Ever since I was a teenager, I was fascinated by anything and everything that revolved around ‘Mental Health’.
I'm a person who is keen on getting to know people, their stories, and talking to them when they feel low, as nothing satisfies me more than creating a positive impact on someone’s life.
Yeah, life is uncertain, but I never thought that the anxiety I used to so flawlessly write about, would knock at my own door someday.
I would randomly start feeling low. I roamed around with a heavy head, breathless, and restless.
I used to cry on the bathroom floor at night, get up, wash my face, and put up the fake smile in the morning.
This swiftly began escalating as I was unable to identify the cause of me not being okay. I was neither able to get a sound sleep nor was I able to eat anything. My health and grades were both declining.
Most of my friends had given up on me and I was labeled "hard to keep up with" by them.
Finally, I walked up to my college counselor and upon examining my symptoms, she asked me to fill up an MCQ test according to which I had moderate depression. So, she asked me to visit a psychiatrist.
I had always advocated for mental health but now I myself felt ashamed about going to a psychiatrist.
Unfortunately, the one I was referred to was horrible, I wasn't heard even for ten minutes. Her assistants were roaming around in the cabin in between the session. There wasn't any privacy or empathy. After fifteen minutes she prescribed me anti-depressants and a tranquilizer, which I did not take.
Three months went by, and my condition worsened.
Finally, I admitted that I needed help and decided to visit another psychiatrist.
I was on the verge of a panic attack in the waiting area, which is called a "patient" surrounded by other people and the continuous movement of doctors. Nurses carrying people on wheelchairs made me feel so weak about myself.
The symptoms persisted for about nine months and somehow, I found myself in the loop which consisted of counselors, psychologists, psychiatrists, and medications.
Two failed suicide attempts, (I still have an urge to self-harm on and off staring at the pair of scissors resting in my pen stand.)
All this made me write, as writing was my only escape during those dark days. I forced myself to go out more often. Walking around my college campus and listening to music in the Open Air Theater helped me cheer up.
Slowly, I started to accept my past. I kept myself packed with work before my mind started to wander. I wrote a book in the winter break to distract myself, apart from maintaining a blog on social media.
I reached out to people in pain. I registered myself as a listener on 7 cups, helping people stuck just like me. Basically I did things that made me happy and gave me confidence.
It'd be a lie to say that I have healed or I have it all under control now.
I still have anxiety attacks and nightmares. I still stare at a pair of scissors resting in my pen stand. But I am trying to get better each day,
From a girl tangled with her over-thought thoughts to being an author, I've come a long way and I hope I have the strength to pick up my pieces even if I fall down.
I have accepted myself the way I am with or without antidepressants.