Some Days a Fallen Insect Greets Me in its Wake: Meditations and Poems

By Marc Gervais

"Depression's cloak has lifted, just enough for a glance at the unforeseen. This future beyond today. Survival is a short-term thing. Each breath matters, one at a time. 

Papers pile up around me. Dusty objects, refuse from a past life once lived litter my surroundings. Down a narrow valley in the middle of my d

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marc Gervais
• Release date: Aug 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781737656852

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Introduction

I started writing these pages almost two years ago. I didn’t know it at the time, my initial attempts at making sense of my life would turn into a daily practice that would produce these writing (I had never dedicated myself to the discipline of writing my daily thoughts and feelings).¹ I was slowly coming out of a depressive state, one of these places you can find yourself in, one day, after years of efforts working on software startups that end up in a rut. All of a sudden, you’re left hanging, no hopes of success to hide behind. You feel the loss, the failure, deep down.

I kept up financial consulting work on the side that paid most of the bills most of the time; though in the last couple years it dried out for the most part, and we had to rely on my wife’s income more than mine, from the 9 to 5 job she had downtown. We made it work, we didn’t eat out much, we didn’t travel far (except to visit friends and family). We maintained a good standard of living, but our household budget was tight. The financial pressure stressed our daily life and strained our relationship.

I can only blame myself for this, for having hung on so long, worked so hard at these business ventures that never panned out, didn’t feed our family, or provide any kind of positive energy—quite the contrary. I am so grateful to my dear wife. Her love sustained me as she endured my mood swings and our hardship circumstances, not understanding what was going on in our life, let alone in my head.

I began writing out of a deep urge to release mental ramblings that kept churning inside. I grabbed a pencil; it took off across the blank sheet like a horse out of its gate. It was a relief to be able to let out these loose feelings, pen them down on paper so they stopped spinning, give them shape and meaning, regain a better sense of who I was.

I lost weight, shed the extra pounds I didn’t need without trying. I took on regular exercise, a morning jog routine, to feel good, keep up my mood. I’ve never been so physically fit. My ego took a beating, but it needed it. It was in the right place I thought; it was too self-confident, self-righteous, self-absorbed I found out. (Though I still have a way to go.) As I became vulnerable, I was able to perceive and appreciate the beauty in people and the world around me in a better light, with a greater clarity for what truly matters. How the people we love and respect mean everything, and how precious little anything else does (relatively speaking). We take so much for granted and so much escapes us in plain sight.

This account has dark moments but it’s not dark: it’s full of life that has its dark moments (as life does). I hit low points, felt bleak, saw specters, felt watchful eyes all around. I saw ill intents where there were none, felt the loss of friends I thought I had lost, saw trees on the ground and felt as if the wind had knocked me down… As I recovered a new world emerged, more vibrant and poignant. I had seen ugliness in beauty, I came to see beauty in ugliness. I felt hurt and stuck until I could poke fun at myself for feeling hurt and stuck. In the end, hitting bottom was a blessing: it brought me just a bit closer to this amazing gift called life.

Now in the midst of a pandemic and the hardships many of us face I wish to share these intimate moments with you, my friend. May you be safe, may you be well. May we all feel the grace life still grants us, even in its darkest of times.

Marc, August 2020

To my wife and my dearest friend G, with love and the deepest gratitude: you cherished this duckling despite its many, many warts so he could fly again—so he could taste the sweetness of life.

SOME DAYS A FALLEN INSECT

GREETS ME IN ITS WAKE

Welcome to my World

Many years ago, our good friend M. took me to a place where he spent many evenings away from mainstream view. Down a set of steps and into a narrow and dimly lit vestibule. Double doors swung open, and the brightness of a huge dining hall hit us, full of guests cheering a drag queen standup comedy—all men. M. turned to me with a big smile welcome to my world. I never forgot.

We live in our own silos. People come and go, closer beings more frequently, others more occasionally. In person or in thought. But when we lie in bed at the end of the day, we are reminded this is it. She has her own side of the bed, her own dreams, her own box. I have mine. Aspects of our lives, basic personality likes and dislikes we manifest in all we do, at work, in our social circles, every day. Some parts are more intimate, private. We share these with just a few soul mates. And some we haven’t shared. They might have been forgettable, less than noble, pitiful, or to the contrary deeply meaningful happenings we longed to share, not knowing how we didn’t dare.

