Life after trauma: The suspicious carjacker

Last night I left work late and made my way to the bus stop with a friend.


We got into a bus that was filling up fast, but finding no joint vacant seats, our plans to seat together were foiled. I sat at the rear of the bus, in the second-last seat, next to a slender guy in a charcoal-gray shirt and gray pinstripe pants with a swelling at the crotch.


The jovial men on the back seat were chatting animatedly, and deciding that they didn’t “look suspicious”, I turned to the pair of seats on my right. On the aisle seat was a petite girl, while the window seat was filled by a heavy, pot-bellied man. They exchanged knowing glances furtively, looking forward to the night ahead.


Satisfied that they also didn’t “look suspicious” I relaxed some more and sunk back into my seat. The bus had tinted windows and a luggage carrier above the seats that made it too dark for my liking, but the blue light from a long, thin bulb on the right side of the bus offered some comfort. But not enough to forget the guy in the seat beside me.


I trained my eyes on my seatmate. He was breathing suspiciously. Short, fast breaths, as if his heart was racing with excitement and his veins flowing with a rush of adrenaline fueled by what he was about to do. He formed a mean, angry scowl that forecast ill-intent. Was he angry at the world and itching to avenge himself for all the ways it had failed him? His eyes darted back and forth and in and out of the bus.


I was overcome with a sense of foreboding, and it didn’t help that the bus was hurtling down the clear road, as if on steroids. I suspected that it was fueled by the muzzle of a gun sticking into the driver’s side, held by the man sitting next to him in the cabin – my seatmate’s accomplice.


Resigned to my fate, I wished that I had carried pepper spray. Then I decided that whatever my seatmate was up to, he would not catch me unawares. I would stare at him brazenly, taking in his entire being and imprinting his photograph in the fore of my mind. I wanted him to know that I knew what he was up to. My eyes followed his every move. I watched him clench and unclench his fidgety hands, noticed when he clasped and unclasped them, and took in the folding and unfolding. Then he slid his right hand down and reached into his pocket.


Was this it?


I watched intently as he drew out a thin, dark object.


It was a phone! A mulika mwizi with a neon green backlight.


I sighed.


He looked at the screen and typed something on the keypad.


Now, this must be it. It was time and he was sending a signal to his accomplices.


My friend alighted.


I was tempted to alight with her and take a taxi home, but I wasn’t sure I would get one … and the price would probably be inflated. I thought of moving seats. Moving to the empty seat that my friend had just vacated, but as I toyed with my thoughts, someone else sunk into it. I was stuck.


The bus was still hurtling down the road suspiciously. We flew past two black spots and then a police road block. Maybe there was nothing there. Maybe I was just being paranoid.


I wanted to fish out my phone, to send a message to the world that I was scared. But that might work against me. It was best not to use it. I remembered the valuables in my bag and tried to figure out how I would hide them.


I thought about how my seatmate would brandish a gun and ask for my bag. How I would hesitate to buy time, enough time to hide my treasures. But where would I hide them? Maybe I could talk some sense into him ...


If anything happened, this guy would kill me. I had studied him too closely, so blatantly. I imagined him sinking a knife into my neck; the blood gushing out as I reached for his neck to strangle him in return.


I had nowhere to hide. A wistful smile formed on my lips. I should have alighted when I first noticed he was suspicious. I should have alighted with my friend. I should have taken a cab home. But here I was. Maybe I was being paranoid, but who could blame me?


Suddenly he moved. I made way for him to pass.


Was this it? Was he finally taking position before he struck?


I watched as he made his way to the front of the bus. I was ready. I had been waiting for this moment all night.


The bus stopped.


He alighted, throwing me off with this twist in the tale.


As the bus swung back onto the road, I looked at my (former) seatmate one last time, glad that he was now outside. He still had that mean scowl on his face, angry at the world and full of ill-intent.


It didn’t matter anymore. I was home and my imaginary carjacker was gone.

