No Regrets

This is a short story I wrote a couple of years ago. I’ll say now that it’s not a happy story so if you’re not in a great mood right now, please read it another time.

This is another story about people choosing not to be heroes, so once again there’s not much detail about exactly what the main character has opted out of fighting against because the story focusses on his reasons for opting out. The setting is Europe, most likely the UK or Ireland sometime in the next 50 years.

 

Content notes for homophobia (one slur), pregnancy and birth, implied death, parents splitting up, toxic activism.


 

To: jack.reynolds@hemail.co.uk

From: gareth.reynolds@hemail.co.uk

Subject: Please read this, especially if you’re Jack but even if you aren’t

 

 

I don’t regret it. I know you think I do. If you’re still alive that is. And if you are dead, then I know that you died thinking of how much I must wish that I was by your side, how keenly I must feel that I should have chosen differently all those years ago, how it must hurt me to know that you and I became so far apart.

 

Yet even on that last count, I’ve no regrets my long-lost lover. We were good for each other once but you found out where your loyalties lay and I found mine too. I no longer miss you all that much and neither does the son you barely acknowledged. You left him and I alone for your cause.

 

You were probably right to do so, you know. I think I can acknowledge that now. And still look deep inside myself and know that I made the right choice when I refused to go with you.

 

It’s not that I don’t believe you. It was never that, though you often accused me of it. It isn’t even that I don’t believe, as you do and as you would often say, that some things are so important that everything and anything can be sacrificed for them. No, I do believe that. With all my heart. We simply have different priorities.

 

I remember a long time ago, before you knew what you know, before things changed. I remember the love and the sex, the joys of young married life. I remember walking through the park in the sunshine holding hands and being genuinely surprised when that old homeless man called us faggots. I can see his face now, with the distaste and anger we’d never learnt to expect and hear my own voice telling him “Yes, we are gay and we’re happily married and just trying to enjoy the park”. I remember handing him a five pound note and a sandwich because whatever he thought about gay people he looked like he needed it more than we did. But that was a long time ago before you started risking your life saving the world from enemies it daren’t believe it has. That was during our honeymoon, all those year ago, back when we were young and in love and nothing, not a shower of rain, not a homophobe, not a global recession, nothing could take away our happiness. I suspect such happiness is only for people who are young and in love and on their honeymoons because I’ve never felt like it since.

 

You met them at University, of course. The people who changed everything for us. We called them friends and I guess that’s what they were. One of them, a woman, Sophia? She held my hand when I told you that I’d been stupid and forgotten some shots and now I was pregnant. She was sure you’d take it well and you did. You handled it better than I did which I reckoned showed just how brave you were. It’s not every day a man learns his husband is accidentally pregnant. Some of our friends were there when I told you I wanted to keep our baby, they saw you agree, heard you talk about how blessed and loved this baby would be, how you would be the best of fathers, second only to me. They knew what they were doing when they told you.

 

When my son… when our son was little, I used to tell him those old, old stories about the Sight. The really scary ones about the ointment that you put on your eyes that makes you see things as they really are. The one about the girl who doesn’t know she’s baby-sitting for the fey until she gets some of the baby’s eye medicine into her eye by accident and she can See and how she spends the rest of her life wearing an eye-patch in order not to go mad. Really quite scary for a little one but he had to learn somehow. He had to know what happened to you. What happened to us both.

 

When they told you, when they opened your eyes to the truth of this earth and invited you to join their fight, they knew I was pregnant. They knew that I needed you, that our child would need you. They told you anyway. Those friends of yours, they thought they needed you more than I did. I wonder now whether they were right.

 

They told you about good and evil and forces at work that most people never know of. They told you about a war much greater than any war between mere humans and how events much more important than our tiny lives were going on around us as we groped blindly along trying to make sense of the disasters and wars and famines and droughts that were mere side effects of the truth. They gave you proof, showed you things and made your world the world of bigger events, the world of things that were more important.

 

Things that were worth sacrificing everything for.