In the pages that follow I began writing about my own hidden, isolated silo. A darker place than my friend’s. (Steps kept going down.) A place we don’t choose to go. One that pulls us from within, into our own mental confines. Depression. Not in a clinical sense, it was never diagnosed. My own brand of angst and distorted awareness. A construct of my mind. Electrical impulses. Totally abstract. So real. My reality. These inner echoes dancing in my head. Randomized paranoiac synapse firings I wish to share with you, my friend.

Trickle of Consciousness

Depression’s cloak has lifted, just enough for a glance at the unforeseen. This future beyond today. Survival is a short-term thing. Each breath matters, one at a time.

Papers pile up around me. Dusty objects, refuse from a past life once lived litter my surroundings. Down a narrow valley in the middle of my desk, I write.

A trickle of consciousness takes hold. Crawling then learning to walk again. Developing a new perspective, if paper thin.

Dodged Bullets

At times he felt treated with consideration for what he had been through, recognizing he needed support and a helpful hand. This seemed to be the message delivered when he’d cross paths with a wheelchair, or handicapped access vans on the roadways. Or when jogging he’d pass a person with a physical impairment, but not see them on the way back, shielded by—and seemingly supported by—a group of athletic runners. These were the hopeful signs. A good friend in good spirit had referred him to an industry veteran who needed someone with his kind of talent, and he was back in the workplace earning a living for the first time in years. It felt good to be able to contribute, help pay bills and stop getting in debt to make ends meet. It felt good to him, and it felt good to his wife. Yet at the same time, and like many happenings in his life of late, it felt as if this dream could dissipate at any moment, to reveal a much harsher truth. He couldn’t think objectively, or at least not without emotion, and it might have just been the figment of his slanted imagination, but here it was, this feeling of something not quite right. He felt compelled to consign details that nagged him and were growing in numbers. To defang them and maybe put his mind at ease. He felt he needed to remember circumstances that might have been purely happenstance, or surely designed to cause harm.

If these were dodged bullets, how many more till I fall?

Circular Motion

He had figured the world wasn’t his oyster. It took him longer to recognize the counter. If cool happenings weren’t pre-ordained, ill-fated ones weren’t either. Nothing was pointing at him, spiraling in an inward circular motion. The world didn’t care. Intents simply weren’t there, not in disguise, not anywhere, except right up between his ears, in dark recesses he alone could access and hear.

Coincidence

This morning I was told I couldn’t take relaxants, natural supplements. I woke up in pitch darkness, tossing about for an hour or so, and then walked over to a little bag and popped one of these gummy bears, pink chewy cannabidiol. It helped me sleep again, after reading a few soft cover pages. It worked. This morning, a bicyclist laid on the pavement, his bike strewn about. Cars stopped in a jumble, men in suits stooped over the injured. Right in front of us, blocking access to my wife’s drop off place. An accident on our morning drive to the metro. A coincidence. A coincidence and a hindrance. Hindrance from soothing moments that tie knots in my chest. Hindrance from substances that can heal if for a moment, warm the heart, calm the mind.

I once bought melatonin. One day it worked, the next day it didn’t. I once paid dearly for feel good herbal supplements. The plants work wonders, then the spell vanished. Had I developed immunity to healing capsules? Without active ingredients placebos still work, but my lot was to cope I felt, experience stress in its rawness.

I hit the elliptical. Thirty minutes in a dank basement. Pure bliss. Sweat rivulets down my face. Heart pounding with each swing on the machine. Sternum expanding, dagger receding.

Spell

I was so close, but you didn’t see me. Eyes closed, slightly reclined on an Adirondack, your hair floating iridescent in a sideways breeze. The warm sun put a smile on your face. In silence I stood, admiring a seemingly eternal inner peace… I could not attain.

Behind glass I could not move nor speak. A knock on the pane would shatter the spell. Transfixed, I watched your inaccessible tranquility, right here, so far away. I wished one day I’d meet you there. And prayed you’d never come inside.

Echo Chamber

My neighbor is a klutz. She walks heavy and drops things all the time. Her floor is my ceiling. A wood and plaster border that stops gravity, not sound. The thump of