I have tried for so long not to talk about it, to just brush it off and make myself believe that “mind over matter” works and I just have to toughen up, and that with the pandemic happening around us, I can’t simply afford to admit that something has gone terribly wrong inside me.
In 2017, I was diagnosed with dysthmia or persistent depressive disorder. It isn’t as acute as having one major depressive episode, but the symptoms can last for a couple of years before being diagnosed. In my own experience, it’s me telling myself for two years that my symptoms can’t be classified as serious as depression.
I started noticing the changes in how I view most things in my life as early as 2015 but I didn’t have the nerve to seek help then. I brushed it off, thinking I could deal with it without having to share it with another soul, let alone a psychiatrist. It started with the usual symptoms that every Google search about depression will tell you: frequent mood swings, overeating, losing interest on work and previous activities and hobbies that I liked doing… until one day when I realized I’ve been thinking about my death a lot more. Nobody knew. To me, it just felt like I’m harboring this dark secret that I can’t seem to rationalize.
“I don’t know if I’ll consider it as suicidal thoughts. Sometimes I’ll be walking on an overpass and the thought of ‘what if I accidentally fall and die’ will be in my head the entire time,” I said to my psychiatrist.
I never thought about harming myself (which I’m always thankful for). I never found myself thinking of ways or formulating an actual plan on how to harm myself and get it over with. But the thoughts about me dying, the thoughts about how peaceful and quiet it may be for me to just disappear and how I should probably start preparing my finances for the people that I’ll leave, especially my mom, started to come to me more often than I liked. That’s what rang the alarm bells in my head that I should probably seek help.
I walked out of my psychiatrist’s office finally admitting to myself that I’m no longer who I used to be. For the first couple of days, I’ll be too nauseated from the anti-depressants that I almost couldn’t function at work even with a very low dosage. After two weeks, I decided it’s best to either just go to therapy or help myself with other activities. Stubborn as I am, I chose the latter.
It worked for a while. I was productive at work, I enjoyed taking improv classes and performing, I started going to the gym, I looked forward to traveling once or twice a year all by myself. The dark thoughts will still come to me and there will be days when I couldn’t muster up the courage to get out of bed, but I was surviving. Nobody knew but I was surviving.
Cut to mid-2018 when my life started to shift. My mom and my aunt were both diagnosed with cancer. A year later, I lost my job with nothing much left from my savings and nobody knew for the longest time. I lost a dear friend to cancer. Another year later, the pandemic happened. I watched my aunt succumb to cancer and lost another loved one.
To say the least, the past three years went nuts and I couldn’t find my way back. I started having panic attacks. My anxiety went through the roof. The days that I would lock myself up in my room got longer. My mind would spiral out of control, thinking of all the worst case scenarios. Every day before logging in to work, I will feel a lump in my throat. All I can think about is that someone will find out that something is wrong with me — that I am not performing well at work and that I’m not good enough to be there — which I also believe to be true because I couldn’t function at all. I could no longer respond well under pressure. I couldn’t find any joy in what I’m doing. Every night I felt drained, like I needed a way out. I thought to myself, this isn’t how I want to live, but I felt so helpless that I just wake up and do the same routine over and over. There were times when I had to lie about being sick. I wasn’t physically ill. I couldn’t tell them that I couldn’t breathe every time I try to get out of bed. I will just lie there, cry, and wish that I can just disappear so everything will go away. I had three major depressive episodes in the last year where I cried myself to sleep because I didn’t want to wake up anymore. I didn’t conjure any plan on how to do it but my what ifs turned into wishful thinking. The “what if I accidentally fall and die” turned to “I don’t want to wake up anymore.”
And I’m sad. I never admitted this before but there’s this deep sadness in my heart. I never truly understood what people said about being in that dark place until today. Old pictures on my phone will sometimes pop up as “memories” and I can no longer recognize myself in them. I can’t think how I used to be that person… and how I turned to who I am now. I’m writing this not because I have a solution. I don’t know how to find my way back or how to move forward. “Mind over matter” doesn’t work anymore. I can’t snap out of it. All I know is that I have to finally let it out there — maybe not to my family and friends (I can’t do it yet) — but just writing this and admitting to myself that I am not okay.