Depression diaries: The thing that is eating me

"Mental illness is not a brand that you wear. It doesn’t scar you (unless you self-harm, of course, in which case you, like I, have carefully hidden the evidence). It isn’t visible, it isn’t something you can easily spot. Partly because when I’m really, really ill, I won’t be there for you to see.” – Joely Black

Photo | Pixabay.com

When I came across this piece by Joely Black on Medium, that articulates what it’s like to have depression so well, I remembered my own account, which I had put down in an outburst one morning when I was starting to feel better, and a trigger jolted me to put down the multitude of thoughts about suffering from depression, that I now suddenly had energy to articulate. I wrote and wrote a note on my phone, until my mind was empty, then I saved it and made a note to return to it later when I got another burst of inspiration, enough to divide it into sections and put it up on my blog in a series of posts.

That was never to be: A thief stole my phone and with it my story. I never did get another urge to articulate what it’s like to be depressed until yesterday. I have the momentum now, but the story will come much later, when it is ready.

The first thing you learn when you get depressed is that nobody understands what you are going through and because of their ignorance, and in a bid to help, they make recommendations about what you should do to be "un-depressed." The most common is: It’s all in your mind. Just think positive thoughts and you’ll be okay.” I’ll tell you for free that when you are depressed, no amount of positive thinking will make you feel better. You can spend a full 24 hours trying to think positive thoughts and proclaiming positive affirmations, but they’ll do nothing for you.

 Here are some other things that people tell you when you have depression that won’t help:

Things not to tell a person with depression or other mental illnesses (with the help of Joely's article):
 

Photo | pixabay.com

1. “Have you tried meditation? You totally should! It works like magic!”

2. “You need to take [insert vitamin] and [insert supplement]. They’re great for depression.”

3. “Exercise is great for mental health. I run every day and I feel fantastic. You should try it”

4. “When I feel a bit down, I do yoga. Do yoga and you'll be fine.”

5. "It's all in your mind. Just snap out of it. Just think positive thoughts and you'll be okay."

6. "What you need is to read the Bible and pray and maybe go for exorcism and you'll be fine. These things are spiritual ..."

Again I’ll tell you for free that I pumped my body with vitamins; in the early days I tried to exercise, before chronic fatigue got the better of me. I tried to meditate, I went to church, went for counselling and prayers ... I tried positive thoughts, I tried everything I could to feel better, that is everything except yoga, but I didn’t.

 I was in constant despair. I was continually exhausted. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t talk. I didn’t even want to. Not even to listen to someone talking -- it was all very exhausting. I just wanted to sleep it all away, to have a blackout that would take away the pain that I felt inside. I was numb. Keeping my head above the water every day was a constant struggle. I was drowning. And I only started out on the right path when I had a breakdown one morning that saw me admitted to hospital for a few days. There, I finally got introduced to the one thing that would work, the one thing that would drive the depression away: treatment.

A lot of people don’t understand that depression is an illness. I didn’t understand that too, or rather, I fought that thought. Surely, doing all those things that people recommended would make me better, not so? I was just feeling down, so if I did all the right things, the clouds would be lifted and I would feel better, right? How wrong I (and every other well-meaning person) was!

Depression is an illness just like malaria and it cannot be wished away. You can’t wave a magic wand on depression and boom, it goes away. If someone told you they had malaria, you wouldn’t say to them, “just take a multivitamin, think positive and exercise and you’ll be healed.” Instead, you’d tell them to go to hospital and adhere to the treatment and the doctor’s direction. Then and only then, would you prescribe prayers and Bible verses, after all, faith/prayer that is not accompanied by action is dead, right?

So why is it different for depression? Why do we assume we can fix depression, an illness, without proper treatment? Treatment in itself is another process, and I only started to get better after more than two years of treatment (that’s another story altogether). And the minute I started to feel better after following a treatment regimen for what felt like ages, that was when it dawned on me that depression is truly an illness and treatment works.

Treatment for depression is multi-pronged, combining medication, lifestyle habits and cognitive therapy among many other approaches. And when it comes to treating depression, one size doesn’t fit all, you have to keep at it, keep fighting it even without energy, keep trying something until it works.

Before then, like Joely says, I wore a mask when going out. I sucked it in and tried to act like everything was fine when it was not. I didn’t want to be outside the confines of my bedroom. Every time I stepped out of my house, all I could think about is how many more hours until I retreat to my cave again? I didn’t want to go out and did not go out unless it was absolutely necessary, like if I had to go to work.

