Seeking Shade

Home for me is a dump in the middle of the Sonoran desert. Another season of drought and heat advisories is approaching almost without warning. I anticipate more triple digit temperatures and storms of pollution mixed with ultraviolet cancer rays. Some kids associate summer with freedom, fun, and relaxation. I know it as the ubiquitous lava monster determined to suck the life out of everything. I step outside and feel summer’s arms squeeze me until I drip from every pore. I hear death and dryness in the screeching, restless song of cicadas. The only water to be found is streaming off my skin and evaporating into a cloudless sky. There is a distinct flavor to summer. I hate it.

* * *

Church is hell. I don’t want to hear about plans of happiness or other impossible fantasies of hope. I don’t want to sing or serve. I don’t want to exist. The seminary kids all think I’m going inactive. On the rare occasion that they see me, they smile and tell me how much they’ve missed me. Maybe if I feel missed or loved or wanted I’ll make a miraculous return into the fold.

I have a mutual leader who wants me to get my Duty to God award and become an Eagle Scout more than I do. I’ll regret not becoming an Eagle Scout. I really ought to get my Duty to God award. There’s no reason for me not to. He tells me this while I struggle not to spit in his caring, encouraging face. Hey buddy! Before I get all these awards for you I think I might try graduating high school. I hear it’s worth it in the long run.

* * *

Arizona is home to the Gila monster, one of two known species of venomous lizards in the world. Gila monsters are not usually aggressive towards humans, but those who are bitten never forget it. A Gila monster bite usually lasts as long as it takes the victim to pry the beast’s fangs out of his or her flesh. The effects of the excruciating bite are not limited to the pain of fangs piercing skin. The area of the bite may become swollen and in some cases, the victim will begin to feel sick.

* * *

It’s 1 am. I’m lying on my side, feeling the patterns in the wall with my eyes. I want to get out of bed but I don’t. It’s late and everyone is asleep. I have homework to do. Why bother? School tomorrow is becoming more and more optional. How lazy! I’m going to get behind even more. People are starting to figure out something is wrong with me. I won’t talk though. That’s none of their business. I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. My parents say it might be depression. Not the expected, logical kind you get when your puppy gets hit by a pickup or when your dream girl dumps you- the real kind, the unprovoked, cruel kind of depression that comes from within. I rarely get out of bed, I don’t do homework, and I’m not kind to friends and family. I don’t care about anyone or anything, especially not myself. I don’t want to get out of bed but I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to skip school, but I can’t find the energy to go. I’m sick of feeling alone but I don’t want to see anyone. I’m not going to kill myself, that’s ridiculous, but I don’t want to live anymore. Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad.

There are two of me: the depressed Clark who can’t see the purpose in continuing, who hates everybody, who hates himself, who hates his parents, who pities himself, who wants to quit. He moans because of the uncontrollable. He hates the way he looks, the things he says, and the way he thinks. He hates people and institutions. He hates work. He hates his home and the desolate, tarantula-ridden desert that he lives in. He can’t remember what it’s like to be happy, to feel “normal”. He hasn’t smiled in eons. But there’s also the real Clark hiding in some dark corner of my soul. He’s the one that remembers goodness, joy, and God. My dad tells me I’m going to a psychiatrist next week. Great. Let’s put a label on me. Not only do I feel worthless, I get to have my parents pay someone to tell me I’m a psychopath.

* * *

Bark scorpions can be found in many places throughout the Sonoran desert. A mother scorpion carries it’s babies on her back until they have matured enough to live independently.

* * *

I’m starting to understand my mother for the first time. I think back to when I am not yet ten years old. My mother is miserable. My father tries to help her find herself, to lift her out of despair. I can tell he wishes he could carry the burden for her. I can’t fully understand what’s wrong. I know my mother is sick but I don’t know how to help. I rock my baby brother in my arms and smell the anguish in Mom’s tears. She doesn’t deserve this. She has given her life to my siblings and me. Her body, her time, her emotions, her passions, her cares, and her whole self have all been selflessly sacrificed to us. She is my best friend and mortal savior. Why does she have to deal with this? I listen to my father give her a Priesthood blessing, wanting to help and trying to sympathize. I can’t.

* * *

My peers scramble to turn in handfuls of college applications, scholarship essays, and polished resumes. I can’t bring myself to show any interest in my future. I write a personal essay in a single night and my mother fills out the rest of my application to the University of Arizona. I can’t wait to waste more of my life in Arizona. I’ll get to keep in touch with the same phony people who I want to leave me alone. Who needs rain or snow or rust-colored leaves falling from wise oak trees when you can accidentally back into a cactus or step on a bush of poison-tipped thorns? If I’m lucky a rattlesnake might sink its fatal fangs into my thigh.

