Must still be dreaming. I see her look up at me with those almond brown eyes, long celestial nose, high cheek bones, brown porcelain skin, long, luxuriant wavy chestnut hair; her broad smiling lips just begging to be kissed. I wonder who this beautiful woman is.

“What’s your name?” I ask. The woman mouths back the same words to me. I am being mocked! Then I bring my hands up to my face and she does the same thing. I realize I am looking in the mirror I am finally awake and remember what has happened to me during the last 24 hours.

In our morning detective meeting, Police Chief Davis had told us about an attempted murder. A man had taken two shots out his car window at a transgender woman standing outside a bar. He would have kept shooting, but he saw the lights of a police car approaching behind him and sped away. A bystander to the incident took a video, which we all watched in silence. A white van stops at a stoplight. The red-faced man with a crew cut pulls out a hand gun, points and shoots.

“We need to nail this guy. He might be the culprit in one of the three unsolved murders of transgender women on my desk right now,” the chief said, while turning up the lights in the room.

I want to stake out Chevy’s Bar where a lot of transgender people hang out. We already have a place for two sharp shooters to hide. All we need now is someone to lure the guy back to the spot. Someone willing to dress in drag.

Davis looked at me straight in the eyes. Me, out of twenty detectives in the room.

“Why are you looking at me?” I protested.

“The target of the shooter is tall, slender and Puerto Rican, just like you, Sánchez. You are the only detective that could pass as her body double. I will tell you ahead of time that if you accept this special assignment, there could be a month’s vacation time and a bonus for you.”

So that’s how I ended up getting made up by a police beautician every afternoon for the past four days, hanging out every night until two in the morning at Chevy’s, and sleeping in the transgender woman’s apartment who had been the target of the shooting. Her name was Syllvia with an accent on the i. She was told to stay in her apartment and not leave; I was made up to look like her and used her name in public. I bore a pretty good likeness to her, although she had a few more curves in the right places.

Every night I went through the same routine. The employees and regulars and Chevy’s obviously knew I wasn’t Syllvia but they played along with the charade. On the first night I was there, I spent most of the evening pacing up and down the sidewalk outside, keeping a constant eye out for the man in the white van and hoping the police sharp shooters had not fallen asleep. I was propositioned six times and each time one of the sex workers intervened and diverted the “customer” to someone else. A drunk man who called me a faggot and took a swing at me was dragged off by the bouncer. The next three nights were like reruns of the first.

At two in the morning every day I would return to the apartment and the real Syllvia would be waiting up for me. We had some late night talks and she told me how she had always known she was a girl even though she was born with male genitalia. She endured surgeries and hormone injections to gain her true identity.

After the surgeries, everything was going well. She got a receptionist job at a real estate firm and gave the company a good image with her professional dress and attitude. Then the boss found out she was trans and decided it would make customers uncomfortable if they found out She was fired.

With the rent due, Syllvia made cash giving hand jobs to guys in the alley behind Chevy’s. One guy had wanted more. He reached up inside her dress and tried to pull her panties down. Syllvia was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and knew how to handle herself. The guy ended up getting tossed head first into a dumpster. He had suffered the ultimate humiliation of being beaten up by a trans woman and she was pretty sure this was the same guy who had taken a shot at her.

It was Thursday and the fifth day of the stakeout. The chief told us the operation was costing too much and this would be the last night. I was relieved in a way, because I was tired of the constant verbal abuse and the groping. It was a slow night and I was standing on the sidewalk alone, wrapping and unwrapping my purse strap around my fingers. Then I saw him. Instead of driving by, the unshaven, red-faced man with the crew cut came charging out of the alley, pointing his gun at me.

“Get your skinny ass into the alley. Don’t scream or I’ll shoot you right here.” His hands were trembling and I was afraid he might pull the trigger by accident.

He pushed me into the dark alley. Where in the hell were my sharpshooters? They were probably so focused on looking for a white van on the street that they didn’t notice us disappear into the darkness.

