“Piece of shit. Stupid piece of shit. You’re a real stupid piece of shit.”
I’ve told myself to be honest, with myself and everyone else for this Academic Year 2017/18.
Here it goes.
I have depression. And anxiety too, but the stigma for that isn’t as great.
You all probably know this. Just putting it out there officially.
As I type this confessional, I recall many events since my childhood that masked all these issues.
In P5, I skipped out on the very day of my school’s Sports Meet fearing I wasn’t good enough, despite the fact I was just a reserve shot putter; the same year, my Math teacher asked me where my math exam paper was and if I stole it to bring home and I burst into tears out of fear of accusation. She made me stand outside class one morning after another round of interrogation, where the principal found me sobbing. She found it below her desk at home. She apologised one assembly and I remember my (jesus-fuckin-christ, rehearsed) response was of nonchalance. “It’s okay.” I wonder how she’s doing. I wonder if she still feels sorry.
In JC, I shrieked, tantrum-like, in the middle of the class benches over an argument about screen resolutions.
Another time, I sat for an Econs prelims and just stared at the paper, tears in my eyes, willing the words to appear but hearing the choir of “I’m not good enough” instead. I wrote all of 2 lines in an hour. The teacher referred me to a consultation with another excellent teacher, who very patiently helped me relearn every topic that got choked up somewhere in the u-bend of my mind. I ended up managing to get a D for A Levels, which was honestly a source of pride because 1) it gave me a straight for my A-Levels results and 2) I’d only done 2 mini-essays out of the 4 (2-long 2-short) required.
In Army, it manifested in new, then-unfamiliar feelings: such as mild panic attacks as I formed up to get on the bus to Tekong; or in Unit, as we laid in our bunks awaiting our moving out at midnight, my heart pounding steadily for hours on end with the creeping fear of Fucking Up. I tried to seek help in Army. My PC laughed at me, I stopped and I dismissed my issues for a year.
Mornings in the unit was a depressed haze which my buddy mistook for grumpiness. I’d never corrected him because I thought he didn’t care and was probably right.
Till this day, confrontations launch my vision into wild static and I get honest-to-God dizzy even as I wrestle back control of my mind.
They manifest as a haze. I feel mentally slow as all fuck all the goddamn time. I catch myself grinding my teeth when late for something or confronted. It’s beer cans stacked up next to my monitor. It’s a laugh and beating myself up afterwards for sounding like an idiot. It’s glancing at the mirror as I leave the toilet and hating myself just for existing.
Every time I meet a massive change in environment, I get a massive stress migraine for a night.
I sought my first round of professional help in Uni year 1. I felt small and broken in the big-boy clinic. I’ve had two rounds of sessions thus far.
The last time I felt truly good and normal at last was a week ago when I had a Bailey’s Milkshake and lived the rest of a day in an alcohol-induced high where I thought I was cured for I had the ingenuity to not overthink. I texted everyone I knew and proclaimed my new me. My brother ignored my excited ramblings and still claims we aren’t close.
I woke up the next morning with the black dog of depression still snapping at my heels.
Nowadays I watch Bojack Horseman and learn to mentally vocalise the negative thoughts you can wave away instead of letting them sublimate directly into a shitty feeling that you… just accept.
“You’re a stupid piece of shit.”
It’s been working great. I don’t think I am.
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