* * *

Gila monster bites should be examined by a doctor immediately. Often pieces of teeth are left in the wound.

* * *

Therapy is fun. My therapist is nice, someone the real Clark wants to like. But that makes everything worse. It’s just him and me. Alone. Am I actually expected to speak above a mumbled whisper? There is no way he can get me to make eye contact for more than two seconds. He wants me to talk about what’s wrong. I don’t know. He wants me to reexperience the worst feelings of my life and evaluate my worthlessness. He gives me “homework” to do. The idea is that I track the causes of my depression. I know I won’t do it. I leave every session feeling worse than before. Therapy is killing me.

My parents say it’s time to experiment with drugs. I’m still a minor so my dad thinks it appropriate that I see a child psychiatrist. I quickly discover that most patients at the Phoenix Children’s hospital aren’t 6’4” and 200 plus pounds. They make up for it by measuring me at 6’1” extending the metal measuring rod further than it’s ever stretched before. They direct all questions towards my father. Apparently I’m too young to be trusted for information about myself. But I don’t want to talk and I don’t want to be spoken to. Still I hold them all in disdain. Once we get into the doctor’s office I teach myself to hate her. She tells me of patients who have made sculptures out of knives and done all sorts of stupid things. She asks me if I’ve heard voices or seen things that aren’t real. The maturing cynic within tempts me to say yes, but I shake my head slowly from side to side. They put me on Prozac. It can’t touch me. I try Lexapro. It makes me sweaty and intensifies my dreams but I continue to try it. “You’ll really regret it if you don’t graduate high school.” Oh really? I thought I had maintained a perfect GPA for my entire life so I could spend my senior year hiding under my covers, rolling my eyes at people, and throwing my life away. I had always heard that your senior year in high school is a prime time to be depressed and feel worthless for no reason at all. But you say I’ll regret it if I don’t graduate? How insightful and encouraging. You really understand me.

* * *

The Sonoran desert’s version of autumn is a short period of time when the few trees that have leaves lose them. Temperatures fall to double digits and going outside becomes bearable. Autumn quickly morphs into a winter that yields no white Christmas and requires no coat. Rattlesnakes become less aggressive and begin a brief period of hibernation.

* * *

I pry myself out of my bedroom and tip toe back into the real world. I can’t do any more than go through the motions. I attend my church meetings, avoiding people and refusing to peer into another set of eyes. I go to most of my classes, talking as little as possible, trying not to acknowledge the presence of another human soul. My friends want to know where I’ve been. “I was sick.” But that doesn’t work for long. “You were gone for a long time. You don’t seem like yourself. What’s wrong with you?” Their loving concern moves me to nausea and indignation. That’s none of their business. They wouldn’t understand anyway. I relish each opportunity to invent a fake malady that I’ve been afflicted with. I tell one friend that I had bird flu. Another gets to hear a fanciful story about how mad cow disease brought me to the brink of death. A girl in my ward discovers that I suffered from a rare hybrid of both diseases. Those who contract avian cow flu develop sharp talons and an udder. How could I have gone to church looking like that? I half-heartedly make it through basketball practice, counting down the minutes until freedom. Once 4:30 comes I can go home to my bedroom and lie dormant once again.

* * *

Newborn javelinas and single file lines of baby quail are signs of the Sonoran spring. Quail carefully follow their parents across the dry landscape and adult javelinas fiercely protect their young. Hummingbirds suck nectar from cactus blossoms and honeybees pollinate citrus flowers. Reptiles come out of hibernating. The desert approaches its full life capacity in preparation for another scorching summer.

* * *

I sit through the graduation ceremony trying to decide whether I want to be there. I listen to my friends’ carefully prepared speeches. This is not how this day was supposed to go. I should be speaking. I should be receiving the highest praise for academic achievement. Instead I’m sitting in the audience with 500 other average students. I was in position to win throughout the entire race but I fell. I stumbled across the finish line bruised and broken but at least I made it. I’m here. I actually look forward to spending time with friends and family before going off to college. I’ve confided in my teachers and my closest friends. My parents monitor my health and happiness. They understand my situation. I find a way to love them for that.

I still have days when I question my ability to face the world and do what is expected of me. These are the days when my bed beckons. However, I now accept these days.

* * *

The Sonoran desert receives much of its rainfall during the summer monsoon season. Two things cause the sweet smell of desert rain: bacteria called actinomycetes, and the unpleasant-tasting coating of the leaves of the creosote bush. It is often said that air pollution is responsible for the spectacular sunrises and sunsets in Arizona. Although the desert heat is brutal and relentless, I take pleasure in finding flowers amongst cactus spines, smelling infrequent rains, and tasting of purple and neon-orange sunrises.