 If anybody asked why I wasn’t showing up, I’d tell them I wasn’t feeling well and that would usually suffice and if they insisted, I’d tell them it was my head – I had a severe headache, if they pressed, – and that would be it. I didn’t want people to know I was depressed because first, a lot of people don’t understand depression, and second, while trying to be useful, they end up being very unhelpful and third, they wouldn’t know how to handle you. But now that I am better, I can speak about it, and I will resume re-writing my depression story. It is quite long, but I’ll do it in bite-size pieces.

Depression diaries: Looking for the elusive wonder drug

There are so many ways to tell this story, but my mind is a whirlpool right now so let me let the fingers do the telling. I really do not know where to start, but here goes:

I spent the last few hours or so crisscrossing Nairobi's CBD looking for this one drug. I did not know how hard it is to find until I started looking for it. Why bother? You may wonder. 

Well, the story began a few weeks ago when I noticed I was running low on this drug*. This is a drug you don’t just go off cold turkey. No. It is like cocaine or heroine. If you want to go off it, you have to plan it out over weeks; you have to be weaned off it, giving your body its fix in smaller doses until it says it can do without it now. It is like alcohol to an alcoholic. You don’t miss a day’s dose for any reason and if you do, your voice will tremble, your hands will shake, your eyes will see double, your life will turn upside down... Anyway, you get the idea. 

So last week, around Wednesday, I noticed I was running low on this drug. I had canceled my doctor’s appointment for 8th January, where I could have gotten a chit to replenish my reserves, and I had conveniently forgotten to reschedule that appointment, that is until I noticed that I actually needed to do that quick, fast and in a hurry, or a day would find me when my pill box would give me a blank stare.

 So that Wednesday, I made a mental note to call my doctor’s office to book an appointment, but then I forgot, yet again. Then on Thursday evening, I counted the remaining pills to see how long they would stretch, meaning: how long I could go without seeing my doctor – Sunday evening. I needed to book an appointment for latest Monday morning so that I could get a prescription and have a dose to take on Monday night, and I did. 

Monday morning, I dutifully went to my doctor’s and got my prescription. I wanted to talk to her about going off this drug, but she was concerned about my weight, I had lost a few grammes and she needed me to add at least six kilos in the next six weeks. Good luck with that, Miss Doctor! So we never got round to talking about going off the drug; we had a more weighty matter to discuss, and we did. I left her practice with my prescription, waited an hour at the pharmacy only for the pharmacist to tell me that he would give me drugs that were expiring in twelve days, "but not to worry," he said, “You can still take them for a month after expiry without a problem.”

Hmph! I could feel the irritation rising up my throat. I waited a full hour to buy expired drugs!? C’mon! #WasteHerTime2016. I said a resolute no and asked for the transaction to be canceled; a process that took another 30 irritating minutes (I hate waiting; especially senseless waiting. I have better things to do with my limited time than wait.)

No worries, child. You will just ask your insurer if you can pick them from an independent chemist (I consoled myself) ... – Something that I promptly forgot to do as soon as I had stomped off in a huff. I thought one night of a missed dose wouldn’t mean much, but I was so wrong. I had a restless night, woke up feeling nauseated, a feeling that stayed with me all day today. I was also tired and suffered from general body aches. I just did not feel fine. So at some point I called my insurer to ask which pharmacy I could pick the drugs from and the lady on the other end gave me a rather short list. I did some work and then headed out to the nearest pharmacy to pick up the drugs. I walked with a confident spring. Nothing could go wrong. Except it did.

“We do have the drug,” the pharmacist told me, but if insurance was paying for it, I’d have to go to their other branch affiliated with their clinic. No worries, I can do that.

 “But how much does it cost?” I asked.

 “Hold up, Missie,” he replied as he punched away on his keyboard, then: “that will be seven thousand, eight hundred and ninety-two shillings.”

 “That will deplete my insurance!” I gasped. “Can’t you give me a discount?”

 “No, Lady, we only discount cash payments. You’ll have to pay the full amount through insurance,” he replied. 

“But why, and it is still my money…” I pleaded and was met with a blank stare. 

Again, I left in a huff and went to their main clinic, where they dutifully informed me that I had to pay consultation fee to have their doctor copy what my doctor had written on my prescription into a new insurance claim form. But, but, I already have a prescription, I just need the drugs…

 “That’s the policy, madam,” the attendant said, unmoved.

