Seek mental help & talk about it
Take it from me: The first time I was sent to therapy, I was sent with a promise that if in 2 sessions the doctor feels me fit enough to not need therapy, I will not be made to go.
For my first session, I went with an agenda. I made a list of all the happy things I would talk about. I would be so normal, so happy. I cried 2 hours straight in that session. I continued therapy for 2 years after that. Took medicines for clinical depression and anxiety. I started therapy again last year. I take medicines for PTSD. This was the best decision of my life.
There is nothing for me to say about this that has not been said before. Maybe I should leave it at this, but my favorite author once asked me to write because “in these circumstances, silence would be indefensible. So those of you who are willing: let’s pick our parts, put on these discarded costumes, and speak our second-hand lines in this sad second-hand play. But let’s not forget that the stakes we’re playing for are huge.”
We know Suffering. We know different faces of it, anxiety, pain, deep sadness, and numbness. Some inexplicable. So hard to explain the suffering of loved ones. My suffering, I have no other way but to suffer, but it beats unconscious some parts of my soul to see others suffer. What do you do, so helpless, futile your existence.
I see overlooked or condemned laziness, not-caring-enough, lethargy, neurological problems, stubbornness, and just seeking attention that are probably deep-rooted mental issues that need/deserve help. And I see people pushing the last strands of their being in “I have to be strong”, and “maybe I am doing this to myself”. In ‘how can anyone help me deal with my problem’. And honestly, yes, you are very strong, you can help yourself but seek help. There are people in the world who have chosen it to be their JOB, who have studied it painstakingly for years, they know what to, if not how to help with, and where to help. And I repeat, they are like the teacher who simplifies a problem, and shows a formula sheet, not dictate the answer. To show better ways of beating the enemy than to man up against it, or push it in the cupboard and wait for it to suffocate itself to death.
Most of this help is expensive and you still deserve it, I swear. Some of the little people I know are fighting their parents, borrowing money to go for therapy because they see the benefit in it and they are smart kittens. You will gain so much more than you invest in it, I promise. A new way of looking at life, and feeling, is worth anything you can put in.
Talk about it:
It is the hardest and the most important thing you will do. Remember ‘eudemonia’ that Aristotle talked about, it’s multi-dimensional happiness, which cannot be achieved individually, like Nirvana, in spite of the world. It’s the happiness that needs the world to fall in place and participate. Psychological help is like that, multi-dimensional.
My sister and I talk about our ‘disorders’ let’s call them that till we find a better book to teach us. We talk about them and the help we take for them. The goods of it, the bad. We discuss amongst ourselves the responses this talk elicits. It’s exhausting to even type this; I can feel tears form at the back of my eyes. Half of the suffering of going through a mental issue is the secrecy we are shown we must keep. The weight of anticipated judgment is like a puppy that refuses to budge from the spot he likes. You can pull it, but you are careful to not hurt its neck in the process. You have to tread carefully. Tell slowly. Be vulnerable. Be vulnerable inside the dotted lines. Not too much, because every time you talk of it, you are risking a symbolic slap in your face, a punch in your gut, a hand choking you at the neck, or just someone digging a nail into your skin.
Some of the responses I have heard, some borrowed:
When I talked about an anxiety episode and cried in the kitchen “Did you recently break up?”
“Please don’t talk about it, it’s giving me goosebumps.”
“But why did you have panic attacks in the Netherlands? You could have done this when you came back to India.”
“Drink water. Just drink water.”
Palm on chest, head tilted, softly “How bad. Are you able to work?”
“She is just doing it for attention.”
How lucky would I call myself if the only problem in my life were a break-up, a boy? If I could just postpone my panic and have it home, during summers when cousins come. If pity was a good form of empathy, like a hug or a holding hand. Or if there was not a disorder that made people suffer for attention. Because suffer they do. And I got a call from my sister 5 days ago, weeping. Saying she is done, she is tired. Her strong will that did not crumble at being called “fucked-up in the head” had crumbled at “I was able to seek help because I saw you make an example of it.” She created coping mechanisms for hate and was left defenseless against the love.
The jar of ‘I can take it for the greater goal’ was full and was overflowing from her eyes. When she was done crying, I cried. We cried our dissonant worries of a cause while being adults, who were brought up to care for others’ opinions. But when we were done, we went on, told more people of our sufferings, hers, mine, mother’s father’s, best friend’s, and the sufferings of a caregiver. The books we read about them. The doctors we meet for them. The victories we win over them every day. When we go to work, do laundry. Eat.