There is still no answer to the depression causality dilemma, whether dark clouds gather from dark musings or depressive thoughts sprout from depressive moods. Sometimes, when I think of him, I turn dispirited. Sometimes when melancholy, I think of him. I’ve learned that it’s best to let these moods sit and shift without interference. Trying not to think about pink elephants only has you thinking about pink elephants. Simply live, and these clouds will move on.

But I’m still surprised at the strength of my emotions. Sorrow binds my chest. My heart pounds, straining against its ties. My breath sticks, trapped within my throat, and I gasp vainly for free air. The panic is frightening. Thoughts race and circle themselves like frenzied birds. Why do I still feel this way? Should I still have feelings for him? What if I shouldn’t? What should I do?

I am familiar with depression’s black spirals, after climbing so many of its steep steps, but anxiety is new to me. I have tred its slippery slopes before, during interviews and exams, but only now do I recognize fear’s dangerous gyre. And what do I fear most? Not loneliness. We are too familiar bedfellows. I am afraid of my vulnerability, that these cracks in my armor are too visible, that I am not as brave as I hope to be. I am afraid that I am not good enough, that I don’t deserve the life I am working so hard to earn.

Am I working hard enough to get over him? That is another question I will leave unexplored. I’ve learned that it’s best to speak about my ex rarely, briefly, humorously. My feelings about him make a taboo subject, but my feelings about me are unmentionables, too. They can sit together in the far reaches of my mind, their shadows imposing and undiscussed, these elephants in the room.