“Get on your knees and I’m going to show you what nine inches feels like. Try anything cute this time and you’re dead. My mind was racing. I decided to play along and wait for my chance to knock the gun away. He held the gun to my face and told me to undo his belt. I was on my knees when it happened. I discerned a figure in motion behind him. He sensed it too and instinctively turned to see what it was. What it was was a baseball bat hitting a home run on his face. As he staggered backwards, I knocked the gun from his hand and it fell harmlessly onto the ground. Better late than never, the two sharpshooters ran into the alley, handcuffed the guy and took him away. I looked around to find the person who had saved my life. It was Syllvia, my body double. I asked her why she had come. She said she was sitting around thinking about this creep and how he always followed the same pattern when she realized he always came to Chevy’s on Thursday nights. When she realized it was Thursday, she decided this might be the night and I might need some backup. Indeed I did.

I got my bonus as promised and Syllvia and I took a month-long vacation on the beach.

Upon my arrival at the bakery, I could see the glorious white cake through the windows. Tall, beautiful, every flower intricately drawn. What a shame it would be when I cut into it.

“Congratulations on your wedding.” They told me. I only nodded in agreement. They didn’t know.

Am I married? Yes. But is this cake for a wedding? No.

When I got home I set the cake down on my counter and took out a fork. Time to dig into this piece of deliciousness.

I took out a pen and checked off something from my bucket list.

“Eat an entire wedding cake on my own.”

My husband walked in on me.

He had a look of utter shock.

“You didn’t wait for me?!?” He exclaimed. He dropped everything and joined me in my endeavor.

It started the first time I looked in the mirror and was scared of what I saw. I've been running ever since. I run until it hurts, and then I run a little bit more.

I run from everyone, but mostly myself.

Once I was running in a marathon, and I reached that point where my brain emptied. I was aware only of my breath, of the pattern of the pavement hitting my feet, and of the warmth of the sun. All of a sudden I felt the presence of my Uncle who died over a year ago. Alzheimer's. It was a profoundly beautiful and sad moment which I don't understand but for which I am thankful.

As I question myself in the interest of personal growth, I think about my habit of running. For me, running is a rejection of the status quo. A desire to get to a "better" place. Mentally, physically, spiritually, emotionally. But to dig deeper, I have to examine what it is I am running from. What did I see, that first time I looked in the mirror?

I saw bad. I saw my dark side. I saw the scary underbelly of the human spirit. I saw what religions seek to absolve one of. I saw the opposite of everything my parents were teaching me to be. And I have been running from her ever since.

Forty some years later, I realize I can't get away from her. I can't run from her. I can't exorcise her. I certainly can't drink her into oblivion because drinking only encourages her presence.

Forty some years later, I realize. I have to accept her. That side of me, there isn't inherent shame in her mere existence. Everyone has a dark side. Some let it out more than others, that's all. Encouraging the good and shaming the bad, that was just my parent's way of controlling me. I learned it was how to control myself. Shame the bad.

But then terrible things happened to me. And I couldn't separate me being bad and my life being unlucky. I ran harder. I ran more frequently. I ran from jobs, relationships...I ran right into more hardship. More turmoil. I ran away again. Life got worse. I ended up thinking I was such a horrible person, I didn't even deserve to live. Why waste air and space on such human detritus as I had become?

Forty some years later, I realize. Control is an illusion, and sometimes a delusion. I didn't create a world that rapes and beats little girls. I didn't cause that to happen from being bad.

I still wince when I look in the mirror sometimes. I'm not proud of a lot of decisions I have made. It hurts me that my struggle to achieve balance knocked so many other people out of balance. I see that darkness in my eyes and I want to run.

Control may be an illusion, but the power of choice is not. Every day I make choices which change the course of my life in small and large ways. Every day I make choices which change the course of others' lives in small and large ways. Which aspect of me do I want to allow to make those choices?

I still run. Short distances and long distances. But there are times, also, when I choose to stay. Forty some years later, I realize, if I've made a bad choice, I need to love myself extra. That small shift has the power to change everything.

I don't want to stop running. I just want to change the direction. I want to start running towards things instead of away from them. I'm a runner.

