I was reading one of Alice Bradley’s blog posts yesterday about her struggle through depression when I felt strangely…jealous.
No. I don’t think depression is something to be jealous about nor do I think it’s some kind of a great situation. I am jealous for she was able to look for help and talk about her conditions freely.
In a country where mental health discussions are still very much weighted with all sorts of stigma and many with severe mental conditions are shackled by their families (Read about them here), being ‘depressed’ is not an option. (Well, as much as you can help it, that is).
You may not feel fine for no apparent reason. You may have lost your appetite. You may feel like moving your limbs is the biggest chore in your life. But as far as anyone around you is concern, you are just tired and with enough prayers you will be just fine.
But pray as you may, sleep as you may, sometimes.... things just don’t get better.
Someone close to me was so miserable after childbirth that the family organized regular praying sessions for her when what she needed was probably some pills to help her through the severe baby blues. As the praying sessions continued, she jumped off her balcony. She survived the jump and have numerous metal pens installed in her shoulders and hips.
According to Wikipedia, depression is a state of low mood and aversion to activity that can affect a person’s thoughts, behavior, feelings, and physical wellbeing. It may include feelings of sadness, anxiety, emptiness, hopelessness, worthlessness, guilt, irritability, or restlessness.
When my father left our family in my adolescent years, I went through a bout of self-destructive times. My mom would find me in the room with my head shaved bathed in my own tears. Anger fits. Constantly looking for ways to hurt myself physically. In one of the diaries I kept during these years, I wrote, “I feel the constant need to seek for physical pain as it diverts my attention from the pain I feel inside…”
I was 16 then. My mom is a German-trained doctor. She knew more than most that I needed help. She took me to a psychiatrist. In a mental institution. The white washed walls, the screaming of the ‘really-crazy’ people scared the living daylight out of me. I remember walking into his office. He looked so old to me at the time. He was probably in his fifties but he might as well be one of the pre-historic characters to me. He asked me to do endless tests. Drew endless meaningless drawings. I wanted to get better. I wanted to be listened to. But that was one thing he never seemed to be interested in.
After a few weeks of these, he then called my mom in, delivered his analysis: “extreme heart breaks, anger and disillusionment, inability to control conflicting desires” and prescribed a long list of meds.
When it was obvious that this would be our last session, I asked him what was wrong with me. His answer was simply: “Your brain is working too fast for your own good.” (what the hell does that mean?) and the meds was going to “slow it down”.
I took the meds for a few days and realized how it made me apathetical. It puts me in a bubble where not even the sounds I made myself can even penetrate. It was unreal.
I promised my mom I won’t try to hurt myself again. Told her I’m feeling much better. Told her lively stories. Forced a smile in the morning. Kissed her goodnight. Behave. And I was allowed to be off the meds.
But did I really feel better?
No. I don’t think I have ever REALLY felt better.
Fast forward.
A decade later.
After 16 hours of labor, I miraculously just gave birth to a baby girl through an emergency C section.
“She looks like an alien” I remember thinking to myself at the time.
And boy, did she cry.
She cried and she cried. Nothing I nor anybody did seem to soothe her. I carried her all day and all night for as long as my limbs allowed me to. I offered her my breasts which she chomped on until it bleeds and lost its shape. I sang to her until my voice is course. I yelled at her in despair. But she just kept on crying.
I cried whenever she cried. I cried in the shower, I cried as I carried her around the house. I cried with every sharp pang of pain that ran through my body as she sucked on my breast.
I was miserable.
If I were somewhere else, they might call it “post-partum depression”. Instead I felt guilty for not feeling the overwhelming love towards this crying blob. Instead I was made to believe that it was something I did. That somehow if I were a better mother, she would not have been crying as much.
So I spiraled down. I didn’t shower for days. I loathed the very sight of me. I forgot why I wanted to have a baby to begin with or how she gets to be in my life.
All this when she was only seven days old. I just didn't know how I would be able to survive a life time of this.
But things do get better.
We took long walks together. My breast grew calloused and the pain subsided. I hid everything that resembles my pre-baby life. And I stopped looking at the mirror.
As I became calmer, so was she. The little blob found solace and peace in the nook of my shoulder. I gave up trying to put her down and allowed her to become an extended part of me. I exchanged all the fancy strollers with simple baby carriers that put her on her favorite place on my chest. I learned to breastfeed as I walk. To eat, cook, clean, and work with her on my chest. I gave up the thought of being ‘me’. The new ‘me’ is a package of me and this bundle I now call my daughter.
The ‘Super’ attachment parenting came with its benefits, no doubt. We become so close and most of the time I can anticipate her needs before she needed to cry about it. The less crying she does, the more we have time to enjoy each other’s company.
She is now almost eight. An independent bright young lady who still comes for a cuddle in my bed at least once a month.
Did I feel fine then?
Yes, perhaps. But I had forgotten what feeling ‘fine’ really feels like.
I would have days where I plunge into the deep darkness, flailing for help, screaming with no one to listen, wishing to be six feet under.
But as fate has it, my job as a journalist puts me in close contact to death. And being so up, close, and personal to it, makes it feel silly to actually wish it.
This is the time where we’re supposed to fast forward again.
A nice quaint house surrounded with young families. Financially, we’re finally living comfortably. Kids are happily in school.
And I was miserable.
My soul is empty and restless.
I couldn’t sleep.
I spent my sleepless nights crying for reasons I can’t describe.
I found yoga. I did it everyday, two sessions a day, immersed myself in it so deeply waiting for that enlightening moment.
It never really came but it tires me out enough to put me to sleep.
I scrutinized every pose and kept a journal on how each pose made me feel. Cross-referenced it with the ancient history of that particular pose. Trying to find some correlations to justify my feelings.
In between my practice, I cried. I cried, throw myself regular self-pity parties, then bounced into a state of euphoria that would last anywhere from a day to a few months before the cycle repeats itself.
I took online tests to measure my own mental state. Not happy with the result, I would lie on the test. (Yes, not very noble indeed).
I went counseling and spent a fortune to have someone listens to me. When I feel a growing attachment towards my counselor, I stopped.
So when I read the blog post yesterday, I cried for I feel how Alice is feeling and I cried for I wish I too could one day feel “Fine”.
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