My Grandpa, you have to know, already had depression when I was born. Until the day he died, I had never really gotten to know the man he once had been, before the disease had taken hold.
People told me that my Grandpa had been witty, and full of life. His eyes had sparkled when he had teased others gently, when he had laughed when he had surprised everyone with a good joke.
I couldn’t remember any of that. The Grandpa I knew was neither really witty, nor full of life. And I had never seen his eyes sparkle, or heard him laugh aloud.
That doesn’t mean that I didn’t love my Grandpa. I did, very much so. He was very patient with us children – his precious grandchildren, he called us. He was a good listener, and probably the kindest, most gentle person I’ve ever met.
But Grandpa was always a bit sad, and a bit tired. We could never visit him for long, because he had to go back to bed after a short time.
“Your Grandpa is easily tired,” my parents explained to me. “That has nothing to do with you.”
Well, I didn’t think it had. I always had fun when we visited Grandpa and Grandma, and even though Grandpa’s smile never really reached his eyes and he fell asleep easily, I know he enjoyed it, too.
He would get up early, to prepare everything for us. He would smile often, even though it cost him much energy.
And, especially – he would go outside, into his personal little garden, and pluck all the ripe strawberries he could find from the bushes, arrange them on a little plate, and wait patiently for me to run into the living room where he was waiting with the strawberries. He would smile – sometimes, it even reached his eyes – and say, “There is my girl.”
It was our ritual, and neither of us would have changed anything about it.
Until one day, I was four at that time, Grandpa was nowhere to be seen when I ran into the living room. No Grandpa, no strawberries on the table.
It was raining outside, the sky dark and crying, and Grandma followed after me where I stood in the middle of the room, utterly confused.
“Where is Grandpa?”
“He went back to bed, sweetie,” Grandma looked ready to fall asleep herself – so, so tired. “You will just have to wait for him. I’m sure he will come down when he hears that you’re here. How about you draw something for him in the meantime?”
I nodded, suddenly feeling sad all of sudden. So Grandpa had one of his “cloudy days” as I called them, where he was feeling even more tired and sad than usually.
I sat myself into a corner, paper and colorful pens strewn out next to me, and started to draw. A big, smiling sun, and red dots for strawberries, and me and Grandpa should be on the drawing, I decided.
While I was drawing, my Grandma talked to my parents, in hushed whispers.
Adults tend to forget that children understand more than they think.
“It’s the new medicaments… they make him even more tired.”
“Can’t he change…?”
“Switching from one to the other was already bad enough. I almost couldn’t get him out of the bed in the mornings… he didn’t want to get up at all…I’m so glad you came today. He always feels better when he knows that you come to visit…”
It wasn’t the first time that I overheard the adults talk about Grandpa. I didn’t understand everything they said – strange words like “therapy” and “depression” were unknown to me then. The use of “medicaments” had me led to believe that Grandpa was sick, like me when I had to flu or something, and I always hoped he would get better soon.
When I had asked Grandpa about it, he had just shook his head and ruffled my hair. “Don’t worry about me, sweetie. Your Grandpa is going to be okay.”
I was utterly engrossed in my drawing, until suddenly, everyone was running around, worried voices sounding throughout the house.
“Where is he?! He can’t just leave the house without telling me, something could happen to him…”
“Mother, calm down, I’m sure he didn’t go that far…!”
“Where would he go in this weather?”
I was looking around, confused because everyone was so loud and worried.
My Mum kneeled down to me, shrugging her jacket on while she told me, “Stay right here, okay? We’re just going out for a walk for a moment. We will be right back.”
“Ok,” I said, nodding, and went back to my drawing.
In a matter of minutes, I was left alone in the big old house, while my parents and my grandmother went outside to search for my grandfather (though I didn’t know that in that moment, firmly believing that they had gone for a walk).
I was content with drawing until a few minutes later, someone cleared his throat right next to me, saying warmly: “Aaah. There is my little girl.”
I looked up from my drawing, beaming as I saw my Grandpa standing in the door way to the garden. “Grandpa!”
My Grandpa smiled back at me. He was soaked wet, having come into the house from the rain, without a jacket or boots or anything. He didn’t even seem to mind the cold (because cold he must have been), he only smiled tiredly down at me, lifting the plate he was holding in front of him like a present.
The plate was laden with freshly picked strawberries.
My Grandpa explained, “Couldn’t let my granddaughter go back home without her favorite fruits, hm?”
