"Because I could not stop for Death" by Emily Dickinson

Personal Response

This poem immediately reminds me of my past struggle with depression, as she describes 'death' as a man who has come to pick her up for a carriage ride. Countless times, I had visualized my struggle as a carriage ride.

The contrasts are great, however, as my carriage was for life. She seems to be speaking of death in a physical sense and my 'death' was a death occurring inside of me, where I was straining to enjoy life at all. My carriage did not have a driver, and the horses pulling it were running at full speed. I had fallen out of the carriage but was still hanging on by this worn and tattered rope. The exasperating rope. It had to be there, I wanted it to be there, and as much as I hated it at times, I could not force myself to cut it off. It drug me face down on the dirt path and I often wondered why I bothered to hang on at all.

Sometimes I would feel like if maybe just maybe the horses would slow down and the carriage could roll to a stop, I could dig the rocks out of my wounds and brush some dirt off my face and clothing, readying myself for another ride - this time in the carriage.

Or maybe the horses could break off, running away and leaving me alone in a stationary carriage. This option seemed less adventuresome but ultimately safer. At one point in the ride I chose this option. I'm not sure how or when. It didn't seem to happen quickly, or gradually, but neither, if that's possible. Everything seemed 'neither' on that carriage ride.

Eventually, the neither-ness faded and the carriage ride seemed more appealing. I knew I could fall out again. It still scares me that I might. But the idea that I have a chance to ride the carriage at all, fall or not, seems to be all that matters.

Originally turned in on January 22, 2006