Dear Diary,
It's been two years since I wrote to you. Those two years have not been easy for me. I've been trying to survive and exist in the world. I've been trying to not let oblivion swallow me.
Today is my birthday and I woke happy. That hasn't happened in a very long time. I do not know the reason behind my happiness. All I know is that I woke up smiling and I like that very much.
Those were the first words I wrote on my diary after two years of ignoring it. It’s one of the things depression does to you. You ignore things you used to do and things you love till they fade away. This is the first time I’m writing about my journey publicly. I’ve been wanting to do it for sometime now but I kept pushing it away. Sometimes, I write in second or third person to divert the attention away from me. But today, I’m ready. So, get a snack and relax.
I had my first major episode in 2014. Before then, it was just flashes. The episode lasted for weeks. Funnily enough, I didn’t know I was depressed. I thought it was one of my mood swings. I was staying with only my Mama at the time. I’m this kind of person that if I don’t want you to know something about me or what I’m going through, you never will. I can mask my feelings pretty well. I think it came from years of standing up to bullies who believe you can’t be a woman and be pretty and smart at the same time. So, I was living under the same roof with my Mama and she didn’t know. I had finished secondary school and written my SSCE (Senior School Certificate Examination) two years before. I graduated from computer school the previous year and was waiting for a university admission. Basically, I had two certificates and I refused to do anything with any of them. I sat home everyday and brooded. That’s what I thought I was doing anyway; brooding.
It’s tough. The first time I walked into a GP's office in a government owned hospital and told the doctor I was depressed - all I wanted was to be referred to a psychologist or psychiatrist as the case may be. All I wanted was to sit face to face with a professional and talk. He asked me some questions about my life, my routine, if I have abdominal pain which I was actually having a lot of then and sent me to the lab for blood tests. That was after he glanced at my file, asked me what could possibly be making me depressed at 22, and told me about Jesus. I walked out of the hospital, went straight home and cried myself to sleep.
Over the years, I’ve been too scared to talk about my struggles openly. It happens when you read the nasty things being said to mentally challenged people, also when you live in a society that’s so ignorant about these things. They tell you to fight it and suck it up. They tell you to give your life to Christ. They tell you it’s punishment for your sins. I’m Catholic and there are things I will never say to people. The above is one of them. Mental illness is not a joke. It takes little persuasion and the person is over the cliff. How exactly do you tell someone who has a bipolar disorder to suck it up? Sometimes, they sleep and wake up with traces of blood on their wrists where they cut themselves. They do these things without being aware. How do you tell someone who’s thinking about the easiest way to die to man up? Do you know that most times, they do not know any other way to live. The pain is all they recognise so they hold on tight, even when help is staring them in the face.
Have you known pain so deep you're scared of losing it? You feel it's claws pushing you under, suffocating you, yet you can't let go. The light is right in front of you, beckoning but you hold on tight. Because pain has become a part of you. It has burrowed deep you do not know how to feel any other thing. So you clutch it with everything you've got.
No, not physical pain.
On 14th February this year, that’s Valentine’s day, people were writing about love and happiness but I was doing something else. I was writing about death, tying stones to my feet, drowning and how to stop feeling. Something happened when I was writing that. Usually, I write and write till I get tired. Sometimes, I tear it off, other times, I just leave it there. This time, I was writing with my brain. I was very aware of what I was doing. There was no numb feeling. I just poured it out. I don’t know if this is good sign though, all I know is that I haven’t had a nasty episode this year.
There was a time writing used to work for me. I pour it out on a page and I’m fine. It stopped working. I write it down and it’s still there. There was also a time I did other things to forget. Some people drink, some play loud music, some get high, some use antidepressants, some turn to sex. Don’t ask what I did, you don’t want to know, trust me. Now, what I do is talk to someone. I have a friend on speed dial. I can spend the whole day talking to her and she’ll just sit and listen. You know, people will tell you to see a professional, what they won’t tell you is that each session costs a lot of money. You pay per hour or session and it isn’t cheap. What then happens to those who cannot afford one?
These days, I always know when an episode is hovering over my head, so I can categorically tell you that I’m fine. I’ve worked out a routine and it works perfectly fine for me. I have one request though, always watch people close to you for signs. Talk to them too.