Dear Digital Diary

Dear Digital Diary,

I’m writing from Wonderland.

In a storytelling sense, the white rabbit in Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is a metaphor for passing time, a reminder of it, and a symbol of curiosity about the unknown. On TikTok, as of late, the rabbit represents more of a ticking time bomb and a greater reminder that in this world, what is both good and bad must always come to an end. 

For myself, I’ve seen that rabbit. I saw him with his little ticking clock and chose to follow him that first time, but it was not the adventure I expected. Down within that hole under an oak tree was not a wonderland, but instead, an homage to my depression, my anxiety, and a comfortable habitat in which I could brood under the surface of reality. 

At this time, the rabbit tucked away his clock in the folds of his coat, and I was no longer curious about time. What I’ve found now is that depression and anxiety become comfortable. Sadness becomes comfortable. While it is difficult to get out of this mental state, it’s easier to stay in it and suffer. And as I did so, I wasn’t aware how much time had passed. 

The day I woke up was a sunny day in March in Southern Georgia, four weeks after I started antidepressants. I’d slept through the night without unusual dreams, I no longer felt nauseous, and my head felt clear. I was in my body for the first time in eight months. I felt the blood pumping through my heart that extended to my abdomen, my fingers, the top of my head. I went to the gym that morning and sprinted on the treadmill as fast as I could, and I felt the air expanding in my lungs and the sweat running down my forehead. I was alive, just as I had been, but this time I felt it with every cell of my being. 

That day in March was in early 2024. As the seasons slipped into one another, I didn’t see the white rabbit. There were memories of him, like a pair of rabbit-sized slippers, but I never fully saw the rabbit with his crazed stare and pocket watch. I was certain, at this time, that I’d outrun him. 

In Maine, the seasons changing from summer to autumn feel as abrupt as night and day. As if someone took a leaf blower and, overnight, crept into every yard, every forest, and sent every colored leaf off of the trees to rot on the ground. I awoke on a cold morning with torrential rain on the forecast, and a grey, cloudy sky that acted as a canopy over someone who would rather not see the sun. But I need the sun. 

My undereyes turn borderline bruised, my skin pales to an unhealthy yellow, and my lips are dry and cracked. I look ill because I feel ill. But in years past, I was only subjected to this weather for the six weeks of winter break, which I spent back home. Then I’d return to my sunshine. But not now. Winter looms on the horizon, and those from New England know that winter is only over once the last bit of slush has melted. That’s usually sometime in April. By then, I’ll have turned 23.

I was visiting someone in the hospital when I saw him. I suppose it’s only fair that the white rabbit could be there, while he waits for those who wish to join him in that subconscious area between life and death. It was early October, and I was sitting on the end of the bed, quite uncomfortable with the sterilized surroundings that had an undertone of bleach and that sickening smell of illness that can’t be cured. A nurse came in to tend to the man on the other side of the curtain, the bed closest to the door, and following the nurse was the white rabbit. The same white rabbit from over a year ago, with that same crazed expression, and his stupid ticking timepiece. A reminder that time is passing. A reminder that I had not outrun him as I’d thought I did.

There are three human stress responses: fight, flight, or freeze. Most times, I harness the powers of flight. The second I feel off — unnecessarily blue or shaking so badly that it appears that I’m unusually cold — I decide there’s nothing better to do than to run away. I decide I’ll flee the country. Quit my job and start anew where English isn’t the first language. Maybe while I’m there, I’ll also change my name. I’ll rid myself of who I was before in the hope that I’ll also shed whatever disease had been making my mind so sick. 

Except it never works out that way. I cannot rid myself of myself. The sickness is in the mind that is trapped in my body, and it’s the mind that reacts in ways that make itself the enemy. 

By this time, I had run away. But I hadn’t gone to Italy or Crete or Brazil. I’d followed that damn rabbit back into the place I’d once visited for an extended time and promised myself I’d never go again. Yet there I was. There I am. Back in that chamber that some call Wonderland, and it may be, to some. 

And so the white rabbit caught up to me. He and I sit on opposite sides of the living room, reading yellow-paged books in front of the warmth of the fire. He’s no longer reading, but instead has drifted off to sleep with the book flat on his belly. It’s only fair that I no longer read and have instead begun to write. And while the rabbit tucked away his reminder of time in his coat, I still hear the ticking of a clock. 

I’m not sure where it’s coming from, but it’s there. That is enough.

– Mia