I’d like to preface this piece by stating that nobody wants to admit weakness. Nobody likes feeling exposed. In sharing this story, I hope you’ll feel less conscious of the stigma associated with physical and mental illnesses. I hope you’ll be more mindful and sensitive of our presence in each other’s lives and how that affects the struggles we are dealing with. And more than anything, I hope you feel less alone.
Some time in the last couple of years, I had a fairly life-limiting health scare. I wasn’t done loving the person I was becoming, so I grieved prematurely knowing that I might be sick to death.
I know loss. In a way, I’m familiar with death. I’ve lost loved ones, including my father and a brother. I didn’t want to subject my family to another one knowing how heartbreaking that is. So, I cut myself open to confirm nothing’s wrong.
I took numerous lab tests, scans, and physical examinations from doctors from different clinics and hospitals. There was a lot of peeking, poking, and prodding. And in the middle of a pandemic when companions were not allowed in hospitals, I was alone and terrified of the unknown. It was uncomfortable, stressful, and messy.
Somewhere in between that, there was also an instance of misdiagnosis that led to flawed remedies and wrong medicines. It was a strange kind of chaos and disorder that struck my world. I knew there was bound to be devastation from how it’s being dismantled and deconstructed, stripping me down and pulling me to pieces. In my mind, I’m watching an earthquake from outer space.
And then the tsunami eventually hit, and I realized I was actually standing on loose sand when the water pulled me under. I’m drowning. I didn’t even know I needed help until I disappeared into my headaches and other symptoms for weeks and then months.
I missed out on a lot at home and at work. There’s no waking up and stepping out of the door, no facing sunlit windows or backlit screens. I knew I was not okay. I was sinking like a lifeform without a lifeline; I was miserable, struggling with uncertainties, self-pity, disappointment, and guilt.
When I was referred to a psychiatrist, I came home with a diagnosis and prescription. Then I dealt with side effects that made me wish to split my head open and take out the parts that hurt.
Depression is a different kind of being sick to death. I can’t say there’s nothing worse because I know there definitely are. My wounds are just invisible, and I have no way of knowing where to apply the balm.
There were times when my chest tightened with anxiety, and my thoughts were channeling my vision inward. I wanted to believe that somebody else took over my body to live – and waste – my life away. I came to understand how people suffering from it felt powerless. They didn’t want to end their lives. They want to stop the pain.
Now I’m coping with pills in my hand and prayers in my heart. And it’s strange how something like this opened my eyes, because suddenly all I see are people trying to live a little longer.
I write, and I feel like I’m starting to heal – like I’m somewhat alive again. So even when I didn’t want to write this, I knew I had to because I’m not emerging from this experience unchanged. I’d like to be a safe space for others. I want my words to have the ability to comfort others and let them know they’re not alone.
(Knowing my family could—and most likely will—read this makes writing something like this easy and hard at the same time.)
Truth is: I’m scared to be vulnerable, to say things that will open me up to more uncomfortable conversations. But if I learned anything about my family and friends, it’s that people won’t leave you—especially not at your weakest. Instead, they will throw you a rope, or they tug at yours, until you find yourself again. And they will tie knots so they won’t have to be without you, and you will remain tethered to them. That way, you can pull each other along through tough times.
Your family and your friends will be the concerned voices in your head reminding you to drink water, take your meds, and care for yourself. They will gently admonish you when you hardly eat and forget to rest. They will be the ones hurting alongside you and praying for you. And they will also be the ones celebrating you.
I learned that in times of depression, it’s important to have a rope. Not so you can tie it around your neck and hang yourself, but so you can throw it out, extend yourself a little bit more, and allow yourself to be pulled along when people reach out.
I don’t know what cures depression, but I know now that some people will hold your hand through it because you are someone worthwhile. They will hold out a hand and let you know it’s there when you’re ready to take it.
And so, I want to be here and I want to get better. If you’re reading this, thank you for being a part of this journey. I want to say I love you in a way that someone loves the person who saved them from drowning.
If you could use one too, I’m tying each of these sentences to my heart, and I’m throwing the ropes out. You could hold on to the other end and tug if you need anything. Let’s find each other.
* Note: I hope you, your family, friends, and loved ones are all well. In these challenging times, let’s use our energies to take care of ourselves and each other.
If you or someone you know is struggling with depression, please know that you are not alone. There are many resources available if you need help. Please don’t hesitate to reach out to someone or seek professional help.
It’s important to know that the next step towards feeling better is simply talking to someone.
Eat healthy, stay hydrated, and keep safe.