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Today, You Will Forget that There Is a Tomorrow

Or... Coping with Death Amidst My Mental Illness

By Cordell GreenPublished 7 years ago 5 min read
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Photo by Jeremy Ricketts

They say that it’s better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all. They say the good ones always leave us too soon, and that sometimes, if you love them, you must let them go. These are things that I have heard about my aunt since the day she died. These are things that I don’t know I would have told myself.

I think a lot about what I would say to myself if I could travel back to the onset of my depression and anxiety. I think about how I would have reacted if I were to experience myself telling me that the future would be okay.

I don’t think it would have gone well.

“Hello. I need to talk to you. Today you are embarking on an adventure that is more perilous than anything you have ever imagined. Today, your aunt will pass away. Today, you will blame yourself for not saying I love you the last time you saw her. Today, you will forget that there is a tomorrow.”

I can put myself into the shoes I wore when I was eleven. I can see myself staring, blank faced, unable to fathom what this man had just told me. However, I also know that his words would have resonated with me forever.

“Today, you will forget that there is a tomorrow.”

Looking back to the onset of my depression and anxiety, I can tell you that most days were filled with so much worry in the present, that the future seemed unreachable. To this very day, I struggle with remembering that today is not the end of me, and that tomorrow I can begin again. To this very day, I struggle to remember that I’ve made it past yesterday.

That said, I have learned something. I have learned that talking about my story has given me something I did not have before. Sharing my story has given me a way to reflect on my life and remember that I have made it this far. It has allowed me to be able to look at my mistakes and my delusions in a way that I can truly tell the difference.

The night I last saw my Aunt Leah, we had gotten into an argument over something absurd. I want to say it was over whether she would buy me a mint flavored milkshake or not. She said no, and I told her I hated her. I left the house, got into my dad’s car, and left for the weekend. The time following that argument became increasingly difficult to cope with.

It was Sunday, the day I would be brought back to my mom’s house for school the next day. I remember sitting on the couch in the basement, and my dad telling me he had to tell me something.

“Cordell, your aunt is very sick in the hospital.”

My stomach sank, and my heart plummeted onto the floor. Immediately, and so vividly, did I remember those three words. The three words that nobody deserves to hear, let alone over a milkshake. That weekend was very long, and I recall in sickening detail the begging I did to be able to travel to Toronto to see her before she was gone. Nobody was sure what would happen, but something inside of me knew. My mother would not take me, based on the reassurance that my aunt would be okay.

She wasn’t.

On December 9th, 2007, my aunt passed away, and I have never been the same.

I could tell you about bullying, or the pressure to always excel and get above average grades, but that is not what pushed me over the edge. What pushed me over the edge was that I took somebody who would do anything for me, told her I hated her, and never got to tell her that I loved her instead.

In retrospect, I know that she was aware of how impulsive I was being. I was just being a kid who spoke faster than he thought, but that does not alleviate my feeling of immense guilt. It does not erase what my brain convinced me I had done. The first few years following were like a rollercoaster that had no end. Where I would sit, wait for the next drop, and plummet back down.

Depression and anxiety proceeded to dominate my life. It dominated my thoughts, and my body. It kept me unable to move. Today, nearly ten years later, it still manages to keep me down, and as I sit in the back of this classroom, I know she is with me.

I am not religious, or spiritual, but I do believe in love and memory. When the ones we love leave us, the love and the memories are all we have. Months after her death, I uncovered a note that she’d left before that fateful trip to the hospital, written as she waited for her ride to take her there. In this letter, she tells me that she loves me, and she tells me that she is happy she got to spend time with me before she was sick, and that she’ll see me again after she rests.

Rest wasn’t enough, and my thoughts still run rampant with self-doubt and blame, but her words still fill the brief moments of calm. When the darkness swallows me whole, and when I can’t find my voice in my dreams, I find hers. Just because they may be gone, does not mean that they are forgotten. It is better to have loved and lost than to never loved at all, because if I had never loved, I would not be who I am. I would never have had this story to share, and I would never have learned to not let her death be in vain. I would never have been molded into the person that I have become.

Aunt Leah, this one is for you and I hope that one day I can show these words to you, because they are yours just as much as they are mine.

coping
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About the Creator

Cordell Green

My name is Cordell Green, and I have struggled with depression and anxiety since I was 11 years old. Growing up facing such adversity was terrifying, but it has absolutely made me who I am today. It has given me a story to share.

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