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.

On having an abortion

Say you missed your period. You didn't even notice, either because your cycle is so irregular, or because you were too busy chasing paper, beating deadlines, being social and generally living life. So about two months into your last period, it hits you that something went missing from your life.

 

"Could I be pregnant!?" You gasp.

 

You grab the calendar, but you can't even remember when you last had your period. Damn! You should have downloaded one of those period-tracker apps, but it's rather late for that now.

 

It is a lazy, slow and idle Saturday, so you rush to the chemist and buy a home pregnancy kit, making sure that no one sees you doing it. You rush back to the house, banging all doors on your way. You lock yourself up in the loo, sigh heavily, grimace, then hold your breath as you pee on the test stick and cross your fingers and toes and every possible part of your body. You wait the longest three minutes of your life. Finally, two pink lines appear ...

 

"No! No! No! No! It can't be! I just can't deal with this... Lord, what will I do...?" You’re biting your nails furiously.

 

Yes, you are old enough for a baby. In fact, people have been telling you that if you won't settle down in marriage, at least have a baby. A legacy. Something to graduate you into full womanhood...

 

"But I just can't... a baby will turn my life upside down. I won't even be able to do the things I want freely, because there will be a baby to consider first. Where will I even get the money for a baby? Damn! What will I do? Damn! Why did I put myself in this situation? Why didn’t I take the E-pill? Oh, wait, I took it within the stipulated 72 hours after intercourse. Why didn’t it work? Could it be because I had already taken 10 of those this year, and it is only September? Why oh why?” You ask yourself over and over, but you have no answers. Nevertheless, there are decisions to be made.

 

"Should I have ... an ... a-bor-tion?" Who knew you would ever have to ask yourself this question? Damn! Why oh why? You wail.

 

"Should I tell the boyfriend?" 

 

“Wait, he is not even a boyfriend; just a fuck-buddy I've been fooling around with. Oh Lord, are these the consequences of fornication? Oh Lord, please save me from this situation...”

 

You are going crazy. You don't know who to tell about this. You can't trust anyone, but you need a referral to a good abortionist. One of those clean decent ones; a trained and experienced gynaecologist. You'll even take a Sacco loan to foot the bill if need be. 

 

"Oh, Lord, the consequences of fornication... I should have kept my legs closed... I just can't deal.. I wish I could run away from this problem. Jesus, please, forgive me... please, I'll be a good girl after this. No more fuck-buddies, no more casual sex; I'll wait till marriage, I promise, but you have to save me and forgive me this one time..."

 

You are sobbing uncontrollably now. You really need that abortionist's number. Should you ask in Kilimani Mums? No, people will stone you with Bible-verse-laden rocks. What about Marie Stopes? 

 

“No, I don’t trust those people; they sound like the kind who will rush you to Kenyatta and dump you there when you develop abortion-related complications. I don’t think they can do the job right. I need a neat, clean job so that no one will ever know I had an abortion, except me and the gyna... But who?”

 

You’re pacing up and down your bedroom. You just can’t keep still. Your heart is racing, your thoughts are racing. You just can’t keep calm.

 

"Oh Lord, I need your help... oh, wait, does Dr N still exist? He was a well-known, loud and proud, abortionist back in the day. I haven't seen him in the news for years... did he die? Did he give up the fight to give women safe abortions? His clinic was at A Centre, right? I should just go there and ask the guards if he still runs the clinic.” 

 

A little googling yields some positive results. Goodie!

 

You pick your phone and randomly dial the boyfriend's, nay, fuck-buddy's number.

 

"What am I doing?" You ask yourself well into the third ring. 

 

You can't hang up now. If you do, he'll call. He knows you never call him unless it is important. You have to keep your affair discreet. As much as it’s 2015 in a liberalised country, your compatriots still frown upon unmarried women who get it on, freely and openly. You still have a reputation to protect. Your boyfriend, nay, fuck-buddy picks the phone on the fifth ring, interrupting your thoughts.

 

"Hello..."

 

"Hello, I'm ... I'm pregnant!" You blurt out. Where did that come from? You wonder.

 

(Long silence...)

 

"Erm, hello, did you hear what I just said?"

 

"Yeah, this is, erm, unexpected, but … uhm, we'll just have to deal with it as it is..."

 

"Yeah, I've already thought about it. Uhm, I'm going to have an abortion next week... I'll take a few days off, my sick-off and some leave days to recover..."

 

"What! You can't just abort...!!!"

 

"It's my body, dammit! I'm the one who will be tied down by a baby, please, you don't have a say..."

