The Piccadilly Line
Every morning I’d shuffle my way down the specked grey steps of Hammersmith station, left foot before right, down to the Piccadilly platform. On occasion I would take the District line, but only if TFL had halted the blue line for whatever reason.
I enjoyed Hammersmith. I didn’t have to walk much, and the Broadway Shopping Centre was part of the station (or was it the other way around?). Either way, it was the perfect pitstop on my way home as I picked up a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Vegan Fudge Brownie or a kebab plate from Capital Restaurant (in case you’re wondering, I see the irony too. I’m conflicted, but not that conflicted — I just happen to be lactose intolerant).
I digress.
Although the wait for the Piccadilly was never long, it was long enough to enjoy the cool breeze that tunneled through the station or momentarily bask in the sporadic London sun that shined through the crisscrossing steel beams overhead.
Like all passengers, I’d walk up to the edge of the platform and wait.
As I stood there for the train to make its final bend, without fail, a single thought would cross my mind every. single. day: “What if I leaned forward?”
It’s dark.
And in that moment of darkness, the fragility of life is palpable — it’s measurable — it’s six inches.
As I write this, I think to myself “there’s no way I would actually jump in front of a moving train.” Then again, in retrospect, the decision to stand more than 10 feet away from the edge of the platform became a conscious habit. The decision to use a photo of my parents as my mobile screensaver was deliberate. There’s no way I would have adopted those measures if I didn’t believe that somewhere deep inside was a person who could act in a moment of despair.
While the line between crazy and depression can get very blurry, very fast, there are days I’m more empathetic to myself. Others, I feel like disposable matter composed of bones and flesh — nothing more — void of emotion — living, breathing, surviving.
Ask anyone and they’ll tell you I’m an upbeat guy who “doesn’t seem to be depressed”. But that’s the thing with depression: it’s insidious. Thankfully, I consider myself a logical person (don’t we all?) who can somewhat rationally think through “what-if” scenarios — even when I’m neck-deep in hopelessness. Until now, I’ve always managed to swim to the shore. Some days I don’t know if I’ll get there.
As for the Piccadilly line — it’ll bring back memories of a not too distant past. For many (and perhaps most), the Piccadilly may mean nothing more to them than their daily commute — but to me, it’ll always be a symbol of the teetering struggle between life and death.
