From The Edge
“Please stand away from the platform edge, especially when trains are entering and leaving the station.”
When people ask me “How was your 2020?” I don’t know how to respond. I don’t know how much to tell them. I know they’re referring to the pandemic – but for me, my hell started one month before lockdown.
I started this website because of what happened on February 21st, 2020. And since today marks the one-year anniversary, I want to recount the salient moments from that day.
We can’t appreciate how far we’ve come unless we acknowledge where we’ve been.
8:45 AM
My therapist is supposed to be ending the session now, but she is inclined to continue. She can tell we are not done.
I have been having a hard time the past few months. The night before was a perfect example: I was dressed and ready for my friend’s birthday dinner, but I could not get myself off the sofa. Instead, I sent a WhatsApp group message to my two close college friends. “Ladies I don’t feel well.” I never got back to their prompt replies; I did not have the energy to explain. (I find out later how worried they were.)
She is compelled to ask one last question. “Shelly, have you had thoughts about hurting yourself?”
Nodding, I hide my face in my hands. I managed to hold back the tears the entire session. Now here they are, making their presence known. “I was planning not to tell you…”
I begin to describe the night one month ago when I felt the weight of despair. I was home in New Hampshire for the long weekend, and as I lay in my childhood bed unable to fall asleep, a thought floated innocently through my mind.
Life would be easier if I wasn’t here.
A beat passed before my eyes grew wide. Oh shit.
I swiftly turned and propped myself up by my forearms. The 1990s bookshelf headboard had a mirrored inset. I needed to see my shadowy reflection, look to her to verify the validity of the moment.
I lay back down and began my frantic backpedal. Do I really feel that way? I don’t think so... But maybe I should think of a reason just to be sure… Like my family. Yes. Of course. It would hurt them so much if I wasn’t here. I could never do that to them. That’s crazy.
It was too late though. As a doctor, I knew what it meant to have a thought like that. Shit. Do I have to tell my therapist?... Maybe I don’t, since I know it’s not true… Yeah that makes sense. There’s nothing to tell because it wasn’t anything. It was just a slip.
I turned to my side, hiding beneath the covers. There’s no need to worry. It’s not a big deal.
As if it was nothing.
9:30 AM
Normally I look forward to my Friday morning commute. The walk from therapy to work is a departure from my regular routine. I feel like a tourist as I head up the twenty blocks along 6th Avenue, passing by sights like Herald Square and Bryant Park. Today, they are seen through tears.
I slip into my office through the back entrance of the clinic. As I settle in, I feel unsettled. I don’t know how I’m going to muscle through the workday. Fridays are notoriously busy in clinic.
I make a phone call to one of my colleagues. I know it’s her day off, but I could use her advice on how to stay afloat. I even texted her before my therapy session. “Do you have time to talk later today? I’m not feeling well.”
Just one week ago I told her about my revelation in therapy: my depression is my strength, a testament to my body’s innate ability to recognize and regulate when I need to slow down. But today I feel shame. The reality that I need medication makes me feel like a failure, as if I am too weak to sort this out on my own.
Being both friend and physician, she is kind yet rational. She reminds me that this is all temporary. Her words put me at ease even though I continue to weep.
I end the call and text the clinic manager to see if she can stop by my office. I should let her know what’s going on. Maybe she can adjust the schedule so I have some breathing room between patients. Although I know this is wishful thinking, I still feel the need to ask for help.
She walks in and sees my tear-soaked face. “Oh no…Doc, what’s wrong?”
I don’t know how to respond, except to ask what the schedule looks like. She tells me it’s busier today because another doctor has called out sick.
I let out a sigh. I can’t find the words to explain everything that’s going on, so I simply thank her and start reviewing my patient charts. Not having to pretend that I’m OK is sometimes all I need.
1:30 PM
I see a text message from my therapist. “Hi Shelly – I am thinking of you and please reach out if needed.”
I take a deep breath, and continue working.
6:00 PM
Whenever I had a bad day in medical school or residency, I would tell myself one thing. The only person you need to care about is the patient. You’re here for them. The mantra would help me redirect my attention and focus on what mattered most in that moment, which was always the patient in front of me.
