The Clouds Have Been Crying

     In honour of Mental Health Week last week, I submitted this piece about a fictional character struggling with depression. This story touches on sensitive topics that may be distressing for some, so please read with respect and discretion.


The Clouds Have Been Crying

Lilia deBoer

Drop.

Drop.

The thick November clouds slowly start to crumble into heavy drops of water. They fall invariably in November, so I know what to expect. I can prepare myself for the dark afternoons and the somber mornings. I can layer myself in clothing and hope to stay warm. I can be okay when I look up at the trees and find that they are completely barren.

In my bedroom on a bleak Tuesday afternoon, I turn on my radio. A sad song is playing. I quickly switch channels, and I hear the flamboyant weatherman predicting a thunderstorm in a cheerful tone. How is he always so optimistic? I switch channels again just as Elvis explodes into a chorus. I listen for a bit and then sigh and switch my radio off. Every day is the same. Wake up. Peel my covers off like a Band-Aid. Sluggishly pour some cereal into a bowl, put on some clothes and brush my teeth. I always make sure to look put together on the outside to offset – to conceal – how I really feel. Then I walk down to the bus stop under the damp November sky and wait. The bus comes, I get on, and then off. Full of apprehension, I put one foot in front of the other until I reach my school. There, I paint a fervent smile onto my face and pretend to have energy. I go home, I turn on my radio, I do my homework, and I go to bed.

My life is a manufacturing plant. From the outside, it looks like any ordinary building. No one stopping to look at it would think twice about what it’s like inside. Behind those ordinary walls are unpleasantly loud machines and grey hardware. Day by day, they use a formula to create meaningless stuff. Identical stuff. Tons and tons of meaningless, identical stuff.  

“Dinner!” mom announces from the kitchen. I pull myself out of bed and drag my feet down the stairs and to the table. We say grace and then start eating. I play with my food a little before I catch my mother staring at me from across the table. Her eyes imply that something is worrying her. She tentatively asks if I’m alright. Suddenly full of inhibition, I lie and tell her everything’s fine. In reality, tears had been welling up in my eyes all day just as the rain had in the clouds. With every passing hour, they grew darker and heavier until drops started spilling out, marring the grey concrete. Even after the rain stops, the ground remains stained. People can tell when the clouds have been crying. I feel very much like a cloud. A dark, heavy cloud. The only difference is that the clouds have the privilege of littering their tears wherever they wish. No one is going to ask them what is wrong.

After dinner, I go back up to my room to do my homework. An English paper. I’ve always liked English, so it should not be too hard. Wrong. Fingers poised on the keys of my laptop, gusts of dread, waves of anxiety and clouds of sadness flood my insides like the ocean on a stormy day. I know that people do not always enjoy doing homework, but this seems extreme. Why can’t I do this? Angrily, I shut my laptop and pull the covers over my head. This is my cloud’s breaking point. The point where, after taking in water all day, it finally bursts. My cloud starts to rain.

Drop.

Drop.

         Pour.

My cloud rains relentlessly for a while before I finally get up and turn on my radio. It helps. My radio is like a nice breeze that guides the cloud away. Eventually the concrete dries and I get back out of bed. I open my laptop once again and start writing my paper. After a while, I can no longer concentrate. Every car that passes my window blunts my focus and washes away my train of thought. I can barely get through my intro paragraph before I give up again. Time for bed. I tune my radio into the nighttime channel and crawl under the covers. I take a few minutes to marvel at the raindrops on my window, much resembling priceless jewels reflecting the streetlights. Finally, I turn out my lamp and go to bed.

Blurred red numbers catch my eye. I blink. 1:42am. I slowly drift off again.

3:07am. I go to the bathroom.

4:53am. Awake again.

My alarm goes off at 7:00am. Curtains drawn, lights off and brain paralyzed, I climb out of bed and silence my unrelenting alarm clock. The cycle repeats. Cereal, clothes, teeth, bus, smile, school, etc.

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