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25.09.2022
The results for NHS Mood self-assessment test appeared on the screen:
Depression score 19/21
Anxiety score 18/21
A day before I was moving to London — a Victorian flat in the city centre and a job as a teaching assistant for students with special needs. While sipping on my coffee and a slice of blueberry lemon cheesecake, I’d be writing my poetry in a café at the side of the Thames. Borough market is where I’d buy fresh foreign flowers from for the slender ceramic vase sitting on my kitchen top, next to the lady-figured jasmine candle. Listening to alt singers, sitting cross-legged in a Sofar concert, I’d miss home and Indian men with Mohammad Rafi voices.
As I was saying, a day before I moved to London, I booked a one way flight to India. The immovability in the morning that pinned my body into the bed for 5 hours after I woke up, the fogginess, the indecisiveness at barista cashiers, the being lost in my own city, the not being able to speak, the stammering, all started making some sense. It still didn’t feel justified though.
The little time frame from when you realize about your pain and when the doctor diagnosis it, is every emotion you don’t deserve to feel but unfortunately, do. Unknown is the fact that so does every human, once in their life. To yourself, you’re weak, to others you’re self-victimizing. To yourself, unrecognizable. Others, lost. Yourself, zoned out. Others, irritating. Hurting. Ranting. Confused. Aloof. Shrinking. All over the place. At some point we learn to read the pattern, don’t we?
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“Beta, I just took an anxiety pill, can you sit on the other side of the aisle?” For once I could’ve believed this Indian lady if she told me she wanted me to sit on the right side aisle instead of the left, because of Vaastu. I don’t think anxiety can make you biased about direction of seats in an airplane. I was triggered by the audacity — how people have become progressive enough to use mental health illnesses as a lie into convenience. But, they still would shame at the idea of suffering with them. She didn’t for once think about anyone who might actually have anxiety. Six months later, it still boils my blood, thinking of all the panic attacks, medication, shaking, crying, spilled coffees, tears, running home, doctor appointments, rejections. If I could go back in time, I would tell her off instead of moving to the other seat.
Since that day, I’ve had the sad opportunity of listening to so many people with little to no compassion. Rejection of your emotions and worth as a human comes in before anything else. Those inclusive workplaces want nothing to do with you. Friends who you’ve hand fed don’t want the burden. At the speed of light, people back away, as if depression is an infection that you can pass on. And these very people come crawling as soon as you rise up. The worst is when you open up to someone because your therapist asked you to start accepting that you’re going through this, and they invalidate all your thoughts. They ask you to lay bare and leave in disgust. They say they can handle your pain and tell you, you’re mad. You’re viewed like this bomb that can burn their future down. You get rejected by employers, friends, family, love, and yourself; deeming you're unsafe. As if you’re not as human as them. As if it’s because you couldn’t handle what life threw at you. As if any of our journeys can be compared. As if they wouldn’t ever go through it.
And that’s just the beginning of what feels like the end.