Chapter 2

Accompanying the tears was a sense of utter sadness. I couldn’t have felt more devastated if my best friend had died, which he hadn’t. I examined my feelings—emptiness, despair, misery. Yet what had brought on this sudden and intense outburst? I was baffled and more than a little alarmed, since this had been occurring now for over a month. I blew my nose again.

The tears finally dried, but I was no longer in the mood to paint. I dropped the brushes I’d been using into a jar of turpentine, picked up my empty coffee cup, and returned to the house to run a bath.

Immersed in warm water I rested my head against the porcelain edge and closed my eyes. I felt safe and secure. I was back in the womb; protected from the world. I didn’t want to leave the warm water and when it started to cool, I ran more hot water. I lay there, caressed by the liquid, even though my fingers had begun to wrinkle. I could have stayed there all afternoon, but I had to go to the supermarket. I was out of milk and bread. I needed fresh vegetables and I was suddenly in the mood for potato chips.

I dried myself and dressed, finger combing my short damp hair in the mirror by the front door. Five minutes later I was on the road.

It wasn’t far to the supermarket. A ten-minute drive. I was stopped at a red light when I could feel it coming back, that sense of overwhelming sadness. It rose inside me like an awakening beast, for that’s exactly what it was—a beast. The tears began to flow. I looked at the driver of the car parked beside me. Thank God he wasn’t looking at me. Thank God I had my sunglasses on.

The light changed to green and in no time at all I was at the shopping centre, sitting in my parked car blowing my nose, dabbing at my eyes with the same soggy tissue and trying to compose myself. I lifted my sunglasses and checked my eyes in the mirror. Although they were a bit red, they didn’t look too bad. Nevertheless, when I entered the supermarket, I kept my sunglasses on. I didn’t care I was getting strange looks. I couldn’t trust myself not to burst into tears again, since it seemed to be happening more and more frequently.

That evening I poured myself a glass of wine and called my friend, Craig. He was a theatre nurse and the only person I ever told my confidences to.

“It’s freaking me out,” I said after revealing to him the secret I’d been carrying for the past few weeks. “I have no reason to cry.”

“That you know of,” he replied.

Craig was a tall, ginger-haired man. He had about him a mild manner. He was masculine and well-built, but there was a gentleness, a softness, about him which made everyone he met fall in love with him. Having said that, we’d only ever been friends. Best buddies.

His statement intrigued me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” he paused. “I mean there could be something from your past that’s coming out now. But whether I’m right or wrong, I think you should see a doctor about it.”

“A doctor?” I wasn’t sure how a doctor could help, or even if it was a matter for a medical professional. “What’s a doctor going to do?”

“Plenty,” said Craig. “It sounds like you might have depression.”

I laughed. I wasn’t laughing at Craig. It wasn’t even a real laugh. It was a reaction to express my discomfort.

“I haven’t got anything to be depressed about,” I said somewhat defensively. “I’m probably just tired. I’ve been working pretty hard for the exhibition.”

“Could be,” said Craig. “Doubt it though. You don’t usually cry when you’re tired. I’d get it checked out. It’s a chemical imbalance. He’ll probably put you on meds and you’ll be right in no time.”

“What are the other symptoms?” I asked. “How long does it last?”

“Whoa!” said Craig, chuckling. “I’m not a psychologist. Go and see your doctor. He’ll hook you up with someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.”

We chatted for another hour or so. Between his shift-work and me working out in my backyard studio, where all technological distractions were banned, it was sometimes difficult for us to get in touch. We always made the most of any time we managed to get with each other.

I considered his advice as I lay in bed that night. Part of me felt it was a waste of time going to the doctor to present him with such flimsy evidence. Crying was hardly a medical condition and I had no other symptoms for him to base any sort of diagnosis on. At a push I could tell him about the accompanying feelings of misery and emptiness, and the tendency towards wanting to be alone. There was the reluctance to get out of bed in the morning. Was that a symptom of anything other than laziness? I rolled over. I’d wait. That’s what I’d do. I’d wait and see what happened over the next few days. Perhaps it would go away as gradually as it had come on.