Orange Juice Painting by Karyn Robinson - Fine Art America
I don't know when exactly I started to feel like this : completely numb. I was no longer present. I would sit there and let life pass through me like water sipping through a crack. I experienced a similar feeling before, but it was never this intense. Maybe, all the times it happened before were a build-up for one big collapse. Numbness was familiar. What was unfamiliar was the surrender. I could feel the emptiness grow inside of me like mold. There was nothing that could give me pleasure or that was able to bring me out of bed. I followed my friends around aimlessly, doing what they do, drinking what they drank, eating what they ate. I was trying to feel something but I kept going under. I laughed louder to stay afloat. But the moment the laughter seizes,the silence sinks in like a dull knife. I knew that something was just not right. I partied, but the music was like an indecipherable echo. I ate but the food tasted painfully unseasoned. I would add salt to my plate until my taste buds would go numb. I just couldn’t eat anymore. It was very painful to swallow, or walk, or talk … and so I wobbled around like a ghost: pale, weak and hungry. My friends started asking questions. They knew that this was not like all the times before. It was the first time for them to see me this: lost.
My friend suggested I go talk to somebody professional; a psychiatrist maybe. I was very reluctant at first. I read Freud, Jung, Piaget, Lacan, Frankl, Adler and what not. I know all there is to know about the human psyche. I am not a psychiatrist myself and I have never stepped foot in medical school, but I am overly confident in my capacity of knowing what is wrong, especially with me. I always prided myself with my impeccable self-awareness. What could a psychiatrist tell me? That I am depressed ? I know, I can feel the lingering gloom. That I am anxious ? I know, I can feel the chronic tension in my body.
This is the accumulation of years of trying to be strong. I have always aimed to be larger than life. I always wanted to be perfect. I wanted to be flawless. I didn’t want to make any mistakes. I couldn’t afford to anyway. I kept my head down and focused only on the things that will get me closer to this ideal version of myself. I worshipped her. She is immaculate. She is untouchable. Nothing seems to get to her. Her hair is always styled to perfection, her body didn’t have any defects, she knew everything about everything, well read , well educated, well mannered , successful, and above all, she was loveable.
I received a text message from one of my closest friends ( let’s call her Y.J). She sent me a psychiatrist’s number and told me to book an appointment. My other friends started texting me every other hour to see if I called her just yet. I succumbed to their pressure and booked an appointment for the next day. Y.J told me she will pick me up and take me there. We were scheduled at 12:30 pm. When we arrived, the secretary told us that there were still three people ahead of us. We both voiced our indignation. An appointment is an appointment. I caught a rise in Y.J and decided to fully exploit it. I agitated her anger and told her that we shouldn’t tolerate this disrespect. We should immediately leave. She looked at me a little puzzled. Years of friendship made her very capable of seeing through my will to leave and to perceive my eagerness to bail on this endeavor. She calmed herself down and told me to sit down in the most assertive voice. I abided. As per usual, I couldn’t contain my snarky humor and whispered to Y.J “ The secretary didn’t take us seriously because she thinks we’re crazy, everybody that comes here is crazy” to which YJ replied “ I think so too, this is a psychiatrist office at the end of the day. She must think we ‘re nuts” “ aren’t we though”
Then we both fell back giggling. The door opened and my name was called. I looked back at YJ before I crossed the door to the doctor’s office. She said “ don’t be smug. Trust the doctor. Let her do her diagnosis and don’t be condescending” I smiled like a naughty kid being scolded by their parents and eased my way to the chair in front of the doctor’s desk. The session didn’t last long. I quickly confessed my sins at the medical altar. Insomnia? Guilty. Not eating ? guilty. sleeping too much ? guilty. tobacco addiction? guilty. jaw clenching ? guilty . Sore muscles? guilty. pessimistic thoughts? guilty , suicidal ideation ? Only on sundays. The doctor only listened and nodded. Then she abruptly said : “ You are under so much pressure. you have been living like this for a long time. when certain circumstances endure in time. They rewire our brains and change their chemistry. I will prescribe something that will help. come see me next month”. As skeptical as I was of meds, I accepted her suggestion. I was desperate. I knew that I was being swallowed by an abyssal darkness and I needed to do something about it. YJ drove me to the pharmacy. The first one was closed. I felt a sense of relief. Maybe this is a sign. But YJ drove me to another one. She's a good friend, but dear lord, that was not what I was hoping for at that moment. The pharmacist told me that the meds were very light antidepressants and anxiolytics. Nothing too strong. I will just feel a little dizzy at first, then I will get used to it. That’s what she told me before wishing me good luck.
