The wind whipping my hair, the sun glinting off the waves, the sand softly padding my steps. That afternoon was as untethered as I had felt for a very long time.
There were a few other people walking along Quincy Shore, an inlet of Quincy Bay that empties into the Boston Harbor. One day after work in mid-April, I donned my knee-high wellington boots and piled Schuyler into the car and we headed to a beach where dogs are allowed up until Memorial Day Weekend. The depression pushed me out of myself and pulled me under like a fierce undertow. On my train rides home from work, I sat and cried as the undercurrent of being depressed would swell and cover me, as a large wave. The mounting anxiety and depression that plagued me from the time I woke up to the time I finally fell asleep in an uneven haze was unrelenting. Last year was my first Boston winter as a pet owner, and I was especially envious of my dog's patter. She lopes high over snowbanks, disappearing into the snow for a moment, and then shooting right up again, always in the same level bounds. My dog Schuyler runs like she is part dolphin.
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