My Grandpa sat me at the big dining table while he went to dry himself off a bit. As he came back, he motioned for me start eating, while he himself just sat there and watched me.
I was stuffing my cheeks with strawberries, until I saw that my Grandpa’s eyes were falling closed again and again.
He was paler than usually, and looked even sadder.
I stopped eating, and watched him, too. He tried to smile, but didn’t really manage.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes, sweetie?”
“Why are you so sad?”
He shifted a bit, blinking slowly. I had never really asked for the source of his sadness.
(Today, I wonder if anybody ever did ask him so directly.)
“Sometimes, we don’t need a reason to be sad. We just are,” this time, he smiled, tightly.
For me, that was very odd. When I was sad, I had a reason to be. I was sad because Grandpa was sad, for example.
“Grandpa?”
“Hmmmm?”
“Can’t you be happy again?”
My Grandpa was quiet for a few moments, looking silently at the plate between us.
Finally, he reached over and picked one strawberry up. It was the smallest of them all, and more than half of its surface was pale-green instead of deep red like the others.
“I made a mistake with this one,” Grandpa said, holding the little berry oh-so gently between his fingertips. “It was too early to take it, and yet I did. Now it will never have the chance to get that happy, red color.”
I nodded, very seriously, thinking myself very mature for understanding his disappointment.
(I didn’t, not really. I would understand later, when I was older.)
Grandpa laid the berry back down and looked up. Looked at me.
And for a moment, it seemed like the sky had cleared. The clouds over his face cleared as he smiled at me. Really smiled, so that it reached his eyes and lit them up.
I laughed, grinned, because it had been so long since I had seen him smile.
He reached over, stroking my cheek with his knuckles, and chuckled. “You have that red color, too. Are you a strawberry, sweetie?”
I laughed some more, thinking that very funny.
Grandpa’s smile slowly disappeared, even though his eyes stayed clear as he said, very quietly, “We are a bit like these strawberries, you know, sweetie? When we are happy, we’re full of color and life. When we are sad, we are pale and…”
He trailed off, frowning slightly, not ending that sentence. And I didn’t dare to ask.
At this point, nobody had yet explained to me what the opposite of “life” is.
“It’s exactly the same,” he continued after a moment. “We are sad and pale sometimes. But with time, and care, and warmth, we get colorful and happy again. Do you understand that?”
I nodded, hesitantly. I didn’t really understand, but I didn’t want to tell him that and disappoint him.
“Sweetie,” grandpa said, almost urgently, “That means, no matter how sad you are, you can get happy again if you just keep living.”
He stopped again, plucking the small, pale strawberry from the plate and looking at it as he added, “If you don’t keep living, then… You will never get a chance to be happy again.”
We looked at each other, really looked. I was a bit confused, and overwhelmed. I understood that he was trying to tell me something important, but wasn’t sure if I really understood what he was saying.
Perhaps he could see that.
Just when we heard the front door open and close again, my parents and my grandmother returning, my Grandpa shook his head, smiling. He reached over to hold my face between his hands, so gently, and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “And, anyway… I’m always as happy as I can be when you visit me, little strawberry-child.”
We couldn’t talk more about strawberries and being sad and becoming happy again after that. My parents and my grandmother were so relieved to see my grandfather (still a bit wet, still cold and pale) safe at home, they took turns in gently reprimanding him and asking him if he was alright.
He nodded along, looking even more tired now that he had all that attention. He was sent back to bed (“You’re almost falling over!”) and smiled back at me as he waved at me.
I waved back, left with my parents who patted my head and hugged me and told me that we probably better went home now.
Only when we were already on our way back home did I realize that I was still holding my drawing, pressed tightly to my chest.
In all that serious talk about strawberries and being sad, I had forgotten to give the drawing to my Grandpa.
We never talked about strawberries again. Our ritual had never changed – Grandpa still awaited me with strawberries every time, and I would be the happiest girl on earth when he greeted me with a smile.
That didn’t change, even as his condition got worse and worse.
Five years later, I was nine, my Grandpa died. Just fell asleep one evening and didn’t wake up again.
My Grandma was crushed at that time. We all were. It took a long time for us to stop missing him, to stop being sad when we visited his grave or just went to visit Grandma.
I hadn’t seen the dead bed of my Grandpa. Nobody would let a nine year old girl see that. But I heard my mother say, in the evening when she came back and cried, “He was so… so pale. Pale and…”
She trailed off, much like Grandpa had trailed off in his sentence all those years ago.
