Thank you, Depression. (Part II)


This is the second part of a two-part post about my battle with depression. You can find the first post here.


I was not gone. I know that now. But for a long time, I didn’t. For three long years, as my depression took complete control of me, I didn’t know that. I thought I had changed and that the change was forever. ‘I hate the new me’, I remember telling my friend once. She stopped me in my tracks. ‘You’re still you’, she assured me.

I wanted so much to believe her, but I couldn’t. That’s a part of the illness; you don’t just question yourself and your reality and your soul, you question everyone else’s as well. People you once trusted with your life become liars. But the illness is the true liar; there is not a lie it won’t tell.

Not only did I distance myself from the people who love me the most,  but my overwhelming sadness and my numbness coupled with my all-encompassing feeling that it was all too much culminated in episodes where I begged to die, to be let go. Thinking about that now brings all that back; it was numbness but it was also too much pain – the perfect paradox.

Even as I struggled with my daily life, I realised that I needed help. I wasn’t going to get through this challenge on my own; no amount of self-willing prepares you for the onslaught of depression. It’s impossible to ‘think yourself better’; my efforts to do so backfired on me when I quickly became frustrated at the lack of impact I was having. I decided to seek out help.

The first therapist I tried recommended intensive medication, and I did try Zoloft for a couple of weeks. But at the end of that time I knew it wasn’t for me. I was constantly sleepy, incredibly lethargic, and always hungry. I have a terror of not living my life, and the medication, I felt, was robbing me of it. I knew that spending twelve to sixteen hours of my day in sleep was just abnormal. I went off the medicine, ignoring advice to stay on it for two months. I wouldn’t recommend this to everyone, but it is what made sense to me.

I eventually found my current therapist and we embarked on a journey that comprised of actual therapy. I’d talk; he’d listen. He eventually won my trust, and I consented to doing some workshops with him and some of his other patients. Those group therapy sessions helped me a great deal; it showed me – perhaps for the first time since the depression started – that I was not alone.

I reached out for help – to my mother. I needed reassurance that I was loved; perhaps this seems trite to you (as it would to me if I had never had depression) but it is incredibly important. It could be the difference between life and death. When you know that you _are_ loved, despite whatever the voice in your head is telling you, you make an effort. You hold on to reality, as much as you are able. To assist me with this, and to help me maintain my grip on reality, I asked my mum to write me a series of notes on sticky notes.

She did.

I pasted them all over the house – on doors, mirrors, my laptop, picture frames, and even inside my car. Whenever I read the familiar rounded writing, I felt at peace. I felt connected to the woman who was the reason I was even in the world. I knew that she would never lie to me, and that I mattered. I still have a couple of notes on my fridge.

They were all variations of the same thing: You are Awanthi. You are my daughter and I love you. You are incredibly intelligent, brilliantly funny, and amazingly kind. I’m proud of you. You will get through this. Call me, even if it’s the middle of the night.

I frequently did. I called her; I called Aro, who at that stage was my only best friend; I called Kace, a close friend and someone I’ve grown up with. They were my holy trinity; the people I trusted the most. They were the people I’d turned to in my hour of need – and they didn’t let me down.

I also learned – eventually – to accept my depression. Acceptance does not mean embrace. It means a willingness to look it in the eye and say ‘Yes, you found me. So what?’

I don’t understand why I was chosen, I don’t understand why I was picked, but I no longer say ‘Why me?’ Now I say ‘It is me.’ It is – and always will be – a part of me. It’s shaped me and moulded me. It’s given me incredible insight. It’s made me more self-aware than I’ve ever been in the past. So yes, it is a friend. It’s an old friend; it’s a friend that knows me as well as I know myself — in fact, in some ways it knows me better. It pokes and fidgets at the things I’d rather not remember, and drags it into the glaring light so I have no choice but to look at it for I cannot look away, and in so doing I understand myself.

Despite it all, or perhaps because of it, I recently had a perfect moment. One moment of revelation when the skies opened and the sun reached down with its warmth and the darkness lifted and I understood, I finally understood. I know now why the things that happened to me happened. I know now why the people who came into my life did – I understood it all. All of it — the good, the bad, and the ugly. One perfect moment.

