TW: Mentions of suicidal thoughts, depression and anxiety
“I want to melt and flow like the river
Left all alone closer to Nature
Where life and death are one
I can’t breathe now, I can’t be happy
I wish to die in slumber
And awaken in a land where I am not forced.
To smile, abide and pretend by notions of the society.
I want to melt and flow like the river.”
“There is nothing wrong with you. You have to learn to be grateful. Go jogging daily and you’ll be fine. Never fall for psychiatrists. You are too young to go to one.” said the ophthalmologist. He had seen my eyes in an annual eye-checkup and informed me that they showed signs of stress.
His long advice resulted from my inability to maintain composure due to the ‘stress’. I had been crying moments back, and I was crying again. I had no reason to cry, I said, but I also couldn’t figure out what had caused the sadness and demotivation beneath it.
My therapist had suggested going to a psychiatrist. All my life, I felt weird about psychiatrists. And today I had to go to one. Had I gone mad? I wondered. But the ophthalmologist suggested that jogging should be my medicine. I was perplexed but more tired.
I couldn’t explain that constant suicidal thoughts also fueled my grief. And from where did the idea of suicide come from? I needed help. My friend suggested telling me not to pay attention to the ophthalmologist’s advice even though he was from the medical community.
Therapy helped me perform bare-minimum tasks of household work and office. But little did I realise that my mind had already given up a long time back. And it was now my body that had given up altogether.
I was frozen most times, but when conscious, I wailed and scribbled, fighting my thoughts of suicide. It would happen in the spur of the moment. I needed an Expecto Patronum spell like Harry Potter had, but I also required strength, and I was failing. I was becoming a monster.
I realised that my threshold reached when I began crying in the middle of work. I had no explanations. I often cried or kept staring unmoved. I was lost and unfazed.
Suicide seemed easier. But going to the psychiatrist was the last thing I mustered courage for. My diagnosis was moderate depression. I didn’t feel anything as usual. But I frantically asked, ‘Why?’
There is no one answer to why you can get depression. Biochemistry of the brain or environment or the whole COVID thing could be anything. But I wanted answers to why I was struggling. I wasn’t able to work or rest anymore. I was in an emotional mess. Medications have side effects. I remembered when the doctor suggested.
I wanted to get out of it at any cost. Otherwise, death was my last resort.
I wish I could better explain how it felt when I couldn’t speak, forget trivial things and cry. I felt delusional and wondered if I was for real? I dreaded my dependency on medications, on family, friends and co-workers who had to be extra understanding. The tunnel only looked black. I was in a constant loop of anxiety and depression.
I had lost myself-my identity, hobbies, strength and composure. I was merely living for the sake of the world and family. Suicide seemed easier as combating thoughts sapped all my energy. They were my demons, and I was fighting with myself.
Depression scars you like wounds after a battle. But the hazed memories of struggle remain. No matter how much the mainstream media tells that they are proud of me for fighting my thoughts, at what cost? I wish we could specify by numbers so the world understands what happens when one is mentally sick.
Nobody talks about depression the way it should be. Maybe because decoding the exact reasons for the cause is quite complex. While we glorify courage and strength, being unconditionally empathetic is the key. Recuperation can take months and even years with medication to feel better.
Suicide sounds scary, but it is symbolic of the escape one desires from the whole battle. When things you love don’t make you happier or motivated, you start losing the purpose of life.
Depression is all about forgetting and starting again, learning to bathe, tidying stuff, showing up to the entire world with a hush-hush. Because explaining oneself only makes one miserable and drained. It’s not worth it.
It’s living life in duality-healing and pretence. We are learning to tame our monsters. And all this takes a great deal of energy, emotional support and medications. Not to forget some graveside effects medicines bring along-memory loss, anxiety, weight gain.
Anxiety and depression are highly overused terms. Unless we don’t spread awareness of what these illnesses felt like to the patient/survivor, overuse will continue. Going to a psychologist/psychiatrist is still considered taboo.
Each patient has a different story of falling into the vicious cycle and taking their own time to heal. With empathy and emotional support through counselling, things get better. Let’s make it a little easier for those who deal with it silently by acknowledgement and unconditional compassion.