Anhedonia

Prompt: Consider how heartbreak changes someone through literal concrete changes in their environment, both negative while they descend into depression and positive as they recover.

Brainstorm:

• I read a story similar to this one time but it examined how a couple grew apart after the death of their child. One parent grew taller and taller while the other got shorter until they no longer fit together like they used to. I want this to be focused on one person’s journey away from and back to themselves.

• Heartbreak is a blessing and a curse. It is both the pleasure of falling in love, and the grief of losing love. There’s an inherent loss of self in that, because the best romances are defined by a love for someone who makes us feel like the person we want to be. They allow us to fall in love with the person we become when we’re with them. When the relationship ends, part of us goes with it. The task of heartbreak is, then, navigating the absence of who we once loved, and finding our way back to the selves we were when with them. We aren’t aware of this as we experience it, we don’t fully understand the hurt or see the complexities that are wrapped up in self and others through relationships. It’s assigned the name “grief” and that umbrella term becomes the explanation and excuse for all associated pain. But what if heartbreak took a more physical form.

• What are some things that could be changed, literally, in the story? Things that have some connection to a sense of self but also things that would never change in real life. Or things that would represent a depressive spiral - isolation / drug and alcohol use / anhedonia

  • Loss of a color

  • Windows in a house disappearing

  • Picture disappears from driver’s license

  • Every song is now the same song

  • Alcohol becomes water

________________

Entry:

6 Months After

There had been so many changes since it ended, it was hard to track them all. There was the obvious - packing up and moving out. Getting a new place. Setting up a new bank account. Getting a new phone plan. Switching to the single health insurance option at work. Those were hard enough to navigate on my own, especially with Hannah living so far away. Maybe if I’d had family and friends nearby this would feel different. And maybe I’d have someone who could explain to me whether the other changes were universal or just mine.

There’s no more orange. It’s hard to explain because I don’t fully understand it myself. But I swear I remember a color that no longer exists. I don’t see it anywhere. I didn’t notice it at first. I bought oranges at the grocery store last week, but those aren’t what I remember orange looking like. I stopped in the middle of the produce section just staring at the fruit in my hand, probably looking like a lunatic. That doesn’t matter though, there’s no one here who knows me to be concerned at my lunacy anyway. Let them stare.

I could also swear that the apartment I chose had more windows. I remember having an awareness that sunlight would be good for me while life is hard, so I should try to find someplace airy and bright. I didn’t count the windows, who would? But now that I’ve been here for a few months I’m aware that there’s only two windows - the one at the top of the front door and one in the kitchen above the sink. How are there no other windows? The little voice in my head that wants me to try harder tells me that I should look into this. That voice can fuck off. Sunlight hurts my eyes. Plus, without windows I can walk around the apartment wearing whatever I want or nothing at all and not worry that I’m offending the outside world. I can go days without washing my hair and not worry about who would see me or what they’d think.

It’s also convenient that my driver’s license is no longer valid. It’s nice to stay in the house, laying on the couch, listening to music that has somehow all become the same song. I don’t know what would happen if I were to be pulled over. Technically my license isn’t expired, but there’s no way to confirm that it’s mine. The picture is gone. I remember it fading slowly over the weeks and months. I noticed with a sort of vague interest that my tiny smiling self seemed to be fainter each time I opened my wallet. That happened concurrently with the gin in my cabinet tasting more and more like water. I didn’t drink much before, I just had things in the kitchen to mix with when company came over. There’s never company now, but I found reasons to mix drinks. At first it was just to pass the time, what else is there to do when you’re alone and have no plans to leave the house. It became especially appealing when the songs on my playlists all morphed into the same melody. I don’t remember what these songs sounded like before, but I know there was more than this.

1 Year After

There are days when I have to get dressed and leave the apartment, and I notice little things in other people on those days. Are they aware of how much they smile? Has laughter always been so loud? How does everyone seem to be so comfortable in the clothes they wear and sure that the colors they wear are what they assume? I prefer to stay home where I’m not haunted by the new orange, the searing sunlight, hearing that same song in every restaurant. How does the melody not grate for everyone else the way it does for me?

Hannah calls when she can. I asked her about her driver’s license. I asked her if the brand of gin we like tastes different to her. These changes are not universal.

1.5 Years After

I understand now that the smiles and laughter come naturally to them. It used to come naturally to me too. Now that I remember that, the small voice seems to think I can figure out how to do that again. I don’t want to argue, it would be nice if it were true. I’m not sure how to get there though, and the voice asks a lot of me.

In remembering, the voice whispers to me about who I used to be. At first I thought this was a hurtful comparison. Look who I am now, who I’ve become. But the voice started to be gentler when I stopped listening. I understand now that the reminders aren’t regret and disappointment, they can be a roadmap if I let them.

2 Years After

The voice helped me remember that I used to braid my hair at night. That was where we started.

The next step was going to the DMV to get a new license. They’d never seen anything like that before. Their best guess was that the photo ink washed off. I didn’t argue with them, it was easier to let them come to their own conclusions regardless of the flaws in their logic. People see what they want to see and don’t ask for clarification. I don’t blame them. I lived like that for a long time too, even before. It’s easier to get through the day when life seems to make sense.

They took my photo and told me my new license should be coming in the mail soon.

I stopped buying that gin. That wasn’t an easy choice but I understood that I have to make the changes I need to see. I don’t think it’s going to stop tasting like water. That used to feel convenient because it was easy to drink. Now I understand that I have to make decisions about how I want to spend my time.

I see two oranges now. I see what I remember of it from before, but I also see the new shade. It’s a strange melding of old and new. I don’t prefer one over the other, and I don’t mourn the loss of that first orange anymore. I understand them as a shifting reality that fluctuates with time. Some days I seem to see more of the new shade but I don’t lose my connection to what it used to be.

Soon I plan to look for a new apartment. I’m going to move out where Hannah is once I can secure a new job. One day at a time. And I’ll be counting windows when I go for showings.

I’ve taken a break from music for a bit but Hannah’s going to help me make a packing playlist when it’s time. I’m not sure if that same song will be back, but if it is I can listen to some podcasts I’ve found during this break. I can try again after I move. Maybe music in Portland is different.