In the few hours since
I posted on my blog yesterday, about my decades’ long fight with depression, I
I knew I was doing all
that I could to stay away from my computer. Because if I touched it, I will be
tempted to delete the post.
That is what
happens when you keep a secret hidden for long. That secret becomes one with
your skin. You feel naked without it. Just like I did.
But then, when I
finally did get back to my laptop, I was overwhelmed with the responses waiting
on it. Comments and messages from people who have been through or are going
through the same agony; congratulating me for taking the hardest step in this
journey. For the first time since the morning, I could breathe normally again.
I wrote a short story
a while ago wherein the main character suffers from depression. At one point
the character actually thinks this to herself…
“I remember lying
there, wondering if it would have been better if I were afflicted with
something more tangible. Something people could see and hence believe me and
help me. One of my aunts had cancer and the whole world rallied to support her.
A friend from school had an accident and was bedridden for months. Her husband
was by her side the entire time. I wish I had something like that. Poisonous
cells. Broken limbs. Something that people can see and sympathize with. Because
they surely don’t understand or have any sympathy for a heart slowly getting
engulfed in a darkness it can’t seem to escape or explain to others.”
It was only
after I finished writing those words and they stared back at me from the white
screen of my laptop, did I realize it how monstrously huge they were.
It wasn’t my character
who was saying this. It was me. Not as the author. But as a victim. I was
disgusted beyond words. Of the many things we humans aren’t capacitated to
handle well, helplessness is definitely somewhere on the top of the list. Our
entire life, the very existence of our species is predicated on the idea
of survival of the fittest. We crave power. We live our life
pursuing it, in the form of money, fame, success etc. And then to suddenly
realize how powerless we truly are, in the face of a certain darkness that
emerges from nowhere else but within us? And that there is very
little we can do about it. The realization is enough to break the strongest of
the spirits.
Another spirit broke
yesterday. Another celebrated artist, Chester Bennington, lost his fight with
depression. And while that news was breaking on the television, I was
going through the barrage of messages and confessions from the people reading
my post. For a moment I was saddened, reading about so much pain, everywhere.
About the sheer number of my friends and acquaintances, battling the same
monster which I was, under the calm facades of their daily lives. How did we
all not know this about each other? Why didn’t we talk to each other sooner?
But then I remembered how long it has taken me to talk. And I reminded
myself that they will too, when they are ready.
I hope they are ready,
sooner than later, though. Depression is sadly far graver an epidemic than any
of us would care to admit. And regrettable as that fact is, there is an odd
comfort in that too. In knowing that we’re not alone. Let’s use this
strength in numbers to our advantage. Talk. Without shame. Without fear.
Shame and
Fear. Two deterrents that do not let us speak up. Shame about owning up
our vulnerabilities. Fear about how this confession would impact our lives and
how the world would react to it.
Let me just say this,
from my personal experience. Owning up that you are suffering from depression
is, or at least should be, as clinical and as normal as owning up that one has
diabetes. Would a diabetic person feel shame in talking about her condition? It
is merely a function of the fact that their pancreas isn’t working as well as
it should. Similarly, depression is a sign that one’s mind, one’s spirit needs
some help and healing to function better. It is as simple as that. And we
should always remember that.
Fear of how this
confession would impact us is a bigger issue, I agree. We have our jobs, our
families to think about. But let me ask you this – are we really able to do our
jobs well by not talking about our problems; by not allowing ourselves the time
and the space to heal? No. And if someone cannot handle us being honest about a
medical condition we are suffering with, then it is more of their problem than
ours. Also, if you’re worried about how the ones close to you would react to
it, let me tell you this – If you have been suffering from depression for a
while and the ones around you have no clue, then they are probably not as close
to you as you think. In which case, do really matter?
But let me share
another important thing here, something I can vouch for from my personal
experience. Sometimes the people around us aren’t intervening only because they
aren’t sure whether we are ready for it, or of how they should go about it.
Remember, a dog cannot see a rainbow. But it doesn’t necessarily mean it would
refuse to believe that it exists when you show it to the dog.
Try talking to the
ones that matter to you. More often than not, if you truly matter to them too,
they would see your pain. And try to help in whatever way they can.
So let them in. The
first step would have to come from you. I agree it is unbearably hard. But
is the suffocation you feel inside any less hard to bear?
PS – I know I said
that the post today was going to be about High-Functioning depression. But
looking at the sheer volume of confessions that I have received from people
since this post went live,
I had to make a plea to them first, to reach out, to speak up.
More posts about
symptoms, about healing strategies and coping mechanisms which friends and
fellow-sufferers have been kind enough to share, will follow soon.
