The hardest part of depression is denying its existence - by W.J.J.

Essay Title: The Two Sides of My Mirror: Sick and Healed 

Consolation Prize – AA20

By W.J.J., a Degree student-inmate from institution TM1

Who is the sickest person but the one who thinks he is healthy? 

That was my old self. I was infected with a disease not of the body, but of the heart and mind. It was an illness no medical scan could detect, because it dwelled in the nebulous reaches of my brain – depression. 

The hardest part of depression is denying its existence. I could not look at them irror to say, “there is my wound of depression”, nor could I tap at my neck and tell a doctor it hurt there; in reality it hurt nowhere – and everywhere. There was no one to tell me feeling this dismal and hopeless was a condition, and so I denied my illness and thus my remedy. 

My friends, teachers and family all noticed a negative shift in my life, as my cheerful disposition became a mercurial, tetchy one; but my hubristic self defiantly rejected any suggestion that I was sick and needed help. Who were they to diagnose me? I did not know I was digging my own grave in the dirt of depression. Deep in my heart, there it was, festering, growing, consuming my life I thought was in my control. 

I stood tall, but behind me grew shadow of sadness so towering and suppressive, that eventually I cowered under it, and fell into its black embrace, fettered by chains of unwillingness to seek help. 

All the while, I was planning to end my life. 

Cancer poisons the body; depression poisons the heart. The sickness of depression guided my mind to suicide, an attempt, absurdly, that ended up with me taking another life. It took more than a life – it swallowed the happiness of the victim’s family, it devoured the peace my family cherished, and vanquished the hope I had in myself. 

I cried. I wept for friends I once cherished, the family I did love. In all this I did not forget, that though I fell into the gaping black hole of depression, it was blood upon my head that I had taken another life; I had committed black evil little could recompense. 

Jesus said: “Those who are well have no need for a physician, but those who are sick.” By the grace of God, when I was wasting away in depression, I found the path of healing. 

The healing came in stages. First it was my family that reached out to me, even as I pitiably thought I was forsaken. Despite my brokenness, they loved me deeply, and they were willing to look past my crime and my mental health issues, to see the son, grandson, brother, that would always be family. What walls of indifference could not be demolished by such unwavering love? 

And then it was friends that rallied to write to me, composing letters of love to rescue me from the pits of despair. When you are depressed you think that nothing matters; the least yourself. But these friends – their affection and support told me I was precious in their eyes, more than an illness – I was their friend. The love softened my aggrieved and hardened heart, and gifted me a curing solve to soothe my mental wounds. 

A patient needs treatment to recover, and I had mine in the form of psychotherapy. To my harsh and impetuous self, my counsellor, Dr Siew, told me the meaning of life could only be found through living it. The darkened recesses of my mind, besmirched with despondence, awakened to hope through his soft counsel and encouraging presence. 

The journey of healing was not sojourned alone. It was family, friends and counsellors that walked by my side, carrying me when I was weak, lifting me up when I stumbled, and urging me forward when the going was tough. A man falls into depression solitarily, but the way back up is lined with supporters who cheer him on, unceasingly and fervently. Until even the man knows he must get up and live, and continue. 

On this side of the mirror; my new self, shed of the pretences of vainglory, knows how to reach out his hand to hold on to the people I love and who love me – family, friends, and God. He does not hide or dwell in the skulking shadows, but stands in the light and casts away the blankets of depression. For he knows in the light the shadows flee and weaknesses are revealed, but only so that he can become stronger. 

Looking back, I do not flagellate the reflection of my younger self. How would I know the zenith of health without first falling to the nadir? It is when you fall sick that you treasure the beauty of strength. 

And the pill to cure depression comes less in a capsule than having people who know what the illness is. I know now, and I know there is a future ahead where I can belong again. These four walls press in as always, but they cannot suppress those who are healed on the inside, cannot hide the passions that awaits within me to give a message of faith, love, and hope to those who need it. 

This is my story and my reflection. This is my new self, shorn of the sicknesses of the past, willing to try again at the beauty of life.