 

You can’t pretend you didn’t know that’s what they were asking. They needed people. People who couldn’t pretend to forget, who wouldn’t. People who could place an ideal above their own life. People who could see their place in a grand scheme and take it willingly even if that meant losing dreams, losing love, losing life. People like you. People like me. They needed us.

 

I can say it. I was just the sort of person they needed. And if I wasn’t eight months pregnant when they finally asked us to join them, I still can’t say what would have happened. I believed as you believed, I had seen what you had seen. And we both knew that some things are so important that nothing else can ever be allowed to get in their way.

 

I was going to be a dad. I had a living human being growing inside me, soon to be outside and cold and helpless and in need of love. And I knew with every neuron in my brain that nothing could ever ever be more important than the life I carried inside of me. I was a dad.

 

And they still tried to recruit me into their war. They didn’t understand. They’d left people behind, those friends of ours. Parents, siblings, friends, lovers and, yes, even children. They’d given up everything, their livelihoods, their homes, sometimes even their names to fight for all humanity’s right not to be killed off by the actions of a few angry gods. They thought I’d be one of them. And you thought so too.

 

You suggested that we leave the baby with my mother. That we leave him with friends. That we get him adopted. You casually suggested to my face that we just toss away our baby as soon as he was born and you didn’t even understand why I was angry with you. I wanted not to love you any more when you said that. I wanted to hate you and the fact I loved you anyway hurt like anything. I knew you’d decided what you thought was worth sacrificing everything for. I knew I’d found the one thing I would sacrifice anything for.

 

You left before our son arrived. I delivered him alone in a strange hospital where they’d not yet had a man give birth and people still weren’t all that used to trans people insisting on being fertile. I told our newborn child that we didn’t need you and when I next saw you four days later I told you that I wasn’t fighting anybody’s war. And that if you still were, you had to get the fuck out of my baby’s life.

 

You left. So did all those friends. They used to drop by from time to time, to check up on me and my boy and to talk about their experiences with someone who would listen and might understand and believe them. As their visits became less frequent I knew they no longer needed someone to believe them or even to understand, they just wanted someone to listen.

 

When he was old enough to talk and walk, we moved to a new town and I was just a single dad with his kid and everything was fine and I had no regrets.

 

And my son went to school and he made friends and he liked drawing and he didn’t like maths but he got a prize when he was twelve for a maths project and then he liked maths too. He speaks three languages and once they published a bilingual poem he wrote in the paper. He’s made two Father’s Day cards every year just in case and he keeps all yours in his bedside drawer and I pretend I don’t know it. He’s a great kid and I’m proud to be his father.

 

And he had a boyfriend for a bit and then he didn’t and now they’re back together but perhaps that doesn’t matter because right now he’s fifteen and we’re hiding in our cellar because outside the world is ending. The sky is on fire and people are dying and at least down here we can’t hear the screams.

 

And I am writing you this email not because I think you will get it, I really doubt that anyone will but to say to whoever does get it, assuming anyone is alive tomorrow, to say to them that I made the right choice.

 

Because my son is fifteen and he’s terrified and I’m pretty sure he’s going to die tonight. But he’s had fifteen years of being happy and fifteen years of knowing his dad loves him. Not fifteen years of wondering why his dads left him or whether they’re still alive. Not fifteen years of not being loved.

 

I have always known that some things are worth sacrificing everything else for. Giving my child a life worth living, however short, is my one of those. You, my long-ago love, chose to fight a war and I chose to devote my life to a person I love. Who is the hero?

 

My son has been reading this over my shoulder and he asks me to say to you, whether you are his other dad or some other stranger, that he says I am a hero and he loves me no matter what. We have no regrets.

 

 

What does “depressed” look like?

