As I watched the last episode of the Netflix series, Kaos, a modern-day twist on Greek mythology, I was reminded why I love stories so much. I often see myself in many of the characters and observe themes from my life play out in fictional worlds, adding greater depth and meaning to my level of self awareness. I saw myself in Dionysus - the half-human, half-God son of Zeus; young, directionless, and underestimated; looking for purpose, validation, and love. I saw myself in Ari - daughter of King Minos of Crete; loyal and loving, but slowly coming to terms with how she’d wrongfully placed her father on a pedestal. I saw myself in Orpheus - his insatiable need to love; his anxious attachment style; his inability to let go. And, ultimately, I saw myself in Eurydice - Riddy as she was affectionately known; an object of someone else’s desire for too long; unhappy and suffocated; dying a slow death, until she was brought back to life through a greater sense of purpose.
Stories are what bring me back to life. And that’s doubly important at a time when I can feel the life force being drained out of me. The truth is, my lifelong nemesis has returned after a long time, and he tends to have this effect on me.
I have always been able to sense when he is near, ever since my near death experience at age 8, when I almost drowned in my aunt’s swimming pool. That eerie, creeping dread that he was hovering close by slowly rose within me until, at 23, I felt powerless to resist him. It was like drowning all over again, but this time, it felt oddly good to feel so bad. Still, I continued to put up a fight. I gained self-awareness with time and took medication. I filled the empty pockets of my life with work and family. Intermittently, I’d exercise, socialize, meditate - all the things that were meant to be my life vest.
Two decades on and my knowledge of Self has grown and intertwined with my knowledge of the Universe and Spirit. I’ve awakened to all the damage done by things that were initially meant to help me - my marriage, my medication. I’ve left them both. But I also see the way in which they protected me, albeit by keeping me stuck in a cyclical loop, like a hamster on a rotating wheel, biding her time before she’s given the signal to emerge. And emerge I did, four years ago, completely unarmored and unprepared for my rebirth into this world.
I’ve been feeling that creeping dread again. Like my nemesis is near. But by now, I’ve learnt things aren’t always as they seem. I’ve reframed so many narratives, realized so many truths, often found the opposite of what I believed to be true. Maybe he isn’t my nemesis, after all. Maybe Depression is my savior, of sorts. My wake-up call. Maybe he’s the holding space I’ve been looking for, always just a few steps behind me, but not daring to embrace me till I tell him it’s okay. Described this way, he seems more like a sad puppy that wants to be hugged, rather than an eerie overshadowing terror. He sounds more like a messenger sent to me by my Shadow, the repressed part of me who, lately, I’ve been more willing to acknowledge.
The truth is, my trapped Shadow Self has always just been my inner child screaming for help. And though I thought I’d made strides in helping her voice to be heard ever since I stepped off the hamster wheel, I guess I haven’t done nearly enough. Maybe Depression has been my connection to her, and by listening to what he has to say, allowing myself to dissolve the many masks I wear, drown under the weight of my burdens and fears, he’s bringing me back down to her level.
I see her clearly now. I feel her. I am her.
I am the little girl, innocent and hopeful, looking for my mother’s love and not understanding why she won’t give it to me. She says the words and mimics the actions sometimes, but as a highly sensitive, discerning child, I can tell her energy is based on need, not love. She is my Orpheus, and I am her Riddy, dressed up in flouncy frocks and colorful ribbons, taught to smile and sing and satiate others.
When I grow up, I simply trade in one Orpheus for another - my mom for my husband. It’s a head rush, being idolized like that. But once I realized the reality of what it was - satiating someone else’s need, not my own desire for love - well, the fall from grace has been nothing short of brutal. Turns out I don’t want to be treated like a surface-level goddess; I don’t want to be emotionally distant from others and always in control, benevolent and beloved. I want to be human. A mess. A puddle of tears and vomit and snot. A pulsating wound of rawness, enveloped in the soothing balm of love and connection.
I’ve died and come back to life so many times now, I’ve lost count of how many masks I’ve shattered, how many veils have fallen away. I just know that I’m lying in Depression’s embrace, stroking my inner child’s hair, aching from the rawness of wounds accumulated over a lifetime, and there’s only one thing that feels good anymore. But I also know, no one else can give it to me but myself.
