Solphia

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A week after our first kiss, <br />
You take me to Paris,<br />
Because that's what the mad ones do,<br />
True story.<br />
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We drink at the airport,<br />
Smoke until they call us,<br />
I don't sit with you on the plane,<br />
I lose my phone.<br />
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The bus driver drops us in the city,<br />
I realized I don't speak French,<br />
But we find a place to eat,<br />
Burgers and Parisian salad, carnal sin.<br />
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We walk our luggage, like two little dogs,<br />
The tube, quiet and rustic,<br />
Towards the flat,<br />
The Tardis elevator takes us to paradise.<br />
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Who does this?<br />
Goes to Paris with a stranger?<br />
And orders vin rouge and eats mandarins?<br />
People like us, and Hemingway.<br />
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We spend the day in sunshine,<br />
But it's not offensive,<br />
The streets are like soundless music,<br />
Dreams and alternate universes.<br />
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Where did he go?<br />
What did he eat?<br />
Where did his typewriter rest?<br />
When it was cranking out perfection?<br />
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The evening comes, the cafe is closed,<br />
The barman yells "San Michelle!", <br />
He points us to the bus,<br />
And it takes us there.<br />
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To meet Paris Pete,<br />
Who has hair that is screaming,<br />
Drinks, laughs and a taxi later,<br />
He gives us a real tour.<br />
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The place where the men came,<br />
And shot them to death,<br />
The girl in the cafe, Pete says,<br />
Can't get her out of my head.<br />
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Back at the flat, drunk and nude,<br />
Love was made to be made in Paris,<br />
The night joins us for a ménage à trois,<br />
And we sleep cocooned in our own fantasies.<br />
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The Eiffel Tower is there,<br />
But he's a tease,<br />
Like a skillful harlot,<br />
He hides and we seek.<br />
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Finally, the fallacy,<br />
I try to mount him unsuccessfully,<br />
But no matter, more wine at the cafe,<br />
Hemingway's ambulance provides a concert.<br />
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We found him, that other day,<br />
Walking through le Rue de Mouffetard,<br />
Planted ourselves at that cafe,<br />
Where you wrote poetry on envelopes.<br />
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Watching the theater,<br />
The young women drawing by the fountain,<br />
The ancient lady drinking a pint,<br />
The children philosophers holding hands.<br />
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The pain one feels,<br />
Saying au revoir to you,<br />
When your streets feel like home,<br />
And your scent arousing, like war.<br />
<br />
It has to be done,<br />
Eventually, we all go back,<br />
And the memory of your existence,<br />
Makes me forget.<br />
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“You never seem depressed.”<br />
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That’s what my boyfriend said when I told him about Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade’s apparent suicides. I confronted him with the fear that one day that would be me. Yeah, I never seem depressed because I learned to pretend like it’s all good. Like I have my shit together. Like I’m strong. Whenever I read about a celebrity or local, suicide it brushes its hand against my soul recalling the times, since I was 16, that I wanted to be part of that club.<br />
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There are people who, or have been, in my circle that have either witnessed my attempts or have heard about them. And the responses vary. My family responds with insults about being selfish. “How could you even think about killing yourself?! You have a family. You have a daughter who needs you.” True. But the thing about suicide is that thinking about the people you love and the shit damage you’ve caused them is further evidence that you’re better off dead.<br />
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On the other hand, my friends try to help me. A woman who was a close friend of mine would let me spend the night at her house and we’d watch romcoms and drink wine. She’d make me vegan food and she showed me how to be mindful. That did help. I have another friend who I’d call whenever I felt the dark thoughts looming. He was a lifeline for sure.<br />
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I can only speak for my experience. I have no idea what Ms Spade or Mr Bourdain were feeling when they decided to remove themselves from this world, but if it’s anything like what I have felt in my darkest hours, well, then I know. I know that pain.<br />
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Perhaps the reason treatment of clinical depression is a challenge is because there is not really a one-size-fits-all cure. Sure, there are the medical terms psychologists know. The years of studies that can identify someone who has issues. I can’t pinpoint where these thoughts started for me. I only remember being a lonely kid. From the time I was five up until about middle school the whole town was pretty white, Baptist and not very inviting to outsiders. My parents are from Mexico. I wasn’t the standard of beauty. I’m dark. The pretty ones were blonde and blue-eyed. I was bullied. I was harassed. In junior high, I escaped with the black kids. They understood the struggle.<br />
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High school was stressful. I was too smart. Too skinny (in a time when skinny or Latin wasn’t cool). It was a health class that seriously introduced me to the possibility of suicide. The teacher, who was a part-time coach, talked about the signs. You know, like giving away your possessions and withdrawing from friends and family. We were put in groups and had to do a scene. A week later, I found my mother’s pain pills and took as many as I could. My dad found me crying on the bathroom floor. But he thought I was drunk or ‘doing drugs’. I got yelled at and sent to my room where I slept it off. This happened a lot until I ran away to Mexico my senior year (that’s another story).<br />
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The reality is, I was actually a good kid. I made really good grades. All my teachers loved me and I was known as a polite and sweet kid. But inside there was this little monster, this little voice that said, “Hey, you totally suck and should die”. I kept feeding that voice. Agreeing with it. Taking it out to lunch. I got married, had various careers and a beautiful daughter. I should have been happy. But my marriage was difficult until my ex decided to run off with his high school sweetheart and take my daughter with him. I lost it all. Hit rock bottom. Did things I didn’t think I would ever do to survive. And now I am here.<br />
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Last October I was in West Cork,