I spent a lot of time as a kid exploring the woods. Every time we moved, I ventured out to learn the lay of the land. My top priority was always finding water—creeks, rivers, ponds, lakes. Some of my fondest memories were made in those hidden places. My only companion was a mutt covered in mange named Pouchie. Wherever I went, he followed.
One day, I went to the creek after heavy rainfall. The water, usually calm, was rapid and angry. I understood the danger of what I was looking at, so I hesitated. One moment, I was watching the rolling current. Next, everything went black.
When I came to, I was in the creek, being pulled downstream. Through the panic, I registered a fallen tree ahead of me—broken limbs jutting out, sharp and unforgiving. Dread filled my small body. I knew I had to get out. I hadn’t told anyone where I was going or even the general area. The house was empty when I left. I knew that if I didn’t make it out, my family would never know what happened to me.
I reached desperately for the roots along the bank, but the water was too fast. I was too small. The current ripped them from my hands as quickly as I grabbed them. The fallen tree was getting closer.
Then I heard a bark.
Off to the side, Pouchie stood near a tree with a branch hanging over the creek, barking wildly. If he hadn’t drawn my attention, I don’t think I would have noticed it. I grabbed the branch and pulled myself toward it, managing to haul myself back onto land. My heart was hammering, my pulse erratic. Pouchie rushed over, licking my face. I was so exhausted I didn’t care.
When I finally sat up, I looked back at the creek that had nearly taken me. My favorite flip-flops were lodged against the fallen tree, being battered by the current. I would never get them back. The urge to explore was gone. I just wanted to go home—yet I dreaded it, too. I couldn’t have explained why; I only knew the feeling.
The creek was about half a mile from the house, not far compared to some of my usual wandering spots, but the walk back felt endless. I moved slowly, shivering, hugging my arms tight against my body. At first, I wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the adrenaline wearing off. As I walked, my thoughts shifted to what I would say about my soaked clothes. I had already decided I wouldn’t tell my parents what happened.
When it began to rain during the last stretch home, I felt relief. The excuse I needed had found me.
It didn’t matter. The house was just as empty as when I left. No one was home. I went inside, dried off, changed clothes, and went to bed. This happened over twenty years ago. I didn’t tell anyone about it until I told my husband a few years back.
Now, as an adult, I think about that day when I try to explain what my depression feels like.
Everything seems fine—then it goes dark, and I’m suddenly struggling to stay afloat. I fall into it the same way I fell into that creek: without warning. There’s the same desperate urge to get out, grabbing at anything that might help, only to have it slip through my fingers. And then, eventually, there’s that one branch—the thing that finally holds—and I pull myself back onto land.
What follows is always the same exhaustion. The kind no one else sees. The kind that comes after surviving something no one knew was happening.
The path back to myself, back to home, always feels so long. And even now, I still don’t know how to explain what just happened—only that I made it out again.
ns216.73.216.141da2
and then Add to home screen.