the first time I was told I might be depressed was when I was 16. I thought it was because I hated the grind of classes for standardized tests, or that I was just tired. I believed me, my parents believed me too. It will tide over- like everything is supposed to when you are 16.
then it happened again. I was on the phone calling home from a tiny shoebox room in Sydney begging to come back home. This time I was 19. Maybe it was because I was far away from home, maybe I was just home-sick? that can happen, right? This time it was difficult to reason myself out of the truth.
when you are standing on wet sand, your feet press into it a little. then they disappear into it. then it takes over your calf, your knee. Finally, its your head and wet sand below. Wouldn’t it be easier if the sand just consumed you whole, rather than leaving the little head up to see its own destruction? Looking back, it was not the 9 hour school days or being away from home that bothered me at all. It was something more pervasive, building inside for years.
When I was young, I would call my mother as soon as I thought it was time for her to return home from work. I would panic if she did not respond-I would be left alone in this world if she did not respond. I would cry until she came back home. I would try watching television but all I wanted to do was cry.
When I was slightly older, I started watching aircraft investigations on National Geographic. It became a pastime for my father and me. Well less pastime, more dread. I only dreamt of crashing. No one could fix that plane, my dreams said, it was going to go down.
I thought middle school was terrible because there were bullies everywhere, but in reality, it was just me. Silent, in the corner, thinking of the next dreadful thing to take over. It took a while and a lot of drama lessons to become a “person”. I remember being told that if I read fewer books and played more sports, I would have more fun. I think I would hate playing sports even then, there is less sadness in sport than in Jane Eyre. Since I was 6, I loved nothing more than sadness. Don’t get me wrong, it was awful but how else can I explain my proclivity to sadness.
Why could I not stop watching air crash investigations? Why could I not stop reading classic tragedies when it became too much? Why did I only connect to films where melancholy won over harmony? It is, thus, hard to believe that I did not love sadness.
When I was first told I might have depression I was 16, when I was first diagnosed with depression I was 19. As every Indian family, mine too was ashamed of it. Do not say the d-word! What will they all say? How can I ever explain this? I bought into that for a long time. Like this depression was a mud stain on my family’s white rug, and why should I have it anyway? I do not blame them for this or myself, besides, I cannot imagine a reaction to them saying “Shikha is just sad. Yes, she is in a private college in Boston. Yes, she travels the world and has a lovely group of friends. She is just incredibly sad. Yeah, we don’t know either?”
When I turned 21, I decided to befriend this diagnosis. My pills were not hidden from view anymore, and my therapy appointments were not blocked off on my calendar with an alternate name. It is what it is. For a long time that year, I tried to analyze what caused this- you can make yourself believe and blame anything in the world if you just try hard enough. You can erase your sabotage and flaws if you just wish hard enough. At 21, I realized- I was always just a sad child. I had a truly wonderful childhood, but somewhere unknowingly and unsuspectingly my brain broke.
Isn’t it funny how things choose us before we know we are chosen? I wonder every day why depression chose me. I do not even know myself without it though, would I have read less sad books, been more secure, less anxious, less impulsive? But if I were, then who would I even be. Not myself.
I am supposed to hate this feeling, and I do. Every few days that wet sand ditch I am stuck in grows a little deeper while I claw myself up for some more time saying I win. But the wet sand will always be touching my body too. Both of us do not know where else we can go. And we will keep fighting each other, and I will always win. I have been almost winning for years.
postcolonialmigrant 