I died. I watched myself die and all that I could do was stare.

I tried running to catch myself but I couldn't. I tried shouting, asking for help but I couldn't. I tried stopping myself but I couldn't. You see, that's what depression does to you. You want it to stop but you can't. You care, but not enough. Neither did I.

So, I watched myself die.

I screamed, but my voice never reached you. Perhaps, you didn't want to listen to it. When I told you that I'm going through depression, you pointed at my head and told me 'There's nothing called depression. It's all here .' If you told me that you had stomach cancer, would it make sense if I pointed at your stomach and said ' There is nothing like cancer. It is all here .' We are in the 21st century. Why don't you take depression for real? Depression does exist.

When tears were continuously running from my eyes, I was not in a state of going around or meeting anyone or talking. Only I knew what it felt like. I had to suffer this and no one would help me. People questioned me if something happened, why wasn't I talking or why I always put on a serious facade. So I had to smile and speak something.

No one knows about that mental pain. No one likes to talk about it. And yes, everyone hated me for my negativity. I was tired of trusting people. Everyone left me. I had to deal with this on my own. It was very hard, so hard to stick on and stand strong but at last, everything went in vain.

I was so fed up with all that broken heart and people giving me false assurances. I didn't talk to anyone because I assumed that something was wrong with me. I ran away from my friends. I knew that I didn't have the energy for all of this. Finally, I had disappointed everyone so much, that they couldn't stand me anymore.

At last, when I had no one next to me, depression became my best friend. She gave me a shoulder to lean on. If you hadn't mocked at my pain and laughed at my tears, I wouldn't have let depression become mine.

Depression in me gave rise to a walking corpse. Earlier, I used to write, laugh and sing but now, I cry, sleep and scream. We were best friends but eventually, I fell for her. She never left me alone. She told me that facing our problems and working through them would eventually kill us.

She lived deep inside me. She started stitching my torn heart to make sure it doesn't tear again. She came to meet me every night and pushed me into horrible memories. She threw me into a never-ending black hole. She left me with no hopes and ambitions. She brought out the artist in me. I started craving beautiful pictures on my hand. She gave rise to an actress in me. I started faking smiles and acted like nothing could consume me.

She made me cry for no reason. She had taken immense control over me. She screamed at me every day and started telling me how terrible I was. She made me replay every mistake I had ever made. She humiliated me on a daily basis. She made it impossible for me to be happy.

I decided that I did not want her to be a part of my life again. I hated her and I hated myself for ever letting her in my head and loving her. I needed help. I wanted to break up with her. The only way I could break up was by giving her my life and I did it. I died. Peacefully.

If you had helped me when I came up to you, if you had heard me and tried to comfort the crying face hiding behind a pretty smile, I wouldn't have died.

Just a request: Everyone undergoes a phase of depression at one point or the other. When your dear ones come to you, comfort them or be ready to let them run away, forever. I did not run away because I was afraid. I ran away because the only way to escape fear was to trample it within my feet. This was my way of escaping it. Don't allow others to run away, like the way I did.

#depression #contest #love #life #pain #article #depressionkills #competition #breakup #suicide #sad #cry

Memories fade into the steady rhythm of my run.

Up and down dusty mountain paths. Through fields. Past elk and hundreds of trees.

Near highways and houses that seem a world away, when they are really just a stone’s throw.

When I run, it’s a different place. A different reality. To me, more real than the place I found myself not a year ago.

Injured. Broken. Entire life turned upside down. Like a dream I have never woken from.

I used to run, climb and jump like it was nothing. For the sheer love of moving. Then suddenly, I couldn’t move at all. Suddenly, I had to work my way back from zero. Frist, a wobbly stand. Then, take a step. Then, stumble down the hall with a walker.

But that was then. Now, I can run, again.

There is still pain. Still healing. Still scars and memories that haunt me at night.

Running is not as easy as it once was. But I train hard, with dreams of my first full marathon.

Dreams of a triumphant comeback. Twice as far as I have ever gone, before.

I tell myself that’s what I run for.

But really, the training is an anchor. In a world that still seems a dream, it is familiar. Real. Visceral.

