
Last week I started a new medication. After several months of going in circles through the mental health system, I found a doctor who was willing to navigate me through the fog. Usually I am terrified of new meds— this time, I felt a flicker of hope.
It’s been one week. A waiting game of seeing what the meds will do. It’s likely placebo effect, but I’ve thought of death less than usual. I’ve wondered about seeing in colour again.
This evening, on my way to an appointment, I stopped at the mailbox. In the slot was an envelope with no return address. But inside the envelope was four postcards. They were my photos. My windows. The sunsets and sunrises I hadn’t been able to see.
I don’t know who sent them to me, but I took it as a sign that I will experience those colours again like everyone else.
So if you’re someone who has liked my photos. Thank you. Thank you for reminding me that there is beauty and that you can see it. Thank you for enjoying what I cannot. Thank you for giving me something to hope for. Thank you for appreciating the shoe and Jean’s legacy that is so important to me.
And if you’re the person who sent me those postcards—thank you for what I took as a sign to not give up on medication and therapy.
Thank you for helping me hang onto hope.
