Dan Antique

I found God today. In a most strange and unexpected way. And it wasn’t like the clouds opened up and an angel appeared. It really had nothing to do with God directly, not on the surface anyway, as everything has to do with God in some form.

I was browsing in an antique store. My eyes blinded by all the glass cases shoved impossibly full of little nick-nacks and trinkets. There is so much to look at in an antique store. And on top of the visual stimulation, over the speakers, wrapping around every dresser, every mirror, every cracked clock and chipped picture frame, rang the high voice of a man yodeling. The crazy mess of notes dipping and rising complimented the mess of the store, like this was all on purpose.

“Miss,” the man behind the counter addressed me. I was expecting him to scold me, tell me to buy something or leave, tell me not to touch anything. “If you want to start yodeling along, you go right on ahead.”

“If something comes on that I know, I’ll join in.” I laughed and he laughed and so did the other man he was helping. Once that man left, the man behind the counter, who I would later find out was the owner, inquired about the tattoo on my neck.

“Is that a hummingbird?”

“No, it’s a sparrow.” I corrected, turning my head and pulling the few strands of my hair out of the way.

“Oh yes. Wow, it’s beautiful!” He marveled at the craftsman ship, the line work, the details, the color. Asked if it hurt – only a little – then asked if there was a meaning to this large bird on my neck.

I usually tell people that there is and that is it personal and leave it at that. But for some reason I felt like I could tell this guy. So I pointed out the small bandaging on the wing. It was a sign for the self-harm I struggle with in my life. It also represented the depression.

“How long have you been dealing with the depression?”

“Since about seventh grade.” I told him.

“You know, when I was six, my dad left…” And he began to tell me briefly the history of his depression.

He was probably in his upper 60s, hair gray and receding slightly at the crown of his head. His face was lined with age but I never would have guessed he’d been through such tough times just by looking at him.

He told me he sees a therapist and that he is not ashamed. I told him I agreed and that I too see someone. He told me his therapist used to see a therapist and we laughed.

“I see a situation one way and you see the same situation a different way. She was able to talk to me and show me that I’m not that six-year-old boy anymore. When I was younger, I saw my father beat my mother in her rocking chair, hit her across the head with a fish bowl… Everything. And there was nothing I could do so I would hide.

If we were to get into an argument right now, you would win. You would win because I don’t know how to argue. But I’ve got ‘the caveman’, you see. If I were to get into to an argument with that guy,” he pointed at an older man, about his same build, who had just walked into the store, “I would beat him up.”

I couldn’t imagine this man harming anyone. His whole face was smiling as he spoke with me. Smiling, though completely serious and earnest in his story.

“I don’t know if you have this, but at night, trying to sleep, it’s like a tape recorder in my head and you can’t pick out just one thing, it’s just all going constantly, over and over.”

I wanted to cry, but instead I nodded and ‘mmhmm’ed deeply. Because that was depression.

“You can be completely fine but it’s just like a bucket of cold water washed over you and all of a sudden you’re sad for no reason.”

It was beautiful in it’s simplicity. In the artistic movement of his arms as they poured an imaginary bucket of depression over my head.

“Exactly.”

“And if you try to explain it to someone who doesn’t have it? Oh, suck it up! They say-“

“Yeah!”

“Just toughen up!”

“But you can’t.”

“No. So, honey,” he was such a sweet old man, calling me ‘honey’. And I wasn’t scared or threatened as he reached over the counter to grip my wrist, “You need to find someone who understands that. You need to find someone who you can talk to about it, who will get it, who will say ‘I’m here for you.’”

I’d never had anyone look that honestly into my eyes. The warmth of his hand cementing his point all the more. I could have talked to him for hours, but a man and woman hefting four large mirrors were ready to pay.

Before I left, I asked him his name.

“I’m Dan. Here’s my card. And if you ever need anyone to talk to, if you feel like you are slipping and you just can’t go any farther, I’m always here.”

“Thank you.”

As I turned to leave I heard him say to the customer next in line, “We have a lot in common.”

Why that man chose me to talk to, I’ll never know. Why I chose to tell him about me, I have no idea. And why he actually showed interest in my tattoo instead of scolding me like most senior citizens, I couldn’t tell you. I’m not even really sure what I learned from this. Dan didn’t tell me any secrets about depression that I hadn’t already discovered myself. And it wasn’t like I was lost and feeling alone, needing to know there are others out there struggling; I knew that already. But Dan and his story and his honesty and his kindness did something to my heart and my head. I’m not sure what yet, but I’m sure God will show me in His time.