“I hated waking up, not remembering what had happened to me.”
I was chatting with my therapist
about my experiences
with electroconvulsive therapy.
Shock treatments.
I was explaining why ECT
felt like
I was being re-traumatized
with every induced seizure of my brain.

My therapist asked:
“Are there other times in your life that you woke up and couldn’t remember what had happened to you?”

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I’m a depressed person.
I am mentally ill.
I am clinically depressed.
Even at my most recovered,
my healthiest,
my most thriving self:
I am sick.
I have made many sabotaging attempts
to be as sick as I can.
I have also made many attempts
to get well.
Alcohol (I got sober).
Drugs (I got clean).
Therapy.
Antidepressants.
Self-help books.
Buddhism.
I starved myself (I recovered).
Prayer.
Meditation.
Anti-anxiety meds.
Anti-psychotics.
Psych wards.
And, finally, shock treatments.

“I woke up, not knowing what had happened to me.”
This is the declaration that serves as the cliff from which I leap.