by Carolyn Acosta Sanchez, ETA ’20
Spring Conference
When they opened my fridge and saw the stacked boxes, each filled with different foods at various stages of decay, it was as if my world had stopped. One held the remains of a pasta bowl, the creamy sauce turned thick and rancid with spots of white circling its surface. Another held proof that yes, indeed, McDonald’s is real meat because if not the nuggets wouldn’t have turned a sickly green. There was one at the bottom of the fridge, a pesto pasta only half-eaten. I had made it myself but it had given me a stomachache. Others, just like them, filled the fridge at every corner. Confronted with the evidence of my depression I turned to my friends, although really maybe they were acquaintances. I mean, how long had I even known them? A month or two max. Certainly, they didn’t know me well enough to know that I was a good liar. An expert at acting just fine.
“Look at you guys Marie Kondo-ing my life,” I laughed as they helped me sort through the remains of my shame and pool them all in the food waste bin outside of my apartment. It was Spring Conference and we didn’t have time to finish making dinner, let alone psychoanalyze every way I was falling apart. We had arrived at our teaching placements in mid-February, around two months prior. Now in May, the Spring Conference has arrived. The conference – the first of two – was intended to be a sort of check-in to see how we were all doing so far. Typically, it was held in-person in culturally significant places around Korea, like Jeju Island or Gyeongju. However, like everything else for our cohort, it was ruined by the ever-present COVID-19. So instead, we were expected to learn more about the art of teaching and Korean culture through various Zoom presentations… exciting. In an effort to fight the boredom we knew would ensue, all of the English Teaching Assistants that lived in the Jeollabuk Province decided to meet at my apartment.
The night progressed through cups of mojitos, a vodka soda and the droning voices of the various presenters. Once the last presenter had finished their spiel, I closed my eyes and then opened them early Saturday morning to the sound of shuffling and whispered voices. Slowly they all filed out of my apartment to their own respective homes, temporary as they may be.
Day two of the Spring Conference saw me sitting alone in my creaking apartment. It was in between the quiet humming noise of that damned fridge and the monotonous presenters that I came to a resolution. I would never let that happen again. No more delivery and takeout food every night. I was going to cook for the rest of my year in Korea. Empowered by my promise, I ran out of my room during the hour-long lunch break to gather the ingredients needed for the Fulbright-sponsored online cooking class I would take after the break. This was supposed to replace the real-life activities we would have done in Jeju Island or Gyeongju. I had mistakenly chosen to learn how to make mandu and japchae and I hadn’t had time to get the ingredients.
I set a 40-minute timer on my phone and made my way to Homeplus. It was only a two-minute walk and I was confident I would make it back in time for the class. Entering the supermarket, I pulled out the list of ingredients. The recipe was in English and therefore this should have been relatively simple. I grabbed a basket and headed to scour the aisles. The first problem arose when I couldn’t find the glass noodles. Obviously, they had them at the store but everywhere I looked left me disappointed. I moved on to the next ingredient, corn starch for the mandu. My brain buzzed as I tried and failed to find it. Frustrated, I opened my savior Papago, the best translation application, and watched it work its magic. Slowly, the words turned from English to Korean as I tried to match the words to the products in front of me.
Yet, as I stared at the wall of noodles, all different shapes and sizes, labeled various things in Korean, I felt my chest start to pound. Each new ingredient clawed at my heart and constricted its movements until tears started welling in my eyes. Suddenly, I remembered my mom– a Dominican immigrant in New York City asking her daughter to find the ingredients to her recipe. The recipe was in Spanish but she was surrounded by walls of English products. With every question she asked, her daughter grew more frustrated. Not a day went by that she didn’t ask her children to translate something to Spanish. Every eye roll and sigh that her children gave her brought tears to her eyes. Why couldn’t she just learn English? And here I was, in Korea, ever the foreigner and ever regretful. I was my mom.
I looked down and my alarm rang. Time to go home.
Sulking in the failure of my journey, I sat in my room and watched as the other ETAs prepared the meal through Zoom. Obviously, they had succeeded in finding the ingredients, so why hadn’t I? They smiled at their computers holding up their finished works and I smiled back. I smiled until the clock hit six pm. The conference was over and my computer screen was dark once again. The fridge started its humming once again. My smile slipped off my face as I took in my solitude once again. At the end of the day, I was alone in my one-room apartment. No number of conferences and fake smiles were going to change that fact.
I got up from my desk, threw myself under my comforter, turned off the lights and closed my eyes.
The In-between
A week after the conference, there were maggots in my laundry room. I had entered the room to clean up a bit before the Jeollabuk-do Squad came over to hang out. And there were maggots in my laundry room. They surrounded the garbage bag I had left there since it took up too much space in my apartment. I slid the door shut and sat on my bed, trying to count how many days it had been since I had taken out the garbage. As I sorted through my days (wake up at six am, work at eight am, home at five pm, Baemin at six pm, asleep by seven pm), I realized it must have been weeks. My bones hurt. They felt as if someone had rubbed them raw. Each bone stinging until I wrapped myself in blankets. I laid with my eyes open in the dark vacuum of my room. The wall next to my bed was yellowed from the years of previous ETAs. Tiny squares patterned the wallpaper, each making shapes in the darkness. I felt nothing as I closed my eyes.
