AN OPEN MOUTH AND A HEALED HEART

This is probably the longest piece I’ve ever written. It is after all a story, a long one at that; and while I narrate in the first person, this is not my story, although, it could very well be. There is a lesson in this story, one which I found and embraced a long time ago. I hope you find it. I trust you will find it. Please do.

People talk about depression all the time. It’s everywhere these days; all over the internet especially, where it doesn’t take much for people to scream “I’m depressed!” when they’re called out on their bad behaviour (that’s fishy eh?). But yeah, depression is real, widespread and as serious as a heart attack.

Depression is defined as a mental disorder characterized by a prolonged period of intense sadness and a loss of interest in normally pleasurable activities causing significant impairment in daily life. There’s something called the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorder or simply DSM, currently in its fifth edition, which lists out key criteria for the diagnosis of mental disorders including depression, you can Google up on that to gain more insight into the topic (though I must warn you, the DSM was made by professional psychologists for professional psychologists and so can get super confusing).

The problem with the modern day in my opinion is that a whole lot of people seem to be proud of mental health disorders, wearing the tag like a badge of honor, almost like it confers upon them some super power of sorts. It doesn’t take much for internet folks, having shallow knowledge about a particular disorder to start tagging themselves as having that disorder just because they exhibit one or two traits characteristic of that disorder. Hence, you see people talking about having ADHD because they can’t binge watch a series, or having OCD, because they always keep things tidy, or having multiple personality disorder because they can mimic different characters, or having bipolar disorder because they have frequent mood swings. They do this without having ever met a psychologist in their life to actually diagnose them. Fact of the matter is that this tag wearing more often than not plays into depression too, and lots of times, people who are just temporarily sad over something not going right in their life, tend to tag themselves as being depressed, while they’re actually not. It’s either they know no better or they think being depressed is so cool.

Like I mentioned, depression is real, and there are a whole lot of people who actually suffer from depression. I will tell you that I’ve been in the caves of depression, and this is a story more or less about my first battle to escape that cave. But maybe like many of the internet people, I’m a “taggist” and what I thought was depression was actually me just being sad — you be the judge. Whatever the case may be, find the lesson in the story, pick the lesson in the story and apply it.

Some who know me, have heard this story. Not family. I can’t tell my family certain things. My dad could k!ll you for trying to k!ll yourself; my mum’s worry hearing that you tried to leave her would have you worrying so much that you lose your mind. My sisters would react similarly to my mum and then there’s my only brother who could understand really, but would he? So no, family has never been told.

The Story

2016 during the vacation period between third and fourth year of pharmacy school, I was to do my industrial training program. I was enthused by the prospect of that and looked forward to it. I went home, got a nice, cozy (or so I thought) community pharmacy within a week and started work. I won’t bore you with the details of what was arguably the worst October of my life, but one day stuck out and is very significant to the rest of the story. That was the day I defeated devil’s little Hermes urging me to swindle 6 packs of Swidon (nitrazepam) 5mg tablets which were unaccounted for in the pharmacy’s stock. I wasn’t a drug user, nor did I have a connection to users who would buy such, so I opted against playing finders keepers with those six packs and instead kept it for my not so nice boss so they could upload them on the system. That singular decision as we’ll come to see may be the reason I’m able to share this story.

Anyways, when I got back to start 4th year, everything honestly just didn’t feel the same. I felt fine, physically at least, but my mind was a mess. I honestly couldn’t tell you why it was; it felt like one of those itches that you just couldn’t scratch. I felt shallow, frustrated, angry. Oh!…Yes…yeah. There was the fact that my bff (you know, best friend till death do us part) was going through a really rough patch at the time and there was also my younger brother failing to get admission into school for what seemed like the 9 millionth time (ergo, why I felt he’d understand my suicidal tendency). These two things deeply frustrated me, but my self-discord went beyond that. I couldn’t place my hand on that itch, but I managed, I coped, in fact I was fine. Then along came trouble — Ponzi schemes!!!!!

I’ll always look back at 4th year, in fact the entire late 2016- early/mid 2017 as the year of the Ponzi, the year many made money, and many lost; lost a lot; like a lot; like lost ridiculously. It was real bad in ’17. Lil ol’ me invested in a couple of ponzis then. I invested basically all I had then (which when I look back at it, wasn’t a lot) in these schemes, and sat back, expecting returns 3-fold. At the end of the day, you know what I got in returns? Zero, nada, zilch, NOTHING! It wasn’t the loss of money that broke my heart. It was hanging on to the hope that I’ll get my gains, or at least, I’d salvage my capital. I got nothing and that was it. Frustrating right? Yep, but that was just one episode of my misfortune series.

