I’m Depressed, Not Broken (1).

“Someday I’ll feel no pain,
Someday I won’t have a brain,
They’ll take away the part that hurts,
And let the rest remain.”

That – that’s a glimpse into the world of the depressed. It’s a subject matter we don’t often hear discussed for fear of shame or the consideration of an outlier. This has been me on and off for the past nine years (plus a few months at best. My memory isn’t as astute as it once was). I remember the first time I noticed it; I started obsessing over death and wondering to myself, “What the fuck is wrong with you you stupid twat? There’s literally so much to be appreciative of in your life right now. Get your shit together and fix your damn self or go get the fuck fixed because this is not normal.”

“Fix me,
Fix my head,
Fix me please,
I don’t want to be dead.”

Every other second I’d recite this in my head trying to will it into an existential idea. Yeah, right, as if that shit works. I was trying to make my brain do cartwheels while it barely could walk. You can imagine how much that disillusion had me got. Believe it or not, it took a few months and a few erratic thoughts for someone to notice it enough to notice it enough to convince me to go see a psychiatrist. It took me dropping out of school (you should know, I was not attention seeking like 16 year old Valley girls) for it to be considered something “serious.” Because, which parent wants to have a dropout for a kid?

“Fuck, I’m crazy,
What will people think of me?
Why is this happening?
What magic pill can I take to get rid of this?”

At this point I was very self conscious because at that age, who isn’t? All you’re trying to do is fit the fuck in and have friends. Which is something I didn’t do too well even before that but couldn’t understand why. I thought it was going to be worse now that I’m “A Mathari case.” It didn’t help my case that I was seeing a Mathari psychiatrist. I wasn’t even in Nairobi and the stigma had me hit right below my 11th rib (maybe I was just feeling my to be wife’s pain, who knows). See, at the time there was more than a shortage of psychiatrists and clinical psychologists in the country. It was worse than it is now and the statistics right now are appalling at best.

“Will I ever get help?
Will it be sustainable?
Someone tell me this is a fable,
If not bring me the strongest cable.”

Suicide became real when I got dependent on antidepressants; I was a functional drug addict and I hated it. But of course they don’t tell you that when they’re prescribing the shit. My brain looked like the zombies from the walking dead, it existed for no purpose but to wait for it’s life to come to its demise. All day, all night all hours all I could think about was how much I want to die because this is no way to live; this isn’t who I was fucking destined to be. I was devastated and couldn’t take living any longer. Life was good believe me, I wasn’t suffering and I literally had nothing complain worthy. But then the fact that it was good and I felt like shit aggravated me even more.

“You have every reason to be happy,
That doesn’t suffice sadly,
Because all you see isn’t lively,
To top it all off, you feel not worthy.”

That’s what depression is, sadness in the best time of your life. Sadness for no fucking reason at all. Sadness you can’t fucking explain or even fathom. Consistent sadness for prolonged periods of time. Imagine losing your whole family in the transport van you took back from the wedding and you being the only survivor. But then you’re fully paralyzed and can’t move a single fucking muscle. Yet you’re fully cognizant of the goings on; you fully well hear what people are saying about you and can speak as well though you choose not to. Life becomes a malignant tumor to which death is the first line of treatment.


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