The next day, I stumbled into my room after work and flung myself on my bed where I belonged. The mattress was starting to grow a groove where my body often landed. All I wanted was to close my eyes and go to sleep. I could have sworn there was a giant elephant sitting on my back squishing my chest in. I opened my phone and scrolled through Twitter. Someone had retweeted BTS’ “Fix You” cover onto my timeline. My thumb shook as I pressed on the video. Listening to the music, I didn’t realize I was crying until suddenly the sobs had made it hard to breathe. It was as if BTS’ Jin singing, “tears stream down your face” had suddenly given me permission to cry. Their voices came together at the end as they sang the chorus and poked at my heart. Each time they repeated the line, my gut wrenched.
It wasn’t until June, almost a full month after the conference when I finally admitted to myself I was depressed. It took one impulsive message to a friend I made during Korean language classes to set the record straight. It was as if everything just suddenly made sense. Of course, why else would I be so tired and sleeping for hours on end? As they say, the first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Maybe this was my way out. Like most moments in life, music guided me to an answer. The soundtrack in my head turned to “Words Fail” from Dear Evan Hansen.
The last lines of the song whispered, “all I ever do is run so how do I step into the sun?” I grabbed my phone and ran right back to my friend from Korean class. I sent question after question asking her how she dealt with her depression. A few minutes later, I had a list of resources. Most importantly, I had realized I was not alone. I had the support of a friend who, just like me, was also in Korea and depressed. This was my moment. This was how I stepped into the sun.
Fall Conference
I triple-checked I took out the garbage before I left my apartment toward Joy’s home. This time we were going to go to her place, instead of mine, for the Fall Conference. The ETAs who lived in the Jeollabuk Province, Sophie, Joy, Juan, Allie and I, had become close friends over the course of the year. Jeongeup, Joy’s city, was only a 40 to 50-minute bus ride away so I wasn’t too worried about being late.
Bed made? Check. Fridge clean? Check. Laundry in the basket? Check. Smells clean? Nope, but I couldn’t do anything about that. I had decided to make chili the week before and my place had not yet let me forget about it. I lugged my bag and headed towards the bus station ready for another weekend of Zoom and good food.
When all of us arrived, we got to work setting up our Zoom conference stations. Allie was on the bed, ready to sleep. Juan sat nestled in the corner between Joy’s bed and the TV. Joy and I took shop at the dining table. It was a small space, but we liked the company. Like last time, the lectures droned on, but we joked and commented all the same. We jumped and danced and cooked. Every time a new presenter began to speak, we chose a new song to play. One second we were playing emo rock and the next it was bubblegum pop. To my surprise, Allie chose to play “What is Love?” by TWICE and suddenly we were on our feet learning the choreography. Later in the night, Joy pulled out her guitar and started strumming “Lucky” by Jason Mraz. Juan and Joy began singing and Allie joined in on the harmonies. In this manner, the first day of the conference came to an end.
The second day found us taking quizzes for each other. We took them all, from “Which Brooklyn 99 Character are You?” to “Which Hogwarts House Would You Be In?” It was fun, psychoanalyzing each other and trying to guess what the other would answer. It was honest and kind and heartwarming. Just a group of friends, figuring out just how much they knew each other.
“I feel like we grinded friendship points this weekend” giggled Joy, her hair spanning all around her on the bed.
Lying there, on the floor of Joy’s apartment, I agreed. It’s impossible not to reflect when your life is so obviously book-ended by Fulbright conferences. Looking back at the person I was during the Spring conference from the point of view of the Fall conference, I was surprised to see how much I had changed. The year had forced me to let go of my expectations and live in the moment. Often plans, like emotions, swooped in and out like a wave. I had to make the most of where I was and who I was with. There was no need to alienate potential friends. I couldn’t afford to do so. I had to focus on making a community right where I was. I had to dare to be vulnerable. The power of vulnerability was something that years of education classes had tried to cement on me but never succeeded. It took a trip to Korea and a fridge full of rotting food for me to finally learn that lesson.
Here I was, surrounded by friends, true friends, and I was happy. I wasn’t forcing a smile or acting just fine. I was just me. Full of music, lectures, french toast, tears, heart-to-hearts, terrible piano tinkling, off-key carols and just two spoonfuls of chueo-tang. I was me.
Depression isn’t a one-stop-shop. A happy day does not a happy person beget. For some, it’s a rollercoaster with jerks and stops and inclines and declines. Except there is no gradual build-up for me. Sure, some people may find themselves slowly trodding up to happiness. But for me, it’s here and then it’s not. There is no in-between. But it’s the good days, like those during the Fall conference, that help me fight the bad days. As long as the good days outnumbered the bad days, I would be okay.
[Featured Photo by Nina Horabik]