Prepare a five-minute story about being saved from the undertow, eternal damnation or an incredibly dull blind date. Tell us about the hero swooping in or the alibi who helped you bluff your parole officer. The Jaws of Life, The Heimlich Maneuver, a fashion intervention or just tough love.

Trigger Warning: This story is about depression and contains mention of suicide.

I never liked summer. For most kids, it symbolized freedom, happiness, a time to congregate with friends in the sunshine. For me, it was the saddest season of the year, like seasonal affective disorder but in the summer. I don’t know why - maybe it was that summer sapped me of a sense of purpose; falling out of routine, not having anything to do, it was tough for a kid with little self-worth outside of school and grades. So somehow, summer was always the loneliest, darkest season for me.

My high school junior year summer was the one of the worst. I had gone from a year of constant stimulation with standardized exams, after-school activities, difficult classes, and a never ending to-do list every day of the week, to a summer of absolutely nothing. Silence. No plans.

My grandparents were visiting us from India that summer, and although there was no reason for it, I felt like I had to stay at home with them while my parents were at work all day. Maybe more accurately, I used their presence as an excuse to not have to leave the house and do anything, telling myself I had to be home for them. Slowly, over the weeks, I deteriorated, drawing deeper and deeper into a shell of depression.

Insomnia kept me up all night, sometimes reading, sometimes watching TV, sometimes crying for no reason, staring at the ceiling fan. I slept all day, my head in a smoky fog. I awoke only around mealtimes and for a 1:30pm Indian soap opera, and if I ever tried anything new, I would abandon it within minutes to curl back up in bed and shut off my brain.

A few weeks into the summer, I overheard my grandma telling my mom that I never did anything all day, I never went anywhere, or spoke to them or ate with them or joined their card games. That I just sat in the house all day, and didn’t I have any hobbies or interests or friends?

Normally, my solace in the summers was the companionship of my dog, Lucky. I would spend my days taking care of him, feeding him, teaching him new tricks, playing with him. But even he had found more friendship in my grandparents that summer, who were at least awake and active during the day. So no, I didn’t have any hobbies or interests or friends.

My grandpa was going through something that summer too. No one really told me what, but I knew he was experiencing symptoms of dementia and depression, and that’s why they had come to spend the summer with my mom, for a change of pace. My mom would yell at me and then plead with me to please be respectful of him, to please be a better daughter and granddaughter. She was preoccupied with her work and her parents, as anyone would be. But at the childish age of 16, all I could think was, “Doesn’t she see me too? I’m dying, being consumed from the inside out, doesn’t she care?”

I felt like a bottomless pit of despair. Of course my mother loved me. Of course my grandma was speaking out of concern for me. Of course they cared - but depression leaves no room for logic, invites no sympathy for yourself, no doubt for others.

One night it was too much. I had been crying all day, but I felt numb and dead inside. My face was swollen from filled sinuses and my head was pounding, but every time I tried to close my eyes for sleep, I heard the voice in my head telling me how terrible I was and how little I deserved. I couldn’t take it anymore.

At 2:00am, with everyone in the house fast asleep upstairs, I crept down to the kitchen and picked a knife out of the block. I sunk to the ground in the dark, my legs crumbling beneath me, and sat staring at the knife in my hands and the blank space of my wrists. It was like my brain had shut off and I had come to the inevitable conclusion of my story that summer. Part of me was waiting for someone to show up in the kitchen, for my mom to find me and stop me and tell me she loved me. But part of me knew this was the end; alone I had come and alone I would go.

I was lost in this trance, envisioning the incisions I would make, when I felt something touch my arm. I looked up and Lucky was staring at me. He must have heard me in the kitchen and came down to check if there were late night snacks to be shared. We stared at each other for a while - his eyes slightly inquisitive, ears perched atop his head. It was like he understood what was happening, why he found me here. Breaking his stare, he sleepily stepped into my lap and collapsed into me with a grunt, curling his little body and resting his head on my thigh. I remember that moment so vividly, it was like the elephant’s foot had been lifted off of my chest and hope filled the space of the missing weight instead. The knife dropped from my hands and I wrapped my arms around him, buried my face in his fur and sobbed. And he sat there, in my lap, letting it happen for hours, absorbing that dark energy from me and freeing my soul from those hideous shackles.

After that day, I finally talked to my mom about what I had been going through. I apologized and she hugged me while I promised to get better. I never ideated suicide again. I found ways to lift myself up and work through the depression. I started my Quest for Happiness project. I got better. So much better. And it was because of Lucky.

Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing or maybe he just wanted a snack. Maybe it was a coincidence or maybe it was divine intervention. Maybe dogs are angels and they’re sent to us for a purpose, and maybe saving me was Lucky’s.

This story took place the summer of 2016. Lucky passed away in 2021. For 11 years, he took care of his family in the best way that he knew how. I believe he was part of our family to help us carry our burdens, and he did such a good job of it. I hope he’s resting happy now and has plenty of carrots and Milkbone treats wherever he is.

Rescue