’Death Stranding' And The Burdens Of Existence

A meditation on my depression fueled by the world’s leading “Strand Game”

I choose my destination as the morning sun washes out the room. I know where I’m going, I know what I need to bring with me. I double and triple check my pockets, make sure I’m not forgetting anything. The tools I’ll need to make it through the day are held tight, and the load I have to carry is locked alongside it. As I head to my car and hear the steady crunching of snow underfoot, my mind goes to Death Stranding, as it has every day since its release.

My world is not so empty as Sam's. I live with my fiancée, and sometimes we walk down the Loop among crowds of young people. We eat lunch together, we sleep together. I talk on the phone with my girlfriend, I text my friends, I tweet a funny joke. I am at the center of a deep and intricate web of people. But that doesn't mean I'm not still carrying this pack, trudging step after step toward some distant hope of relief. My burdens may be different, but I know very well what it is to be a porter.

First, the cargo of my obligations. Apply for a job. Do the dishes. Call the doctor. Record a podcast. Do the dishes again (the sink filled up while I wasn't looking). Think of things to write, and write them. Bring love to the ones I hold dear in my heart. Second, the tools. Shaving my face to ward off dysphoria. Taking a shower. Brushing my teeth. Eating food. Letting myself be loved.

Sometimes this load is too much. It crosses the line of how much I can carry. I shudder under this burden, but eventually relent, and turn to myself to see what I can go without. Sometimes I have to offload my tools; maybe I don't brush my teeth, or I leave my purse behind. Maybe I don't take my estrogen. It's a struggle to live like that, to make your journeys without that aid. I stumble, often.

Sometimes, as I walk, I encounter my own BTs. The person who stalked me and my fiancée. The predatory ex who manipulated everyone. The confusion and listlessness as my mom plunged herself into opioids to escape her pain. The screams from my family that demanded I go back to being someone else. My ghosts are always people, and they beach themselves on the shore of my mind and refuse to fade away. All I can do is hold my breath, keep walking, trust and hope and pray that soon, so soon, the rain will pass, and even if it comes again it will never last forever.