 I stomped off again. 

And so I went from one chemist to another, and each time the pharmacists said they did not have my drug or its variants (generics), my energy gauge inched closer and closer to empty. Finally, I got a chemist with a version that was a third of the strength my doctor prescribed. They would sell it to me for Sh6, 000, discounted, but I needed my doctor to fill the claim form and stamp it for them to charge my card.

Oh boy! I felt frustrated. I’d have to wake up very early the next day to get my doctor to do the requisite paperwork, but I couldn’t imagine another night of withdrawal symptoms… So I walked out, stood in the midst of heavy city human traffic and decided to google.

 “Drug X Nairobi,” I searched. 

Most of the results were useless, but there was one lead. I clicked on it not expecting much. They had the drug and it would cost me Sh3000. Then my eyes fell on the date of the drug price list. It was a 2013 document. My heart sank, but I decided to call anyway. I wouldn’t know if the price had gone up unless I asked. I prayed that the company was still in operation. It was, and yes, they had the drug in stock and it was a few hundreds short of 3000 and they would only sell it if I had a prescription. 

I hang up and almost yelped for joy. Then I looked the city clock above me, it was 5.20. My instincts told me that they’d be closing at 5.30 so I began elbowing my way through the crowded pavements hoping to get there in record time. There were no boda bodas in sight and anyway I had zero shillings on me and I didn’t have time to haggle over whether I could pay via Mpesa. My legs had to save me. I quickened my pace, moving as fast as I could in a semi-sprint, lest the County askaris decide to arrest me for running in the city without a permit. 

When I got to the pharmacy’s building, I asked the guard at the door to direct me to the chemist, but he said they might already be closed. I insisted on checking and only caught the last of his words directing me to go round to the other end as I sprinted in. When I got there, the door was ajar in a way that showed they were closed – leaving only enough space for the employees to squeeze out on their way home. I asked the two women I met at the door if they would sell me my drug. They shrugged apathetically and told me to ask inside as they walked away.

The place was dark save for the last bulb shining that would be put off by the last person to leave. There was a lady picking her bags as if to leave. She called out to a man upstairs, who confirmed that there was no one else left. 

I asked her if she had the drug and if she could sell it to me. She responded in the affirmative while confirming the price on a price list on her desk and checking my prescription simultaneously. She punched a few numbers on her calculator and told me, “Two thousand seven hundred and seventy one shillings, already discounted.”

 “There’s one small thing,” I answered, making a pinch with my thumb and index finger… could you let me go to the ATM to get the cash ... can I pay by card?"

 “We’re already closed and we only take cash...”

“Could you give me a dose worth Sh1,000 ... I can send you the money via Mpesa... I just need one tablet for tonight then I can come back tomorrow when we all have time,” I blubbered my interruption.

I was panting, out of breath, I could have cried if I had breath… my eyes were pleading. I would leave my ID and debit card ... I would leave anything, even my life, for that one tablet that would make me whole again... 

My eyes followed her to a cupboard on the left of the room and my ears welcomed with sheer relief, the words that she would give me a strip of five without taking any money from me if I promised to come back the next day to pay for it, but as fate would have it, there were no scissors, so she gave me the full strip of 20, put the rest in her drawer, and told me to tell whoever I found the next day that Fresana had put my drugs in her drawer for me. I said my profuse thank-yous and left. 

Now I wanted to cry. She may not have realised it, but this total stranger had saved my life. There are so many con men and fraudsters in the city, but she chose to be kind, not knowing if I would betray her kindness. As I walked away, and when I had walked for a while, I began to feel better; even the withdrawal symptoms eased for a while before rushing back in a vengeful flood. There was a flood of emotions as I thought about the many times people had told me “Wahindi ni wale wabaya,” but that was not true: A "Mhindi" had just helped me. To hell with stereotypes! Every person is an individual and should be judged on his/her own merit, I thought to myself. 

 Now I’m trying to think of what I can send Fresana in gratitude. Of course there will be a card. I’m thinking of a pack of grapes…

PS - I eventually settled on a gift voucher.

* The drug was an anti-depressant. This happened earlier this year, around end of January, 2016.