In the last episode of Kaos, one of the Fates proclaims, “Fate can never be destroyed. You just needed to trust and wait.” Watching Greek mythology play out across the screen, I thought back to the mythology of my own life. There was once a prophecy about me, too. Before I was born. Before my mother was even married. A man known for his psychic talents, read her face. He predicted several things, and all of them ultimately came true except one - he predicted one of her children would do something great for Pakistan. A bit of a vague prediction, to be sure, whereas all the others (according to her memory) were very precise. In all fairness, I have two siblings, so the prophecy isn’t necessarily about me, but it stands to reason as I am the only one who lives here, and have a deeper connection to this country. Also, I don’t harbor any delusions of grandeur (although I did just tell you I was a goddess!). What I’m trying to say is that part of me has always wanted to believe that the prophecy was about me, and that I would do something great. Isn’t that every little kid’s dream? But I’ve only ever half believed it. What might change if I fully believed it? What might change if I decided to own my destiny, took steps to create my own fate? All I’d have to do then is to trust and wait.
Sounds simplistic, I know. The stuff of fairy stories and Greek mythology. But what if all those stories have been making valid points all along. What if my life is just a story, too? And one day, students of literature will be reading and analyzing the Life and Times of Nida Elley? Would I want my story to be a tragedy? Or a fantasy? Or full of magical realism and adventure? I want the magic. Always the magic.
Then what is stopping me from making magic? Literally no one but myself. If I could only recognize that I am pure, pulsating potential, and stop defining myself based on my wounds. If I could just get myself - all the parts of myself - to believe, to hope, that there are possibilities for my life I haven’t yet conceived of…if I could channel my potential into one of those possibilities and make it my purpose…if I can trust and wait…the magic that will ensue might be the very thing I’ve always wanted. The same thing my 8 year old self wanted, my 23 year old self wanted. The same thing I want now but can’t seem to find anywhere else. It is within me; I just have to believe I deserve it first.
Where is the proof of my worthiness? It’s in the story. It’s in the quest given to little old me, the day I almost drowned. I got another chance to live. I’ve been through hell, yes, but I’ve experienced moments of heaven, too. Microscopic joys and overarching successes. Butterflies in my stomach and fire rising through my body. Color and music and whimsy and trees. Sunsets and bear hugs, slurpy kisses and breeze. I’m alive! For some reason, I keep forgetting and need to keep reminding myself that I. Am. Still. Alive. It seems stories (and storytelling) are my secret sauce. My life-giving inhaler. I must remember that, for when things start to feel hopeless again.
This week my horoscope said, “A person from your past might appear to help remind you that it’s time to move on.” I’m not the kind of person that lives and dies by my horoscope, but lately, I’ve been finding some wisdom in astrology. Still, no one from my past has visited me lately. Except my nemesis. My nemesis-turned-messenger/portal-to-the-underworld who’s helping me resuscitate my drowning inner child, even as we speak.
What am I letting go of, as the horoscope suggests? Another mask, it seems. Another painted on identity that’s served its purpose. Another pedestal. Another illusory sense of control. Another cycle of death leading to rebirth. And the ever-present reminder for all those who can see: I’m still alive.
(Now it's me who feel like i'm stalking)
There are parts that really refer to that Dark Night of The Soul experience. And the desire to reborn purged of all previous lives.
I don't really know about the guy who predicted something because I don't think anyone can predict the future. That's giving too much power to something outside.
And history would be beautiful if you did great things but because it's you who's fulfilling your own prophecy.
I'm not the person from the past (or maybe cause we met couple weeks ago haha), I'm the person from the present who tells you that you're gifted with words.
And finally, I have a little song I discovered last year. It's Eurydice and Orpheus singing a duet. Maybe you'll like it.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e05ClTDW9F4
A very profound and vulnerable reflection. I love how you weave personal experience with mythology—it gives such power to your journey. Your exploration of identity and rebirth through the lens of these mythic figures is compelling, and I feel like you've really captured the way stories can help us make sense of ourselves. Your insight about Depression as both nemesis and savior struck a chord—it's an incredibly transformative perspective...