Walking as fast as I can

On trying to outwalk my looming depression

Brooklyn Swenson art

I have to keep moving. If I stand still for too long, she will catch me. I can feel her nipping on my heels, breathing down my neck.
So I walk. I walk while I’m sick, at a snail’s pace because I’m out of breath so quickly, but I’m walking.
I walk when I don’t feel like it, because I know my mind will get clearer and my soul lighter with every step.
I walk when dusk is falling, because the dark doesn’t scare me anymore.

Some days, my walk is more of a stumble, the heaviness pressing down on me so much that I trip over rocks and almost fall. Lifting my feet high enough is a struggle, but lifting them up is what I do.
Because every step I take is a step away from the depression that’s been following me all month. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, trailing me wherever I go.
You’re a loser, she breathes into my ear, soft as a sigh.
I’m not I’m not I’m not I desperately chant with every step I take.
Nobody cares about what you have to say, she whispers mercilessly.
I care I care I care I remind myself, needing to believe it.
You should just give up, she hisses at me, aiming to wound.
The shot lands; it hurts.
Walk it off, I remind myself, and so I keep walking.

Self doubt and I are old acquaintances—we go way back. She knows me better than anybody else, so she knows which buttons to push to get the most pain for her buck.
She shows me the Substack accounts that accumulated thousands of subscribers, while I barely have 250.
She shows me the writing group on FB where a first-time author sold 57 books on the first day of release, while I sold 10.
She shows me another writing group on FB where another author humble-brags about not knowing which publishing house to choose out of the multitude clamouring to represent him.

Be grateful for all you have, I remind myself, and I am. I am!
But depression and self-doubt have joined forces, and they keep picking at me.
You’re not good enough, they remind me, and now they sound like my mother. A triple-whammy if there ever was one.

I walk.
The ancient trees surround me, and their collective wisdom wraps me into an embrace that silences the voices.
Look at us, they seem to say. We’ve been here long before you, and we will be here long after you.
Not if you burn down, the nasty voice in my head pipes up.
”Shut up,” I tell it firmly.
Your life is so short compared to ours, the trees continue, unperturbed. Why wouldn’t you fill it with everything that gives you joy?

Success in our capitalistic world is defined by numbers: items sold, money earned, followers accumulated. And despite knowing that I can define success differently—personal goal reached, people touched, connections formed—I’m not immune to the outside world’s definition. When depression shows up with her buddy self-doubt in tow, they make me question everything I hold dear. They taunt and needle, pick holes in my fragile self-worth, tell me how ridiculous and stupid I am.

That’s why I walk.
Because walking in nature is the only remedy for the darkness that descends every few months. I can’t quite out-walk it; but if I keep moving, I can stay a step ahead of it. It’s there, reaching for me, wanting to pull me down into its depths; but I’m still standing, still breathing, still fighting.