The Antagonist to Lowly

Depression and anxiety are on the lips of everyone I know. Close friends and strangers introduce these emotions, these states of being, soon after conversation strikes. Growing up, I was told that people who don't have "real" problems in life bore themselves into depression and brew anxiety by marinating in their own lives for too long. As I grew into adulthood, I learned that wasn't always the case, but I'd be a liar if I told you those to be baseless claims. Just like any great war the world can recall, the wars between our ears can have root causes that are hard to trace or even explain.

When I look at my own life, I'm divided by what I see. Introspection, for me, feels like gazing at a jar of peppers in oil; the memories stacked up on top of each other, distinctly colored yet forming one medley of digestible preserves. There's evictions, hopping between shelters, living with extended family, food deserts, and being the first to graduate high school but no one there for me in the ceremony crowds. Emancipation at seventeen, being the first to get a college degree, navigating adulthood single and celibate. No boyfriend, no backup, no blanket of security to snuggle under at night. Examining the jar of memories, I feel as though I should be sad, but I'm not. I feel like I should be anxious but I seldom ever am. I'm simply too happy to be alive. I'm so happy to be alive, I often feel guilty. I'm so excited for tomorrow that it can be hard to sleep; but sleep comes to me easily and uninterrupted, heightened by pleasant dreams. Night terrors and dark dreams are so rare that I prize them. I pen them and dissect them, curious about what I can uncover during the autopsy. I'm at peace, and it's lonely.

Watching the memories marinate in their container, I'm reminded of Toi Derricotte's words: "Joy is an act of resistance." Although fighting an outnumbered battle, I resisted. I declared myself a vigilante in the depths of darkness. My soul infiltrated the grounds of Hades, defeated its jailers, and brought back to earth anyone who she could. Unable to save everyone, my soul was simply content to never linger long enough in the place where misery gains company. I am the antagonist, I am the foe, in depression's raging chronile. But vigilantism gets no public praise.

It's become apparent to me that being self-content is an enigma. In a world that benefits and thrives on cycles of dismantling the fake news it creates and selling "improvement" packaged for each unique area of our lives, it can be puzzling to think someone can be happy with themselves. That one can find joy within. Yet I am, and I do. My alone time is precious and cherished, restoring my body and soul to a place of calm after hours of interacting with others. I am not self-deprecating. There is no list of characteristics that I'm publicly or privately loathing and, unfortunately, that is difficult for others to grasp. The enigma of self-satisfaction (in my experience) is felt by everyone but the one possessing the contented soul.

I often feel like a violet planted in the center of a warehouse floor. Stabilized by strong green stems sprouting leaves of emerald on either side, my leaves act like balancing scales at my core. My beautifully delicate petals form my face to the world: positivity, generosity, understanding, adaptability, and hope. Glowing a radiant, rich purple, I take on the day with confidence and a sense of purpose, planted on my tiny lot of fertile ground. Around me is a hostile environment built for hard labor and industrious improvement, the last place you would go looking for a blooming beauty. "Let's coat it in plastic or brush it with paint! Maybe inject it with a substance to freeze the expressions, perhaps even to shrink its size? This violet shows signs of nothing wrong, but let's try to separate her head from her roots and body." The onlookers would say. Anything to alter the strong and steady growth of the flower. A violet planted in the center of a warehouse floor is not useless, nor is it out of place; like a poised young woman in the modern world, she is a rebel. A mutineer and a standout life in the growing army that champions emotional paralysis. She is simply not willing to be planted in fear and emptiness.

Honestly, it isn't easy to face the world soberly and with glee for the future. The shadows of my past and the temptation to claim victimhood present themselves, as is expected for someone with a jar of memories so dense. My fingers, weary from work, desire to point at someone else to blame. However guilty they may be, it's not for me to judge. I leave judgments for God. I leave it all to Him, my solid and fertile ground. In the moments where memories of abandonment and blame attempted to become shame, God was with me. My soul has experienced God's light and cannot stop shining. Victimhood and adulthood are not places I can live in simultaneously, and in the same way, I can't clothe myself in confidence and wear despair on my face. I believe this to be true for everyone, I want them to feel as free as I do. The army that defends emotional paralysis, encouraging fear and rage each day, can be defeated. There's no secret I can share, no ten-step, seven-rule, twenty-one-day guide to glee. God simply transformed my thinking and showed me how to separate my identity and my soul from the hardships I've faced.

The beauty of violets, clothed in their regal purple hues, is that they don't usually grow alone. In fact, like everything that has breath in this world, they grow better together. My hope is that people can stop hating the spiritually healthy enough so they too can be healed. I know first-hand that joy and contentment aren't reserved for the lucky, the wealthy, the resourced, the popular. Joy is not reserved for anyone, but available to anyone bold enough to speak it over their lives. Anyone eager to receive it; those vulnerable yet strong enough to press on beyond the doors of despair and doubts. Mine is one of the souls who stopped hating the healed, who spoke joy over their life, and stopped introducing myself problems first. I am and will remain the victor in depression's boastful account of claimed souls. I am the antagonist and its foe.