Mind Matters

The demons of depression were dancing in my head. Before reaching a crescendo, the crisis created by lived-trauma, bullying, teasing and name-calling had transformed me from a social to silent person. The change undid my image and kept me away from my friends and family. I became captive of my own dark dungeon.

Words pierce deep. I was in class 9 and playing in a local playground in my village. A squint eyed boy I was. When I was ready to face the bowler, another fellow sitting nearby commented, “the batsman is ready to play but he is looking towards the cover and mid-off.” Fourteen years have passed but I vividly remember how I was routinely made feel bad about myself. That is why I say, if you can’t talk sense, zip your lips.

I just froze and could not believe what he said. In that harrowing hour of my life, none could see beyond my sulking shell. People made fun of how I looked and what I wore and it affected my mental health. The lava accumulated in my brain and I could not help but cry. That was my terrible past. Allah, the Almighty is a table-turner. Things changed. Now, I can go to any expensive restaurant/hotel in India, have anything I want and purchase top brands. I am content with how I contribute and have zero regrets.

But then, when depression invaded my mind, it altered my life. By not speaking about it was to save myself from quick value judgments. When people run their mouths for heck of it, it touches my raw nerve. Such is the mental makeup of some sensitive lots. And I don’t think they deserve to be culled for being wired differently.

I was diagnosed with chronic depression. I felt lost and lazy. Overwhelmed with joy at one moment, I was crying bitterly the next. The sailor in me had suddenly become a castaway crew member in an anchorless ship. My self-confidence tanked. And yet I was assured: “You’re fine, Abid.” All those assurances sounded like the clichéd eco-chamber of the valley: “It’s ok. That’s how it was meant to be.”

But I was far from being ok. I was losing my mind. Sudden panic attacks made me blank, burdened and berserk. Bereft of a crying shoulder and a cushion support, the world looked dark, dull and dismal. As I became apprehensive and anxious, I repeatedly cursed myself for being a misfit. My head became a battleground of competing thoughts. Despite pouring my heart out to my friend, I was blaming my years of torment—allegations and accusations from all and sundry—for my miserable mindscape.

And yet, as a fight back response, I was trying to console myself that even the biggest and brightest of minds battled depression at some point in their lives. But the truth is, when you live with it, this mental agony feels different from those depression survivor accounts being celebrated for their life lessons and resilience. It feels like a messy misery, a real disease, pushing you in a bottomless pit. Even antidepressants hardly come to your rescue.

And while passing through a pitiful state and stage, I realized that depression isn’t only about constant crying inside the room. It’s like doing all your work like a normal human being but feeling empty inside. I carried that empty world with me for a long time. My mind wanted to die, while my body fought to survive. I struggled to smile and laugh. Even routine losses numbed me. My pills fleetingly altered my mental state without exorcizing ghosts of gloom.

Despite being gifted with willpower, the mental mess made me feel totally wasted — a withering, a wondering, and a wandering soul grappling with darkness. I became a victim of delusional perceptions and plunged into the self-imposed internment. In that morbid frame of mind, a day with depression was more than a bad day. I was drawn into a dragnet, where I was losing a fight back grip and grit. Small blessings in life became as tasteless as the tongue of a Covid-19 patient.

I became as lonely as those long incarcerated men who in their post-prison life hardly adjusted with society. I was an aimless soul drifting alone in the crowd. And the very feeling was cruel and crippling. I was the one motivating everyone with my work while battling with being loneliest. Something in me was dying every day. I couldn’t voice it as the culture of denial still exists in our community. We hardly talk about our mental health due to the stigma attached to it.

Plus, being male and depressive looks mismatched and invokes Chris Rock: “Only women, children and dogs are loved unconditionally.” A man dies every two hours due to this silent killer. Why is that? Why aren’t men appreciated for what they do? Just like many men don’t understand pre-menstrual syndrome or postpartum depression in women, the other side also doesn’t understand lows in our lives. Men also feel bad days and break down. Men should talk about it. There’s no machismo in masking this mind muddle. We all need help. If we don’t talk about it now, it’ll remain shrouded in stigma and force someone to prepare his own noose.

This mental health awareness week, let’s promote and encourage open and honest conversations about mental health, listen with empathy, offer support, normalize seeking help and practice self-care. I just speak up, so should you.