I had to endure it all to be me; I am a work in progress. I am a masterpiece. I am the ultimate symphony. I am my opus. I am proud of the journey that I have walked, and I am proud of the distance I will go, and I know that for a part of that distance, although I do not want it, depression will be my constant companion. But that’s okay. It is not a shock. It is not an unfamiliar thing. I know now that it will pass, and it will leave me a little different and a little changed each time, but it’s not unendurable, and it is not now, or ever, capable of defeating me.


  • stace8383 4th October 2012 at 12:14 pm

    As always, the writing is wonderful. You’ve opened up and been so honest, which I think can be tough, so good on you. Always remember that your friends love you – YOU, you know, the you you always are.

    • Awanthi @ I Speak Awanthi 4th October 2012 at 12:18 pm

      Thank you. 🙂 It was very difficult to write; the instinct is to shy away from the raw honesty and – well – keep up appearances, I suppose. But I think this was an important part of me to share.

      • stace8383 5th October 2012 at 3:17 am

        I know what you mean… Even as a non-depressive, I have troubled talking about my worst days.

    • Mary Horsfall 5th October 2012 at 5:25 am

      Thank you for sharing your experience so honestly and eloquently. I know people who have suffered from depression and none of them have been able to articulate the experience so clearly. Now I feel I will be able to be a more understanding friend.

      • Awanthi @ I Speak Awanthi 5th October 2012 at 10:33 am

        Thank you. I’m so happy you said that. If this has helped just one person, then I’m glad I was able to finally finish sharing what this illness is, what it does, and how I cope with it.

  • Pain – A Look Back | I Speak Awanthi 23rd April 2013 at 8:31 pm

    […] similarities as well. I am no longer so fascinated by my pain. I think it’s because I am now officially a depressive; I am from time to time, anyway. When I read that post today I shake my head because I can see the […]

  • VroonMenon 24th April 2013 at 5:57 pm

    I went through therapy for beating depression. It’s a tough phase but I feel the people who manage to beat it come out stronger people. The best part is how you have confronted it and written about it.

    • Awanthi @ I Speak Awanthi 24th April 2013 at 11:09 pm

      You’re awesome for going to therapy to tackle your depression head on. Are you out of the woods now as well?

      • VroonMenon 24th April 2013 at 11:38 pm

        Not completely. There are moments where I feel vulnerable. I talk to my dogs if I don’t get a computer to just sit and scribble things down. I feel it’s best to let it out. And with my dogs or for any animal who is close to you sense how you are feeling and actually listen to you. I couldn’t have found a better cure. 🙂

        • Awanthi @ I Speak Awanthi 25th April 2013 at 9:02 pm

          Pets are wonderful. I think that if I could, I would recommend pets to every depressive in the world. Their unconditional love is amazing. It’s also awesome to have someone to look after; even on your worst days, it can help you feel like you matter.

          I understand what you mean about not being completely out of the woods. We never ever ever are cured of it; we are only treated, and we only learn to live with it. But that’s okay because each time we hit a new low, there are all the lessons from the previous lows to help us through. It’s important, I think, to always remember that feeling of knowing that it _ends_, even if it is only for a while.

          • VroonMenon 26th April 2013 at 10:47 pm

            I don’t know. I’ve had difficulty in removing the people from my life who make me feel that way. I can’t be alone and the people I have around, some of them just add to them. Some by their presence and some through memory. I wish Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind were a real thing. Where I could just wipe certain people from my life out. And just someone to talk to. That’s all. I’ve found a certain bliss in lonliness but I can’t be alone for too long as well. The thinking insect gets inside of me.

  • Thank you, Depression. (Part I) | I Speak Awanthi 9th November 2013 at 12:20 am

    […] ← Why I’m An Agnostic Thank you, Depression. (Part II) → […]

  • Thank you, Depression. (Part I) – Awanthi Vardaraj 29th December 2016 at 7:50 am

    […] This is the first part of a two-part post about my battle with depression. You can find the second post here. […]


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