“Let me ask you a question: what happens if an athlete injured their leg during their practice for an upcoming event? Do they continue to run on it and train it as hard as possible?”
I waited for a response that never came.
Then again, that was to be expected.
The office was unoccupied except for the multiple books on the shelves, the scattered psychological reports on the desk, a neighboring cup of coffee, and my presence.
Taking a sip from the cup and inhaling its bittersweet redolence - I continued as I read out loud from my notes of the last person I counseled.
“They don’t. Rather, they would always take the time to nurse it and care for it until it gets better, even taking rest days so their injury would heal. This situation applies to mental health as well. You can’t expect to overwork yourself in your studies as well. Your academics are important - that is true, but your psyche also matters.”
I remember seeing my client look a lot relieved upon hearing those words.
Now, if only I could also apply the advice I give to others in my life.
---
I sighed and looked at the window to my right as I prepared to leave and call it a day.
The cloudless skies are grey today.
Have they always been like this?
Had I always lived in a monochrome world of black and grey?
When was the last time I had seen color of any kind?
The last time when I felt energized and ready to take on the world?
The last time when I hadn’t spent at least five minutes after my alarm struggling with the urge to sleep more?
What even made me happy?
If you had asked me this question a few months ago, I would have answered, “my friend.”
Like every generic person does.
However, I’m not entirely sure.
---
She almost looked like a ghost. That was the first thing I noticed. She looked like me. That was the second thing I noticed. But her eyes were cloudy and dull. She limped on every step, with multiple large gashes on her limbs.
And she was always there for me. She accompanied me, leaving as soon as I stepped out of my office. Sometimes, she would drift silently and give unpleasant speeches about me. Sometimes, she’d still be by my side until I walked past the door of my home. The more time I spent with her, the more I felt uneasy.
“My name is Depression,” she introduced herself.
And that was the only time I’d seen her make anything close to a smile.
She was the only one I could confide in. Although my clients can depend on me whether they want to vent their emotions, I have no one to turn to. I couldn’t exercise without downing at least a few gallons of water. I had to be cooped up in my office all the time for work. And I lost all interest in the hobbies I used to have.
As much as fulfilling counseling work can be, it can be emotionally draining. I wanted to vent to my loved ones (“But wouldn’t they find you to be irritating and inadequate at your job?” she asked. “A therapist should learn to manage their own emotions after all.”).
Besides, I don’t deserve the help I get. As a therapist, I should also be able to take care of my mental problems.
Or at least, that’s what Depression told me as well.
Sometimes I wish I could be like the person I was before. A self-motivated, intelligent person who could stand up after being beaten down multiple times. Someone who could live her life without any worries. She was able to excel in everything, whether that be academically or socially. And there was me — an utter failure who couldn’t do any of this. I wonder, will my clients continue to seek me for help if they knew I was broken? (“They probably won’t.”)
I wonder when I started to live like this. Alone, with only Depression at my side.
Crying, with no one to turn to. Hurting, as I woke up fatigued every morning. (“What do you mean you’re distraught? You have no reason to be.”)
---
It completely surprised me when Depression waited for me at the step of the front door the next day. She didn’t wait to ask me for a trip to the neighboring coffee place. That was odd. I’ve never seen her drink anything before. Ever. This wasn’t a part of my plans, but I supposed it wouldn’t hurt to drink something that would keep me awake for the rest of the day.
“Don’t you find your job rather repetitive?” she asked. “You’ve said that it’s emotionally draining for yourself.”
Why did she ask that? Why am I even agreeing with this statement?
Before I could dwell on this, my alarm went off, and I had to rush to my office for an appointment with someone in emotional need.
And from here, the cycle of my life continues over and over: work, coffee break, home, and sleep. Is there any meaning to this at all?
---
The next day wasn’t as enjoyable. I stared out the window. Dark clouds covered the sky as their tears splashed against the windows. It was the weekend, and I couldn’t force myself to get up. I just felt the need to sleep in, not having any reason for why I should get out of my bed in the first place.
“Is it alright if I stay here for a while?” Depression asked, knocking on the door.
I walked to the door, opened it, and stared. “I never recalled inviting you.”
“And I never recalled you socializing with anyone. You told your last client that loneliness is as deadly as smoking fifteen packs of cigarettes daily. It would be great if you could follow your own advice for once.”
“Touché.” I sighed.
Something about her felt like a comfort zone to me, so I let her in.
She stared around and abhorred everything I owned. And I agreed with her, even though I previously never noticed how the books I read were boring and how bad my place looked. For some reason, I could open up to the person next to me.
We engaged in a conversation for a long time.
“For a moment, I wondered why you’re always alone. Now I can see why. It’s obvious. You’re not a captivating person yourself. It hasn’t even been a few minutes, and I’m already bored of your antics.”
Is this really how people envision me? My thoughts quickly overfilled with low self-esteem.
“Why do you look upset?” she asked, observing my change in expression. “I’m only trying to tell you the truth.”
I thought and thought. Nobody has called me “boring” to my face. However, I rarely engage with people other than my clients. And the people I talk to tend to be more animated when talking to others. They actually seemed interested in what others had to say instead of scrolling on their phones and avoiding my eye contact.
It is true - she’s only being honest.
---
My life is just meaningless.
I’ve worked hard all my life, yet I’ve accomplished nothing.
I don’t think I helped anyone in the long term, and I am always alone.
Am I never supposed to achieve my dreams or be happy at all?
Am I just someone with no purpose in the world?
Feeling tears well up in my eyes, I quietly wept. She poured me a drink, and I drowned my sorrows in it. Minutes of crying went by, and she still ignored me. I’m not physically ill, but I still feel tired and weaker than usual.
Can you please help me? I wanted to ask her.
However, I couldn’t avoid the truth that she was why I felt like this.
The levels of toxicity that she brought into my life were higher than I expected.
I had to ask her to leave.
She had to go.
That’s the bitter truth.
---
I shouldn’t give up on my life because she asked me to.
I shouldn’t walk away from my dreams because that’s what she wanted.
I shouldn’t spend the rest of my life being upset at every little thing because of her.
So I asked her to leave me alone.
I never screamed.
I never resorted to violence.
I just asked her to get out of my life for good.
---
And that was the last time I saw her.
From here, my path to recovery had just begun. However, it will take time before I can feel like the person I was before.
I need to get therapy.
Letting out a breath I hadn’t released I held, I reach out to my phone to dial the number of a psychologist in my area.
Perhaps, this is the next step I’ll take.
Butterflies have always been thought to represent personal transformation, haven't they?
I strongly remember writing that one in my sophomore year, when I was looking for creative outlets to express myself.
Depression still hasn't left me, but I have been finding ways to put up with it on my own.
I mean, if I had to face it alone the past seven years and survive - then I can surely do the same thing again and again with the support of people I've met and loved, right?
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