By now, I knew what the opposite of “life” was, and understood what she wanted to say.
Grandpa would never get the chance to get happy and colorful again.
Three more years later, I fell into depression.
No wonder, many people said. I had always been a very quiet, empathic and sensitive child, without many friends. I had been bullied for years, and my parents were in the middle of a divorce at that time.
No wonder, they said, completely normal to fall into depression because of all of this.
That didn’t really make it easier for me.
Suddenly, I understood my Grandpa’s “cloudy days” so much better than I did as a little, clueless child.
I felt sad without reason. I felt sad with a reason. I basically felt sad almost all the time, and when I didn’t, I just felt numb and tired.
I just kind of dragged on. Day for day, I struggled to get out of bed, went to school, did the best I could do in that state. I was still bullied, my parents were still arguing, my father was still blaming me, and I cried a damn river, day after day. But I went on, and on, and on.
I was sent to psychologists, pretty much sent myself, because I knew that I needed help to get out of it. I switched psychologists a few times, but it was basically always the same – questions, taking notes, more questions.
That went on and on for years.
One day, my psychologist asked me, yet again, “Did you ever think about what dying would be like?”
Normally, I would just answer “Yes” and let it be. I was tired of the question, to be honest. I had answered it so many times, over such a long time, that I was wondering if she was awaiting the same answer again and again and just asked because it had become a habit.
But this time, I said, “It would be easier than living, wouldn’t it?”
That had piqued her interest, I could tell. She was taking notes furiously now as she continued, “Are you thinking about trying? To kill yourself, I mean.”
“No. Never.”
Now that surprised her. For the first time in a long while, she looked up from her notes, looked at me. “But you just said that dying would be easier.”
“That I did.”
“But you never think about really wanting to die?”
“No.”
“Why? Don’t get me wrong, that is very good, that you don’t want to do it, but… most people in your situation would…”
I watched as she searched for words, and managed a tired smile.
And I thought of strawberries as I answered.
“Because I’m sad right now. And if I would die right now, being sad and pale, then I would never get the chance to become happy and colorful again.”
After all this years, I still don’t know why my Grandpa decided to tell me this little thing. This comparison between a strawberry and me.
He could have told it anyone, his wife, his children, all his other grandchildren.
But he didn’t.
He told me.
He couldn’t have known that almost a decade later, I would be in a very similar situation to the one he was in – depressed, sad and numb.
I don’t know why he told me. But I’m so, so glad he did.
I never forgot.
I’m almost twenty-one now. My depression never really left me. It got better – so much better – but I know it will never completely leave me. That’s okay. I learned to deal with the remaining of my cloudy days, saying hi to them like to old friends and to send them away again. My life has become a lot better, and much has changed (for the better).
But I never forgot what my Grandpa taught me, when I was a mere child of four years.
What my Grandpa taught me was: No matter how sad and broken you feel, how hopeless – don’t give up hope. Dying may seem like the most comfortable, the easiest way out of this, because it seems as if everything has been lost and there is nothing to live for anymore.
But that’s not true.
Me, and you, and everyone else – we all have a future to live for. We all have chances – not one, not two, but as many as we need – to become happy and lively again. In the future.
The moment you die because you can’t stand it anymore, that’s the moment you lose all the chances to become happy again.
Dying is not your way out. Dying is how you lose. Dying is how the depression wins.
I don’t know about you, but I would rather be a strawberry-child. Being a strawberry-child, that means that you, even when you are sad, you never forget that you can become happy again in the future. That you just have to keep on living, and that, if you do, it will be worth it.
Let’s be strawberry-children together, okay? Until one day, we can become happy and colorful again.
(I promise, you will.)
Well worth the read.
Strawberry-child
If you think 12 year olds are too young for tattoos but can decide on hormone therapy, there is something wrong with you.
^^^^^
If you think a picture on your body for cosmetic reasons and life-saving medication for a serious medical condition are in any way comparable, there is something wrong with you.
Furthermore, no 12 year old goes on hormone therapy. They go on puberty blockers once puberty kicks in, which does nothing more than delay puberty and has been found by studies to be safe, extremely helpful to transgender children, and completely reversible should the child not go through with transition. It buys them time so they can make the decision once they’re older.
When you advocate against transgender teenagers going on puberty blockers, you advocate for more transgender teen suicides.
These are necessary and often live-saving treatments for very distressing medical conditions. Stop comparing them to something as unnecessary as fucking tattoos.