Content Warning: Loss, depression
A wave of coldness and bleakness seeped through my ears, filled my body and the room when Phoebe Bridgers, one the artists who covered “If we make it through December”, sang “If we make it through December, everything’s gonna be alright I know.” It’s my twentieth July, but it still feels like my sixteenth December.
My father and I had a pretty weird relationship. He didn’t really care about how my daily life went - he cared about my grades and my academic performance. One time he was driving us home after seeing the transcript for my Cambridge English Exam that he made me take and I told him I was one grade away from getting full marks. He raged, “I did not pay thousands of dollars for you to take those English classes to get this grade and disappoint me! You imbecile!” I was 8 years old and I was pretty satisfied with my result until he ranted about this stupid test. Yet the next day, he apologised, saying he was sorry and we made up. I accepted his apology but I still resented him because I was petty and I tend to hold grudges.
In November 2017, my father was sent to the Intensive Care Unit because of lung cancer. When he was diagnosed, his cancer was already in the advanced and unsalvageable stage, so he was essentially on his deathbed. My mother was diagnosed with stage 2 breast cancer at the same time, but she was lucky. I guess we can see where this is going, with two patients who couldn't work and manage a 16-year-old teenager. We were not a wealthy family to begin with, and medical bills were high. We were at the edge of bankruptcy. “Welcome to powerlessness,” a friend of mine told me.
It was a freezing afternoon in December 2017, and the rays of sunshine leaking through the trees were the only thing that was warm during this cruel winter. I had just finished lunch and I was walking back to school with my classmates. “I swear to god, his butt was jiggling when he fell down the stairs, that was hilarious,” they tried to joke with me, “and one time I caught him not washing his hands after using the bathroom. Have you ever shook his hands? Yeah he definitely touched his junk too.” I was not in the mood but I still laughed along because they were trying their best. I forced a smile until my phone rang. It was my mother. She was calm, almost indifferent, as if it was none of her business. “Your father passed, come to the hospital now and I will take care of any issues with your school.”
I forced everything into my locker and hopped into a cab right outside my school gate. The driver was driving at the speed of light but it was not fast enough. “Can you drive a little faster please?” I asked politely. “What’s the hurry? In a rush to hell?” he mocked. I countered, “Well yeah I’m in a hurry to meet him down there, now hurry the hell up!” Then there was a silence that lasted for an eternity.
I arrived at the hospital. It was not a strange place to me; I had been here plenty of times, not only to visit my father but my mother too. However, this time, it was weird and unfamiliar, probably because I was looking at a dead body instead of a living, talking person, who would always ask me softly, “are you doing well?”, to which I would always answer “Yes I am doing well” despite everything feeling different. “Say your goodbyes,” mother said. Holding his freezing cold arm, I whispered “See you soon.” Then I looked around, and I noticed: it was quiet. No hysterical cries or screams, no prayers, no ugly crying faces; not from me, not from my half siblings, not even from our mothers. I almost had the urge to squeeze out a few drops of tears just to make myself look less cold blooded, but I didn’t, because they didn't either.
After parting, my mother and I went home. We were not talking, nor were we feeling anything. We carried on with our routine lives in silence. I went to school, returned home after a weary day, I ate and I slept, keeping the same routine as if everything was back to normal. Yet the void and the silence in this household grew stronger day after day. I did not have any urge or desire to talk to my mother except when it was necessary. One day, the silence grew so loud that I decided to drown myself in music, but also drowning the last bit of hope in reviving the relationship my mother and I had.
I thought I moved with the music I listened to, I moved on from indie folk to rock, and eventually back to the mainstream world of pop. I thought I was recovering and getting more like everybody else - more normal per se. However, with a shuffled playlist I created out of mere nostalgia, I realised I still relate to those indie folk singers more than I thought, considering it’s almost December in 2021.
The worst thing about being stuck in the past is loneliness, but you’re never really alone. You pray and yell, yet no one hears it, or no one cares enough to help. You get used to the sense of powerlessness and forget how sad and lonely you are after all these years of trying. “It’s just inside your head, smile more, or get more sunshine, I heard yoga and working out helps too,” people say as they grin, thinking they cured my depression. Everyone is trying to paint me yellow but I’m just going to stay grey.
“Yeah I reckon this would help me too, I’ll try when I have time,” I always smile and nod when I repeat this sentence to different people, knowing damn well that I’m always busy harbouring my depression. Gradually, I started to hate talking to people, and hate socialising, I hate smiles and laughter, I hate anything and everything that brings joy solely because I don’t understand how people laugh and smile like they mean it.
“If we make it through December, got plans of being in a warmer town come summer time. Maybe even California. If we make it through December, we'll be fine.” I struggle and try to live alongside my black dog laying on my bed, immerse myself in my writing, getting by with my capsulated medicine, and try to make it through 31 nights in winter. I am really tired of waking up and repeating everything.
Dad, I am not doing well.