People often say things to me that imply that they can’t quite manage to believe that I have depression. Sometimes they outright say that I don’t have depression or say “But how can you have depression?”. Sometimes people react with shock or suspicion or by immediately assuming that I have very mild depression. More recently, I’ve noticed that when I talk about my depression, people reply as if I’m talking about something that happened in the past. They ask “What was it like?” “How did you cope?” and even “How did you get over it?” instead of “What IS it like?” and “How DO you cope?” and “Do you think you’ll one day get over it?”
I talked to some other people with chronic mental health problems and this weird tense-slip thing turned out to be a common experience.

I have had depression for over a decade. It’s been a major part of my life since childhood and if you think on that a minute you’ll have to realise that almost everyone who knows me in real life has only known me with depression. I’ve been depressed longer than some of my siblings have been alive. And I’m still depressed now. People often find this information hard to process because, well, they’ve got this image of depression in their heads and most of the time I don’t look like that. Depressed people are supposed to, say, cry a lot. Or repeatedly say “Oh I’m so depressed”. Or have visible physical scars or a very public crisis in which either a kind stranger, a good friend or men in white coats have to step in to rescue them from their own self-hatred. I don’t look like that. I look, well, normal.

Sometimes depression looks like me.

Sometimes depression isn’t so much crying and crisis and self-hatred as it is a near-insurmountable inability to motivate myself to do or enjoy anything. Without significant support from other people, I don’t eat or wash or get dressed or go out. I’m not sure exactly what it is I actually do but getting out of bed, going to bed and everything in between are really, really difficult for me to do – not in and of themselves but because I have very little motivation. I literally bribe myself, coax myself and if need be force myself to do these normal every day tasks that are required for Staying Alive.

Sometimes depression involves having difficulty concentrating on things and paying attention. So I find myself really, really wanting to understand what I’m reading, watching or hearing and just.. not doing. Repeatedly.

Sometimes depression isn’t so much not liking myself as it is thinking that I am an amazing, wonderful person… but it ultimately doesn’t matter because I’m never going to achieve much if I can’t even keep myself fed and dressed. I know I’m awesome but I feel unable to do anything much to show it. I feel like I don’t contribute enough to my friendships and relationships. I feel like I neglect my activism and my writing. I wonder why anyone likes me when I could do so, so much more to deserve it.

Sometimes depression looks like avoidance.  I stopped seeing many of my friends a few years ago. I still love them dearly but am terrified of trying to reconnect in case they resent the distance I allowed to grow between us. I love my younger siblings but am scared of being a disappointment as a big brother because I disappear when things get bad and only reappear when I’m fairly sure I won’t somehow mess things up. My inaction causes the very thing I’m frightened of to happen and I sort of understand it but I still can’t find my way past the fear and hurt to reach out to those I love.

Other times, it can look like recklessness. I impulse buy things – usually small cheap items of food or jewellery to make myself feel better. I can afford to right now but I still find myself doing it when I really shouldn’t. They make me feel better for a while but are usually followed by guilt. I feel bad for daring to want to feel good.

Sometimes my depression even looks like success. When I was at my worst with my depression, I rarely cried in public but I did write two novels and hundreds of poems, pass nine GCSEs and four A Levels and share a rich and deep friendship and imaginary world with some wonderful people.

My depression waxes and wanes but it’s never really gone (for a few glorious months once I thought it had and then I had a sudden and unexpected breakdown). It mostly manifests as I’ve written before as unwanted thoughts and even dialogue inside my head telling me that I’m bad and worthless and exhausting me so I can’t always remember that i disagree.

I think I’m actually pretty amazing. My friends and partners and family think so too. I’m struggling right now but I tend not to look like I’m struggling; because most of it goes on inside my head, because I have adequate support to keep me fed and clean and dressed, because I push on and do difficult things like talking to people and leaving the house because I want to be a good friend, a good partner, a good brother.

This is what depression can look like. It can look like a charming, smiling, sociable, intelligent young man with lots of friends and people who love him. It can look exactly like someone “twitter famous”, a well-known and well-liked blogger. It can look exactly like a clean, well-dressed, knowledgeable acquaintance at a party.
Depression can look exactly like someone like me.

Which is to say, depression can look like anyone. It’s not something you can see.