Canon's Diary

August 25, 2025. It was mostly a clear day. The heat outside was said to be relentless, but under COVID restrictions I did not leave my apartment, and so the true feel of the day remained beyond me. From my window I could see clouds drifting at times, but unlike yesterday, there was no thunder or sudden downpour. The day passed quietly. I worked from home—my first day back after a medical leave. Until yesterday, even the slightest mental strain would trigger a fever, but today I managed to perform at my usual level.
My one-room apartment, rented for a solo assignment, has no space for a proper desk, so I sat in a deep chair in front of the television, balancing my laptop on my knees. Without an external monitor or mouse, I made do well enough. The only disturbance was the occasional jarring noise of roadwork drifting through the walls.

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During my lunch break, memories surfaced. The onset of my depression, ironically, was rooted in an event at the part-time job I loved most: waiting tables. In my university years, I had thrown myself into every challenge, eager to remake myself. By my junior year I was leading the tennis club and taking responsibility for training younger staff at my restaurant job. One day, as I moved across the dining floor, I noticed a colleague instinctively adjusting to complement my movements. That realization—teamwork—struck me with quiet awe. Though restaurant work was not sport, to me it was no less than a team sport. Recognizing that truth, I fell deeply into the work.

But juggling academics, tennis, and my job took a toll on both my body and mind. In my desperate bid to reinvent myself, I grew increasingly responsible, perfectionist, and unable to apply any brakes to my own effort.
What I learned at the Machida restaurant could be summarized in simple terms: serve with heart; cooperate and care for others; read the situation and respond appropriately; apologize for mistakes; express gratitude to colleagues. For someone who had never managed group work in school, these lessons marked real growth. By the end, I even carried a measure of confidence, enough to pass along guidance to my juniors.

Then came the day that undid me. After a long shift on my feet—eight hours of carrying trays—I worked with a younger colleague on the closing tasks: sweeping and mopping the floor, restocking paper towels, straightening menus and chairs, scrubbing both restrooms, brushing down the kitchen, polishing counters and dishes. We did this for 620 yen an hour, nearly every day. In hindsight, the pay was poor, but naïve as I was, I never questioned it. The work was grueling, yet bearable when shared with others.

But my colleague thought differently. That day, he suddenly set down his cleaning rag.
“What’s wrong? Let’s finish up and get out of here,” I said. He looked at me with an unfamiliar expression.
“Senpai, I can’t do this work anymore.”
“What? Why now? We’ve always done this.”
“Why do we have to do this kind of work at all?”
“What do you mean? If we don’t, others will suffer—the morning crew, the chefs…”
“Let me be frank, Masato” he said.

What followed shattered the fragile confidence I had built.

“Not everyone is like you, Senpai. No one else is thinking about others.”

In that instant something inside me snapped. My mind went blank, then flooded with unwelcome clarity. Work is not charity; it is survival. People feign cooperation, but in truth think only of themselves. Encouragement, rebuke, gratitude, teamwork—so much of it is no more than a façade required for social life. How foolish I had been to believe in it sincerely. My body was that of a university student, yet my heart still that of a child. Inside me, something collapsed with a terrible crash. I could no longer speak. My chest tightened with pain. Standing became unbearable. Somehow I made it home, only to collapse into the living room, unable to move. The next day I still could not will myself to act. Breathing itself felt impossible. Alarmed, my parents took me to a psychiatrist, where I received my first diagnosis of depression.

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Now, years later, I sit in my apartment after dinner. The room has grown dark. The hum of the fan mixes with the distant rumble of a Hankyu train. I no longer drink scotch until sleep; instead I watch television, listen to jazz, make plans, or think of my distant family. It feels far richer than drowning myself in alcohol. Humans are creatures capable of recognizing past mistakes and choosing to change their future course. I am living proof of that.

I have come to understand: it is more important to act with conviction than to be swept up in words or information. For in most cases, words are little more than decoration.