December 2016, while everyone else was on Christmas holiday, I stayed back in school (I had no money to travel anyways). Went out one day, and came back to meet my house burgled — laptop stolen, phone taken, money taken, some other little home things taken — I couldn’t even tell you how I felt. To cap it off, in a bid to recover my lost money and now properties, I got duped off more money barely three days after the burglary (I swore for that guy in 42 different languages). So now I was completely at zero and I had to figure out how to replace the laptop, pay my house rent since I had lost most of the money to Ponzi, deal with classes, help my friend and…. Arrrrgghhhhhh!!!!… My head went nuts.

I imploded inside, not since my first days in school had I had to deal with so much on my plate at once. My already messy mind became messier and honestly things went dark up there. I won’t bore you with the details of my life during that period, but things weren’t good — which is ironic because no one seemed happier back then. But one day I was standing on the balcony of a building and looking down, I subtly mentioned to a friend that I felt like jumping, to which he responded “ah, guy you wan die?” and for the first time, that persistently annoying itch in my mind got it’s scratch. I got an awakening and came to the realization that yes, I did want to die.

For some reason, I had grown tired of life. This had absolutely nothing to do with my December disasters, but they for sure amplified the feeling. I was just tired — of everything, and philosophically saw no reason to life. For that period of time, I can say that I merely existed — a zombie. I woke up, I ate, I talked, I laughed, I went for classes, I ate, I slept, no I didn’t press phone cos I didn’t have one, I ate again, I slept again, I woke up again and the cycle continued. I did all of these routinely, but felt absolutely NOTHING. Life was meaningless to me.

I planned my suicide; I wrote several mental notes to mum and my sisters (I felt they would cope the least with my passing) and anyone else who truly loved me then and ultimately decided that no one deserved a note. There was no closure needed, there was no reason for my exit, I just needed to rest, and with each waking moment, that desire grew stronger. I analyzed all my options, how to go, where to do it to avoid a spectacle (wasn’t a pariah in life, and definitely won’t be one in death). I even analyzed how my conversation with God would go when I arrived at the silver city. I ultimately decided that drugs were the best way to go and I was well on my path home.

Redemption

Knowledge can be a very harmful tool. The knowledge I had was an atomic bomb, and I was Hiroshima. Let me tell you how my mind worked on the subject of suicide — Knife is too painful and messy, too much blood; sniper, well; only a fool sets himself on fire, drowning was…frustrating. With all these, there was also that chance that you didn’t die in the end, but had to live with some deformation or constant pain. I didn’t want pain… I wanted death.

Two sure death ways existed, jumping into a moving train/trailer (that would have been so easy if I were suicidal in 2019), or drugs. I opted for drugs and my pharmacy background helped me know just the right one to take me home. But there was a problem — while I knew the drugs, I didn’t have the drugs nor did I have access to the drugs I needed. I instantly regretted not playing finders keeper with those six packs of swidon (damn you conscience!!!).

Drug death was easy, mostly painless — they put you to sleep, you suffer respiratory depression while sleeping, and have an easy death. Sweet, yeah? But there is a catch — you have to take enough to actually take you home, and enough was a lot, especially with tablets, and I didn’t have the means or the money to buy a lot. I schemed and schemed and in a moment when I was stuck scheming, I guess I found redemption.

When you Google search the word “suicide”, or enter search phrases suggestive of a mind harboring suicidal tendencies, the first results you get are suicide helplines unique to your location. I ignored these helplines multiple times because I did not want help — I needed rest. You see I thought many times of how my family would feel with my passing, but I didn’t care — I needed rest. And while my resting plans stalled, help came.

On a fine routine Sunday afternoon, whilst in the “I talked, I laughed” section of my routine, I got into a serious discussion with someone I wouldn’t describe as a friend. At that time and even now, the best he would earn is a “na my guy be this” description. From intense laughter (mine superficial of course) talking random things, we somehow found ourselves talking about suicide and almost like he read me like no other person, he jokingly asked “you wan kill yourself?”, and to a question I would give no response to any other person, I responded “yes” with all seriousness to him. He laughed, then sighed, then sat up and started a story. He described his mind state some two years prior and how he had almost ended his life because of that ordeal. I understood his perspective, I related with his struggle — no, it wasn’t like mine. He was suicidal because of an ordeal, he had a story behind his sadness and in that sadness he wanted to escape life. I on the other hand, had a story sequel to my distorted mind, and that story further distorted my mind. So no, we were not alike, but I related with his feelings — feelings that had as at then passed.