I run because it drowns out the memory of my own screams. Because it grounds me.

The smell of dusty earth, a reminder that world is still the same.

The elk glancing up at my presence, a reminder that I still exist.

The aching legs, a reminder that my body is still working, even if not as well as before.

I forget my worries, my sorrows, my interrupted career, and just run.

Again, and again. Farther and faster.

Until the day I stand at the starting line of a full marathon. Fall into the practiced rhythm as the buzzer sounds.

This time, my steps pound over asphalt. People and cars replace elk and trees.

But the run is still the same. Ignore the crowd. Ignore the noise. Keep the pace I practiced over a million footfalls.

Last year, I could barely stand. Now I’m here.

Not the fastest, not the slowest. Just another face in the crowd,

But I know what I overcame to get here, and that motivates me to keep going.

I push through hours of single-minded focus, to pass the finish line.

Victorious.

I came back from it all. Fought thorough all the pain and doubt to cross that line.

But as my exhaustion wears off and my breath steadies, I find I don’t feel any different.

What I imagined as a great comeback, fizzles into another name in the crowd.

I feel little elation or sense of victory.

I’d wanted to prove to myself that I was better. Back to what I used to be.

But I will never go back. Things will always be harder than they once were.

The marathon, full of people and cheering and electrolyte drinks, it ended up just being another run. Another moment with only myself and the steady beat.

Maybe I didn’t run for the marathon. For a comeback or recognition or a record of my time.

Maybe I ran just because I still could.

Maybe, that’s enough.

Mud, it drags her down, she claws and gasps, the filth enters her mouth, drowns her lungs.

Still she kicks, screams, reaches for the sun above her. She wants to escape, to lie, to pretend she isn’t dying.

They threw her into the waters, disgusting and full of trash. It was where all unwanted things are tossed. They gave her the power though, the power to escape.

She merely had to reach the surface, to stay afloat, to fight her way achingly to the shoreline.

If she can, then she is free.

From the pain, the judgement, the life of a slave.

Too long did she pretend it was normal, too long she never ventured forth her questions.

When she finally found her voice, they threw stones, whipped her and in the end, they did the worst thing imaginable.

They left her alone, they left her to die.

In the blinding sun she is dragged into muck so foul, and a smell of rot and decay surrounds her.

Soon her limbs will cease moving, her eyes will glaze over. Flies will pick at her rotting flesh.

Like so many thrown away, she will be a floating corpse.

Such is life in those who are uncaring, unfeeling. For those who run from all the pain.

She doesn’t have the strength, she loses her battle, the layers of garbage wraps around her body, pulling her further beneath the dirty waters. She is dead.

It lasts only a moment, a terrifying moment of unfeeling lifeless existence.

An arm splashes through the dirty water, a warm hand encircles her wrist, she has one last chance. She blinks.

Her hand grabs hold, and she kicks once more, it’s painful, each muscle burns. She must escape, she must get away from the grime. She is pulled to the surface; she opens her mouth coughing and hacks up sludge. The person who pulled her up is gone, but a feeling a warmth stays on her skin, a light touch of life.

She has new energy, she swims towards the shore, somehow it is closer than it was before.

Her hands find the sand and rocks. Bleeding, covered in filth, she drags herself onto land.

Her breath coming in heaving gasps, barely living, but she has escaped the darkest depts of death. It starts to rain.

Cool freshwater rolls across her tender flesh, washing away the blood, the slime. Tears burn her eyes, she pushes herself up, on shaking legs she takes her first steps on new land.

She isn’t whole, not yet, she isn’t clean, but the rain continues to cleanse her. Each step brings her further away from the dark waters behind her, from a past so vile it killed her.

The whispers of the people who harmed her are far away, the bruises are fading, and her body was being washed in a purifying shower. She smiles, the first of many. She had to run, to run far away. To live, she escaped.

Her small steps change, from timid to strong leaps, soon she is running freely, laughing and alive.

You can’t always escape the darkness in life, but you can run towards the light. So, she will keep on running, she isn’t ready to die.