Intersection

Recently, I wrote a blog post about my cyclical depression related to hormone changes as a result of coming out of chemo-induced menopause. I have been (pleased is not the right word) interested in the response that post generated from women who go through the exact same thing. Besides being glad that this forum allows me the opportunity to discuss things that are often pushed under the rug, it made me think about how we as a society are often wary of facing harsh truths or difficult realities. We talk about things that are painful as things that are "depressing" and then we don't talk about them anymore, as if denial of those things makes them go away. We do this with illness, suffering, death, and fear.

We do this when world events break our hearts. It's only natural. But the reality of life for most people in the world is to live with suffering, right there on the surface. The history of most of the world is the history of people living their lives right in the shadow of death, and acknowledging it. Part of what "depression" is (though not all of it, not by a long shot), is the inability to push that shadow away.

Last week, when I was in the midst of a depression that was exacerbated by my (realistic) fear of cancer recurrence, I had a dream. I woke up and told my husband about the dream, and then I wrote this. I thought it was too morbid to show anyone, but then I heard from all those other women, and I realized there was no shame in it. And then there was a bombing, and there are always bombings, aren't there, all over the world? And I began to think about why random acts of violence have such strong effects on our collective consciousness--because they are reminders of just how the world ends when one world ends.

And that's much deeper than most LiveChicken posts, but, well, there it is. Or, I should say, here it is:

Intersection
By Katy Jacob

In dreams, we do things that would be impossible
in waking life, like drive when we know we are sleeping.
The world looks the same as the real world;
or, more accurately, it looks like the real world
that someone else lives in—so we’ve been led to believe.

Something is always just a little bit off:
the streets are wider than they are anywhere;
no one is behind you or in front of you;
noise and light are filtered artistically;
the car you’re driving is much too clean.

Still, you are yourself, singing along to the radio.
Rain is pouring so hard on the windshield
that you can’t see, but no one pulls over in dreams.
You notice bus shelters and dogs and skyscrapers
and you slow down, but you are not afraid.

Suddenly, then, the rain turns to snow—
so much snow that it falls with a crash on the windshield,
which cracks from the weight, and the car stops.
All the power goes out, everywhere, all across the world.
Somehow you know this is true.


Everything is still, and there is nothing but silence,
because time has stopped, just like that,
and all the other people have disappeared.
You consider exiting the car, but you know it wouldn’t matter.
There is only one thing left that you must do.

You tilt your head up so that you can see your reflection
in the rear-view mirror, and you smile and say out loud, to yourself,
because nothing exists anymore in the world but you,
“This is what it will be like.”
And then you do the second thing that you must do.

You wake yourself up and listen to the rain
pounding mercilessly against the window
of your bedroom, which miraculously actually exists
in a real city in a real country in a real world
where everyone dies alone.