After he narrated his story, I for some reason felt the need to narrate mine to him. I told him about the money I had lost, about the unanswered prayers for friends and family and about my mind just not being it. He listened keenly and almost like he was under an influence, spoke, not like a father, not like a friend, but like a counselor with a masters in psychology. He helped me recognize some deep seated trouble, the reason for my distorted psyche, and desire to rest. He spoke at length and ended his wise talk with his usual foolish laugh (I never got to tell him how annoying I found it). At the end of the day, for him, he had just had another talk with a friend; for me it was an awakening.

The next morning, I think I prayed when I woke up for the first time in a long time. I went out that day and for the first time in a long time, I stayed out till evening (Me 1 — PTSD 0). My thinking automatically became more focused. I sought solutions to all the problems I had then and no longer felt the need to rest. I meditated more, read more, laughed more, lived more and loved more. I solved my problems, found my redemption and put my life together.

Aftermath

Somehow, opening up, just the simple act of speaking had helped refocus my ailing mind. I had really wanted to go, but just sharing the burden I carried inside made me want to stay. I can confidently tell you that I am better now; often even boasting that nothing can wear my mind down ever again. These days, when I reflect back on those dark days, I realize that it was never about the words that were said to me. I didn’t get better because of that — yes, they definitely did help, but my redemption came from me.

When I chose to speak, rather than keep my thoughts hidden after listening to my friend narrate his ordeal, I lifted a burden off my chest. That singular action had earned this Atlas his freedom. I often reckon that if I had chosen not to open up, I would have stayed ill; mind distorted; and would have for sure ended up in the reaper’s book. But in opening up, I opened my door to redemption; I found my peace and I escaped the shackles of depression which had held me.

Since my recovery, I’ve dedicated my time to helping people who struggle like I did. Often, I come across people who do not even recognize that they need help. But what I see most times are people who need help, know inside of them that they do, but are either too scared or scarred to open up about their problems. I see lots of people walking about with a heart as heavy as the world (I know to recognize the signs of this because I have been there), and refusing to speak about their problems to anyone. These people carry a burden which eats at them, which causes them untold suffering and depression, and they just bottle all of it inside.

I often hear people say “I’d rather die than share my problems with people”, and I say to myself “how pitiful”. It’s not that I fail to understand where such thought process originates, but it is the fact that whatever event happened at the origin scarred the person so much that they fail to make an attempt to access their potential healing. There’s a particular truth to the saying that a problem shared is a problem half solved. The solution to whatever problem that may be, doesn’t always come from any particular tangible offering from the man at the other end of your story; but in opening up your heart to someone else, you open up your mind to accept a sort of magical healing. I say magical because I can’t explain it. I can’t explain how words which I had repeatedly heard on the radio gained more power to snap me out of my mental hell, when they came from my friend seating in front of me — but it did, and I have found the same to be true for a whole lot of persons I have come across, of which I have helped some myself, whilst for others, I’ve listened with great interest to their redemption story.

I recognize that my position on opening up seems anecdotal at best. I can argue that what is the harm in trying and you would retort with stories of people who have opened up and had their stories become the subject of cheap gossip. And it will be pretentious of me to say “find someone you can trust”, for I know how the mind works when in turmoil. But then there are people. If you’re religious, there are pastors or priests knowledgeable in the workings of the mind and not those who will boil down every problem to the clichéd evil spirits talk; there are psychologists to talk to, and yes, I do realize how expensive sessions can be. If you won’t talk to a pastor or psychologist, how about your mum — I reckon no one loves you more in this life. I know you do not want to burden her with your problems, you do not want her worrying, and that’s your mind telling you that it’s love. But what do you think happens to her if you should lose your mind and along with it your life?

I know that everyone has problems in this life. Even as I write this, I am not devoid of mine. But I have found a way to deal with it. When I know it’s getting to me, I pick up the phone, I call a friend and they ask “how are you?” and I respond “not fine” and then go on to rant about my troubles. Sometimes, they need not say anything, but just the act of ranting and letting them in gives me the strength to fight. Other times, simple words like “you will get through this” are all I need. I know it’s never easy to open up, but like I have said, there is truly a power behind it. I hope you come to recognize that the power to your healing more or less lies with you.

This is not me trying to take an over-simplistic approach to mental health therapy and paint it as a “speak and get better” ordeal. This is me rather telling you that when you open your mouth and let those words out, then you take the first step towards repairing your distorted mind — you take the first step towards healing your heart. Break protocol today, share that burden with someone, and if there is no one, share it with me and I promise you that you find your healing.

P.S: This is the individual opinion of the writer and may or may not represent the general views or opinions of RFCS Alumni Community members

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