I cannot remember the last day I stepped on my old self. More than a year ago, I began being vocal about how different I was beginning to feel. I spoke to my dermatologist, who I began feeling comfortable talking about my life, and my ex boyfriend about it and began expressing how I felt. I thought that it might be something hormonal to which I also thought contributed to my growing skin problem during that time. I had so many questions inside my head and I wanted answers to the growing uncertainties. I asked about the possible effects of suddenly going on a halt on the pills I was taking during that time. I was self-diagnosing. I contemplated about the possibility of any possible medical explanation that might have contributed to what I felt, leaving mental illness at the end of the long line of things I would consider.
I knew I was “sad” but I wouldn’t really want to label it as being “depressed”. I constantly cried each night, barely had the energy to sleep or feel wake. To best describe it, I was keeping myself at auto-pilot or feeling like a zombie most of the days. I felt like that for quite sometime even before I was diagnosed. I can’t seem to trace the last day I felt “something” for my life. I was full of life but the next day I wasn’t. Everything was in grey scale. For me, it was worse than black and white. Dark shades with no hope of light. I wanted to go back to who I was but the slope was the depth of grand canyon in proportions, steep–but without the beauty and the grandeur. The space inside one’s head, majestic but lifeless. You start questioning all the “freeness” inside your head. Your thoughts race. Your life seems purposeless no matter how much effort you dig the word “sense” and “self”, “faith” and “hope”. You “try” to win your battles everyday and hold on to every triumph but every slip of FAILURE becomes a landslide that buries you deeper to a landfill. There is no climbing up once you fall to the pit. The word failure sits like a period at the end of each racing thought. FAILURE. FAILURE. FAILURE even when there is nothing to fail about. Then comes constant Fear and the Anxieties of Failure and Depression (To which I admit I still feel most of the time). FAILURE, FEAR, ANXIETIES, DEPRESSION.
Depression is a senseless pit of pain. It is a parasite that lives through the vitality of life. A crab that pulls you down just when you’re about to successfully go out the bucket. It is a blackhole that sucks you for no apparent reason. The day I started slipping was the day I realised I might never gain back what I did, the things I loved and who I was. It was painful to think but it was only then that I realised too that I need to accept where I am in. Maybe some people grow gracefully knowing where the lines on the palms of their hands will take them, while some not. Perhaps the lines mean nothing and here I am deciphering through thin air, pushing myself too hard to deliver or prove something to no one. Perhaps I need to lean how to accept my life’s uncertainties, embrace the lessons and let go of the failures.