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
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