The first couple of days were quite funny. It went silent in my head all of a sudden. Usually, my thoughts would race non stop causing me insomnia. tension and stomach pain. With the meds, I could literally hear crickets in my mind. not a single tab open. general shutdown. I was very sleepy throughout the day. My muscles were releasing the tension. By consequence, they were harrowingly sore. My friends took turns coming to my house to check on me. My little nurses’ shifts were overtaken by my mother. The poor woman… She was petrified. Her hero, her golden child, her eldest brilliant daughter has collapsed. God is dead, idols are smashed, the world is ending. In a state of sheer panic, she concluded that I was not eating well, and this is why all of this was happening. My body lacked vitamins according to her, and so she started forcing me to ingurgitate large quantities of orange juice. I didn’t mind it. I, myself, used orange juice as an antidepressant before. On some days, when gloom befalls me in my little parisian apartment, I would force myself to get dressed and go buy orange juice from the grocery store. It was my excuse to get a breath of fresh air. Orange juice became an incentive and also a sign. The frequency of my orange juice intake signaled to me when I was indeed struggling.
Surprisingly, my mother got used to the new reality very quickly. We had our talks and she was very apologetic about how it all turned out. I am very close with my mother. It is a push and pull relationship. We fight a lot because we are very much alike ; stubborn, strong and defiant. It might not be obvious at first glance but I take after my mother in so many things. Years ago, if anyone told me this, I would have been horrified. I didn’t want to become my mother. She went through a lot. I went through it with her. all of it. Being like her meant that history will repeat itself. I couldn’t bear that thought. As I grew older and more depressed, I started to see my mother under a different light. I started to feel softer feelings towards her, and the more we fought the stronger our bond became.
Besides orange juice, my mother took me on what we called “ cigarette rides”. She would drive the car towards Sidi Bousaid (coastal side of town) while I enjoyed being the passenger princess. Midway through the ride, she would offer me her long thin cigarettes. We smoked and talked. We talked about everything. There are no taboos between me and my mother. We laughed at this miserable world synchronistically.
I allowed myself to be vulnerable and foolish in front of her after years of masking. It healed her to know that her daughter was not an untouchable god. I am just a girl and it’s okay for her to be just a woman. Indeed Mothers and daughters are each other’s mirrors. She cared for me so diligently, and gave me a lot of freshly squeezed orange juice and a cigarette as a treat from time to time.
I was always anxious because deep inside of me, I had a feeling that I would die young. I couldn’t imagine myself of old age. I always pictured scenarios where I die tragically, in a final act of dramatic catharsis. This feeling, that time is fleeting, made me restless. I wanted to do as much as I could before I was gone. Of course, this idea was not as explicit in my mind as I am writing it right now, but It was prominent. I was constantly hovering from one thing to the other. I disregarded my achievements and always looked towards the horizon. Call it lust. Call it hunger (my psychiatrist calls it anxiety). Call it what you want, but it was an incredible gasoline. It kept me going. forward. forward. don’t look back Chaima! The past is as ugly as it gets. The far future is not guaranteed. Do more than your best, don’t burn out , keep it going, don’t complain, don’t crumble, don’t surrender, don’t ask for help, don’t beg for love. Move forward without making a fuss.
Obviously, It didn’t turn out well. This is the stupidest life philosophy anyone can adopt. I am glad that the universe had other plans. I am grateful for orange juice. I am blessed with the invisible threads of love that were woven around me by those who cared for me. My friends who are more than family by now, my mother, god (the universe if you want), haven’t allowed me to do this immense injustice to myself. They allowed me to crumble to pieces in peace. They repeatedly told me that they will love me regardless. My temper, my flaws, my melancholy, were not going to stop them from embracing me. I was starting to understand through observing myself and my relationships from a long shot, that real freedom was never about being untouchable. It was quite the opposite. Freedom is being released from the shackles of perfection and allowing oneself to be touched by others and by life.
I am still not where my loved ones hoped I would be. Maybe this is a major part of my story. I am, if I may confess, a chronic idealist. Idealism is like a lifelong sentence of disappointments. I will go as far as saying that depression is a failed idealism. So this swinging back and forth between thriving and surviving will probably continue for a while. However, I can’t give up my idealism , for the sake of my (in)sanity. I need to hold onto certain delusions despite the constant disappointments. I can’t accept the world as is. I have to change it, even a little bit. I have to fight. That is the only way i know how to live.
A colleague journalist of mine told over coffee lately, that idealists like us have a taste for battles. In work, In life, In love, we long for the high road. We lust after the impossible, the steep mountain, the tragic stories. I couldn’t deny it . Actually, he is very right. I do have a thing for the tragic. I love the idea of the impossible, the unattainable. I have an insatiable appetite for battle. Some battles I haven’t chosen, they chose me. Those were the most brutal ones. Later, I was able to live out my inclinations through writing, art, and journalism. I was able to pick battles that might quench my thirst.
Nowadays, I am better. I carry my dear melancholy with me everywhere like an old friend. I drink orange juice, not out of spite, but to get some vitamin c, and I write. I write to survive.
I write to live because it’s only then that I feel the most alive.