The same is true today. I manage to get through the clinic day, but only because of that mantra.
I have plans to meet my friend for dinner. We are going to try Beyond Sushi, the vegan restaurant chain that recently opened in her neighborhood. I am thankful to have this meetup on my calendar. She is pregnant with her second daughter, but she has always been nurturing and motherly. Her support is exactly what I need right now.
I leave my clinic in Rockefeller Center and head uptown to the Upper East Side. It is Friday evening rush hour in New York City. I don’t consider myself a New Yorker (it has only been two years) – but today I am especially exasperated as I barrel my way through commuters on the subway platform.
The businessman in front of me is walking too slowly for my liking. I sidestep to pass him, putting me right at the platform edge.
I am treading the yellow rumble strip, the warning area.
At the same time, a train is leaving the station. I feel its kinetic might as it charges past me, wind brushing my flushed cheeks.
I am curiously close. I feel unsafe. Yet as metal whirs by, I close my eyes.
I have always heard music in the sounds of the city. The soundtrack of subway cars is particularly familiar and comforting. I am lulled and lured into the hypnotic rhythm.
Time is now molasses.
Shit I’m too close. One wrong move and I’ll hit this train. I can almost touch it… I wonder what that would feel like…
…Why don’t you just push yourself? What’s the use?
Immediately I feel the heaviness of tears. They blur my vision as I stumble a few steps away from the platform edge.
Where did that come from?
I take in a sharp breath, jarred by the disembodied thought.
Was that really me?
6:30 PM
The restaurant is compact but not crowded. My friend and her daughter are already settling in when I arrive. They tuck themselves into the seats against the wall while our waitress parks the stroller close by. I fumble with my winter coat, adrenaline still racing through me. I feel out of place.
I begin to relay to my friend what has just happened, but I am mindful of her daughter. She has stopped playing with her cutlery and is now observing me, wide-eyed and curious as many toddlers are. She can tell something is wrong. “I don’t want to cry in front of her” I say, trying not to make eye contact with her.
We wait for the appetizers to arrive before resuming the conversation. By now the shock has left my body but I am still frazzled. I explain how, for a moment, I felt like I didn’t have control over my own thoughts. It was as if someone else was telling me what to do, like the Cheshire cat in Alice in Wonderland.
What scared me most was the momentum behind the thought. It had energy to it. It was impulsive and actionable. I never had experienced an urge like it before. Its power was foreign and frightening.
“I hate that I live alone,” I continue. “I mean, I have knives in the kitchen - will I go back to my apartment and do something with them? I don’t know.”
We end the conversation just before her husband arrives. He had stopped to get a bottle of red wine since the restaurant does not have a liquor license yet. As the night goes on and we continue to eat and drink, I feel more warm and relaxed in my surroundings. I am desperately thankful to be a part of their family, even if just for a short while.
9:45 PM
I slump onto the cushioned bench in my entryway. Coat and shoes still on, I peer into the kitchen to catch a glimpse of the J.A. Henckles knife block next to the stove. Am I going to do something with those? I pause to check in with myself. No, OK good. Finally, some relief.
I try to answer some text messages. I text my friend from dinner to let her know that I made it home safely. I text my two college friends to see if we can talk on the phone in the morning.
I muster my last bit of energy to get ready for bed. Before slipping under the covers, I grab the framed photograph of my mother from the bookshelf. Clutching the frame, like a child with her stuffed animal, I begin to sob silently. The weight of the gilded frame on my chest feels grounding. I have never thought to do this before – perhaps because I never had to – but I find this comforting and soothing. It’s like she’s here. I incant a few prayers to ask for protection.
When there are no more tears left, I place the frame on the pillow beside me. In the picture she is draped in a pink sari, overdressed for the present occasion. Ma look, you can sleep next to me.
I decide to send one last text.
“Can you pray for me?” I ask hesitantly, giving no context.
“Yes.” The reply comes instantly.
Turning to my side, I close my eyes.
