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Rhona Canoy .

SO… When it was announced that the Mental Health Care Bill had been passed into law, predictably the jokes about Duterte being the first to avail of its benefits began flying around. This made it abundantly clear just how little people know about mental health, and how it is still a taboo subject in a world where its debilitating impact on those who suffer bear its stigma. Amazingly, references to mental health issues have found its way to everyday language, albeit misunderstood. We are all familiar with the phrases—“I’m really depressed,” “My anxiety is killing me,” “She’s so OC.” Terms we hear or use at least once in a day. And take so lightly. But for those of us who truly suffer from these issues, the picture we paint is vastly different from the light-handed references.

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Truth be told, most people who describe themselves as depressed, anxious, OC have no idea how debilitating these conditions can be, and why they are actually diagnosed as disorders. As a rule, there is always something in life that will occur and cause us some sadness or sorrow. Usually an unresolved crisis, a terminated relationship, an unfulfilled desire will cause a person to feel depressed. And that’s quite understandable. After all, the inability to deal with disappointment will usually lead to feelings of failure, frustration and uselessness. But those are transient in nature. Worse are those who claim to be depressed over some trivial thing. When I hear someone say some stupid circumstance makes them depressed, it baffles me.

“Someone bought the bag I wanted and now I’m really depressed.” I mean, get a grip. “I can’t believe my favorite sports team lost in the finals. That’s so depressing.” I mean, really?! “I’m so depressed because my parents won’t buy me the new iPhone.” I mean, we’re really starting them young. Maybe we should learn to distinguish these tantrums from the real deal. And maybe we should start changing our language.

Depression has plagued me for most of my life. Several doctors, a few psychiatrists, a number of therapists will vouch for that. It’s not something I like to talk about because it’s not really anyone’s business, and I’m well aware of the awkwardness and disbelief mentioning it would elicit. But it’s real. And not the kind brought about by not getting what I want. So I’m going to attempt, this once, to make you understand just what it feels like and what it does. Especially because it’s something that I’m sure other people go through as well.

How can I explain? How can I tell you about the darkness? The void? It lives inside me and I don’t know what it feeds on. But it’s there. Most days, it stays hidden inside its chamber. But other days, it will come roaring out and rear its ugly head. Those are the days I dread. When nothing matters. And an unexplainable and sourceless sadness wraps itself around me. When my bedroom curtains stay closed because sunlight hurts and looking at nature and life is irritating. When no amount of motivation can make me get up from my bed. When I can go for days, sometimes even weeks, without washing my face or my hair. When the thought of bathing is too exhausting. When hearing other people’s voices makes me angry. When the cell phone ringing makes me ask why they can’t leave me alone.

That’s when the deepest darkest thoughts wander freely in my brain. Unbidden and uncontrollable. That’s when I want to detach from everything and everyone. How can I make people understand the difference between wanting to die and not wanting to live? Semantics, some will say. No, it’s not. I don’t think about taking my life, ending it (although some others who suffer from depression do). It’s not about dying, for me. It’s about wishing the darkness would go away. It’s about hoping I don’t wake up in the morning. It’s about finding no meaning in anything.

Don’t get me wrong. The things I’m passionate about—my school, my dogs, trying to do my part in this world—those things exist, alongside the darkness. And the struggle to have things make sense is more intense than most people can believe. Yes, I will go and fulfill social duties. Yes, I will sit with you and be the clown. Yes, my loud strong personality will appear because it’s needed. And yes,  you will never see or even get a hint of what lies beneath and within. But trust me when I say that I can’t wait to get away to the safety of my room, so the exhausting work of showing people that my life is normal (not sure that’s the word my friends would use to describe me, though) can stop.

Counselors and specialists will tell you to reach out, to be alert to the signs of depression. Here’s the conflict. Most people who suffer from depression—and suffer is the very descriptive word here—will not go around wearing it on their sleeves. They will smile when you see them. They will tell you they’re fine. They will talk about the little things that bring them joy.  Because how can we talk of this darkness, this abyss when we don’t know why it lives inside us? When we cannot comprehend the reason for its existence?

Please don’t give us cheerful platitudes about how there is so much to live for, and how it’s up to us to climb out of the depression. Please don’t ask us to tell you why we’re depressed because we don’t know. Please don’t insult us. We are acutely aware of how difficult it is to find the words so you can understand. So we’d rather keep it to ourselves and struggle in silence.

People who were familiar with Kate Spade and Tony Bourdain were aghast upon hearing of their suicides. “Why?” everyone asked. But we all know people who took their own lives and we were just as bewildered. The only thing I can tell you is this. Don’t assume that you can justify or interpret the pain these people felt. I can only tell you that they didn’t want to die. But they wanted the pain to end and didn’t know any other way. For most of us, we struggle every day to stay afloat. Some days are better than others. But we dread those dark days, when we slowly fall into the abyss never knowing how deep bottom is. The paradox is this… that we embrace life just as much as everyone else, sometimes even more so. Because we appreciate its beauty, its fragility, its value. Sadly, we feel life’s pain more intensely too. We feel its injustice, its cruelty, its inequality, its stupidity. And sometimes it’s all just too much.

So please. Next time we meet, don’t tell me how you’re depressed because you didn’t get what you want. Depressed. You have no idea.

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