Depression in Hindsight

Depression hardly makes sense in hindsight.

I felt numb for the past three days. Depression hugged me tight and pressed me flat against the ground.

It is embarrassing to examine and explain why I fell into the sticky trap of an emotional downfall. I can only say that this spiral of gloominess encroached upon me once I became entangled in a petty argument with my wife.

In the afternoon, as I carried the baby from her bed to the living room, my wife stared at me and murmured, “The baby still looks tired.” I had spent at least twenty minutes helping her fall asleep, and I was convinced the baby needed more playtime before going to bed again. “She must be tired, though,” my wife said again. I noticed a surge of anger brewing within me. Looking down at the baby in my arms, I replied, “Nope,” and laid her down in our bright living room.

After I let the baby tumble for ten minutes on her play mat, I carried her to our sunlight-screened, pitch-dark bedroom. I wasn’t sure if the baby would close her eyes this time. I only wished to avoid hearing another comment on the baby’s ideal sleep schedule. I held the baby and tried everything to soothe her. I made a “shhh” sound and tapped her back gently while roaming around the tiny room. The baby continued crying. After several minutes, my wife appeared in the darkness and said, “Let me take care of her.” “I’ve got this,” I replied while glaring at the crying baby. Noticing the anger in my voice, my wife stomped out of the room.

I placed the baby in her bed and followed my wife to the living room. “I didn’t mean you were doing a bad job,” my wife said. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t come up with an appropriate answer. I couldn’t think clearly once my mind was muddled with inexorable emotions. I went back to the bedroom to finish my task, and the baby finally fell asleep. I stepped out of the darkness into the kitchen where my wife was doing dishes. I asked her to sit next to me so that I could apologize for being so irritable earlier. I explained how I felt as if she were watching me just to judge how well I take care of our daughter. I couldn’t really put words to my childish emotions. I sounded like someone who is only good at pointing out the injustices of the world. “I don’t really have anything to say,” my wife said. She stood up and walked back to the kitchen. I stayed in the chair for a few more minutes. I didn’t know what to say either.

For three days, I barely interacted with my wife. The argument was not particularly serious, yet I was drowning in self-pity and numerous what-ifs. On the first day, I approached my wife a couple more times to see if she would forgive me, but it was too difficult for her to understand why I had suddenly turned into this impenetrable wall of sadness. I lay on the floor and started doomscrolling as if my time were not worth a penny. I wondered if anyone would miss me when I was gone from this world. I pictured going to a rooftop and throwing myself to the ground. I asked myself why so many celebrities chose to end their lives at such a young age. I then realized I would never be bold enough to end my life on my own.

On day two, I went to a coffee shop and read Ann Patchett’s essay, “My Three Fathers." I stared out the window after reading a few paragraphs. People were holding umbrellas to block the scorching sunlight. Despite my stern face, I was clearly appreciating the coffee, the essay, and the music. I was getting tired of being sad and angry for no reason.

In 2014, when I was twenty-one, I went to Tokyo with my mother and sister. We spent four days in the city. I was very excited because it was my first time traveling in Japan. I booked an Airbnb and bookmarked some cool restaurants and coffee shops. I had no problems on the first day, but I started feeling sad on the second. All of a sudden, I turned into a lifeless sack of anger. I needed to spend time alone, so I told my mother I wanted to go out at night. I went to a fancy coffee bar in Shibuya. Before the trip, a blog post had told me that this bar was one of the most popular among tourists. The blog also mentioned that the barista picked a mug to match the general vibe of the customer. I expected the same to happen for me, although he didn’t seem to take much time to get to know what kind of person I was. I watched the barista pouring steaming water as if he were watering the most precious plant. Dressed in a tailored suit, the barista picked a blue-striped cup for my filtered coffee. I smelled the aroma and took out a pack of Marlboros from the table. I had quit smoking for a few years, but I couldn’t resist buying a pack because the blog mentioned it was legal to smoke indoors in Japan. The place was a perfect haven for someone like me who preferred coffee over alcohol. The barista noticed the smoke and handed me a glass ashtray. It was my first time smoking in a bar. I looked at an enormous vase filled with blue flowers on a thick wooden table. I wasn’t the only one watching the vase. The lighting made the flowers stand out like an actor on a stage.

The place was filled with others like me who seemed to want some me-time in this hectic city. I glanced at a lady next to me. She looked five to ten years older than I did and appeared to be Korean. “Are you traveling?” I asked in Korean. “Oh, you’re Korean,” she replied. “Do you want one?” I offered her a cigarette, but she said she didn’t smoke. We talked about what we were doing in Tokyo. I said I was on a family trip, and she said she was traveling by herself because she liked coming to Japan every year. I asked her if she would be free for coffee the next morning. She said yes and gave me her number. She seemed like a good listener. I was a lonely person who desperately needed someone to understand my feelings.

The next morning, we went to a coffee shop known for its elaborate latte art. We both remained almost silent and drank our coffee awkwardly. She left after finishing her latte, and I didn’t ask her to stay. I went back to the Airbnb where my mother and sister were preparing to go out for brunch. I felt much better and joined them for the rest of the day. I cannot remember if I apologized for ruining the family trip. I probably couldn’t say anything since I had a hard time articulate what was happening to me.

The cycle repeats. I become dejected, my family gets hurt, and things return to normal in a few days. I always try to find an answer to prevent another breakdown. I cannot even be sure if it’s appropriate to call my feelings depression. At this point in my life, my sadness feels more like a form of narcissism that emerges when I become too vulnerable to my own weaknesses.