The weights we carry.
Writing this with a heavy heart. Yesterday I arrived in Hilton, a town twenty minutes outside of Rochester, New York. I’m here at my grandma’s Simone’s house, alone with her and my step-grandpa Mike. I’m here to make some pictures while I am on my summer break at work. If I could describe Hilton in a sentence, I would call it what my depression looks like as a place.
The roads are endlessly long, with houses far a part. There’s huge parking lots and yards, and it seems like people here want to be far away from each other and take up the most space as possible. It’s very rural and quiet, but in an unsettling way. As someone who was raised in a more populated and dense place, Hilton feels like the middle of nowhere and like bad things happen here. It feels like one of those places you can’t leave, and where the people live in a trance-like cycle of doing the same thing everyday, rotting away. Especially after coming here from Great Barrington, Massachusetts the night before, where I stayed in the Berkshires with my college friend Meghan. The landscape was so freeing and lush. I felt like a bird there, and here I feel like a deer; scared of people, always hiding and watching. I can't help but ask myself what my grandma probably wishes she could ask Mike everyday, which is: “why would anyone live here?”
I have been seeing many deer here so far because there are a lot of wooded areas, fields and swamps. Sometimes I wonder if their symbolism means anything when they cross my path or appear in front of me, but then I remember that it’s their world and I’m just living in it. Along the streets are ranch-style houses, and it really feels like I’m in the south of the north. There are many Trump signs and flags here, some purchased and some even homemade with thin black markers on white poster paper. It’s quite surreal being here in the midst of the week during the Trump shooting situation, in addition to President Biden pulling out of the presidential race today, July 21st, 2024. Last night, my grandma was on FaceTime with my mom, who said that my dad attended the Trump rally in Seekonk, Massachusetts. The place I’m in and the current events surrounding me make me feel trapped, it feels like I am so different from my family and it feels strange to judge them. But how can I not when they vote for a man who has done to women what other men have done to me? I grew up feeling like a black sheep in a conservative household. Bodily autonomy, racism, and transphobia were common topics of debate, coming from the two people who I grew up thinking would always be right. I grew up insecurely and anxiously attached, always feeling like a burden for believing in something different. Having a bag packed in your closet as a teenager is not normal. Hearing your dad say “it’s just locker room talk” is not normal.
It has been incredibly depressing here. My mom called me to warn me that my grandma was taking antidepressants only 30 minutes before I arrived. I recently discovered my mom is also taking antidepressants, and it’s really odd being in this triangle of women struggling with mental illness due to their experiences with men. My grandma is trapped here because Mike is abusive and won’t let her leave, my mom is unfulfilled by her marriage because of my dad’s infidelity, and I am still struggling to heal because of my sexual trauma as a teenager. I can’t help but feel discouraged by the lineage of women in my family being held back from their true potential because of men. It makes me extremely depressed and it’s depressing to watch my grandma shuffle around the property like she is moving through mud. I remember this being an option on my daily check-in form while I was at Butler. It asked if the patient felt like they were moving through mud because of their depression.
My grandma is very self-critical while I’ve been taking her picture, insisting on dressing up and giving up on her appearance, claiming she “is not looking good anymore.” She also mutters to herself and to me while she waters her garden, a passion of both her and my mom, that “she doesn’t take care of anything anymore, and there isn’t enough time or energy in the day.” Meanwhile, Mike sits on the couch all day watching television on a high volume and it’s absolutely obnoxious, especially when my grandma is out in the yard using a weed whacker and lawn mower on her own. My mom mutters the same things while she cooks these days, saying her food isn’t as good as it used to be, because “there is no love in it.” How is a daughter supposed to feel love and feel hope when this is what she is surrounded by?
My grandma is definitely getting old and losing it a bit. She cooks meat that has been frozen for God knows how long, and tries to give me food that is extremely expired. It’s tough being here and it’s definitely taking a toll on me. I wish I was back home with my friends. I feel guilty leaving, and now I know how my mom feels. The house feels frozen in time. There are many shrines here dedicated to my mother mostly, and me and my sister. Photographs from her high school yearbook to her marriage— the real one, not the arranged one. The sheets are forty years old, and not much has changed since I visited last.
I realized on my drive here that the last time I visited my grandma was in 2015. I was fifteen years old and it was a few days before my high school boyfriend and I started dating. I began to have a panic attack while I was driving, and had to pull over to the nearest rest stop to catch my breath and get some air. I felt it all in my chest and my pelvis, which means I felt triggered and dirty. I was so shocked at how visceral coming back here felt, as a reminder of what transpired in the months following my visit. Again, this place just reminds me of why I am depressed; a vessel stuck in time, a magnet that keeps you from climbing up.
The first night I got here, it was pride in Rochester, the city nearby. I’m not sure why they do pride in July, but I figured there was no better time to go out and see the city by myself. My mom went to the University of Rochester and lived in the city in high school in an apartment with my grandma. Their upstairs neigbhor became a grandmother-figure to my mom, who didn’t have one growing up here in the states. I am in a similar boat, having no biological grandfather in the states because of the genocide. I like to observe Mr. Ting and wonder, if my grandpa would be like him. Anyway, Rochester is such a stark contrast to the suburbs around it. I was really shocked by how diverse and liberal it was. I went to a bar called Lux at around 10pm that night, reading some reviews online that a lot of goth girls would be there. I figured I would feel safest there, going to a bar alone for the first time. To my surprise it ended up being a gay bar, which was new for me and really fun. I met some girls in their thirties who let me sit with them for the night and told me more about Rochester. I felt so odd being in this completely alternate world from my grandma’s house, with people my age and a sign on the bar that said something along the lines of “republicans eat shit.” I don’t remember. There were a lot of deaf people there signing ASL, and the girls I met told me that Rochester has a large deaf population because of the university programs offered here. I felt really at peace and comfortable in a completely new, foreign city with complete strangers. Yet, the minute I returned to my grandma’s, I felt like I was a deer again and that I wasn’t safe at all.