 

"No, please, hear me out... I have a…"

 

“No!” You hold down the power off button, inadvertently cutting off the call and putting off your phone.

 

“How dare he try to tell me what to do with my life? How dare he?” 

 

You pick your quarter-full cup of tea from the table and smash it on the wall ahead, then you shuffle into the kitchen, rummage through the drawer where you put your meds. There are some sleeping pills left over from the last time you were having trouble sleeping. You gulp down one too many, with a glass of water, and then follow them up with four painkillers (another overdose) to dull the headache. Your forehead is throbbing and your temples are on fire. You need a blackout. It’s only midday, but you’ve had a long day already.

 

When you wake up, it’s dark everywhere. You acclimatise to the darkness and the noises of the night outside your bedroom window. You reach under your pillow for your phone, pressing down the power on button.

Ten missed calls: Mum, Elaine (your elder sister), Aunt Lucy, Mary CBA ( a long-lost acquaintance) – what does she want?, Betty Job (a work colleague) - hmph, what’s that that can’t wait till Monday...!?, Liz UoN (your college-mate from your MBA class), and four missed calls from Sauti…

 

“Nkt! Can’t he just leave me alone!” 

 

“No, actually, can everybody just leave me alone! I don’t want to talk, nkt!”

 

Your WhatsApp is overflowing with mostly useless messages too, a few from the people whose calls you missed above, either telling you to call them back, urgently, or that they were just checking on you … and Sauti with a thread of five messages:

 

“Can we talk?”

“Can I at least come over?”

“Please hear me out…”

“I know you really don’t want to abort…”

“Okay, at least wait two weeks and think this through, before you go through with it, no?”

 

“To hell with Sauti! Isn’t he the one who got me into this mess in the first place by whispering sweet nothings in my ear and making me lose good judgment? And now he has the nerve to tell me what to do…” You feel a sharp pain sear through the core of your head from one temple to another.

 

“Let me just block his number. I need my peace…”

 

Monday comes. You are very scared, very nervous. You’ve heard people whispering before that abortion wastes a woman’s body: “Why do you think, Daisy has lost so much weight? It is because she aborted, silly!

 

 Abortion sio mchezo…” a friend once told the blue-eyed you about a mutual friend.

 

Still, this is something you have decided to go through with, but God knows it frightens you to death.

 

“What if I die? What if there is nothing like a safe abortion? What if, what if, what if...?”

 

You’re now at A Centre. You’ll call the office just before you go in for the procedure and take a copy of the sick-off sheet to your boss and HR when you get back to work, two weeks after the procedure. (The doctor’s narration will read something like: Three-week bed-rest recommended for recuperation after continuous heavy bleeding from fibroids...)

 

“Sasa, soldier… madam! Nataka kwenda kwa Dr N…,” you start.

 

“Sawa, leta ID, andikisha hapa, halafu uende second floor.”

 

“Sawa.” 

 

When you get to second floor, you peep inside the door marked “City Women’s Health Centre”.

 

There are women of all ages seated at the waiting bay: young women like yourself, younger women than yourself, middle-aged women, and even a girl who looks not-a-day-older than 12.

 

“I don’t know if I can go through with this…,” you mutter to yourself.

 

“Yes, madam, come in, please. How may I help you?” The receptionist calls out to you breaking your thoughts.

 

“Erm, let me first make a call…,” you say, stepping out promptly. 

 

“Am I doing the right thing?”

 

You need to talk to someone, but who? You scroll through your 568 contacts. You can’t call any of them, not even the 12 counsellors/psychologists/psychiatrists in your phone book. 

 

“Jesus, I need someone to talk to… argh! Not Sauti, no, please… okay, he’s the only one who knows what’s going on with me... he’ll just have to do.”

 

You unblock Sauti’s number.

 

“Hello Sauti, we need to talk…”

 

“Jeez, Nerea, did you have to block me? Can’t we just sort this out like adults… anyway where are you? I can step out for a few minutes…”

 

“Actually, I’m just here near your office …”

 

“Okay, you go ahead to Java Kimathi, at the balcony… at least there we can have some privacy. Let me finish up on something then I follow you there…”

 

“Okay, no problem.” You hang up.

 

At Java, you ask for a strawberry lemonade as you wait for company. There are so many thoughts swirling in your mind. You feel so confused. Oh, Sauti is here… You stand up to give him a hug.

 

“Thanks for making the time ... ”

 

“It’s nothing. I’ve been trying to reach you…”

 

“I know. I just … needed some time alone to think.”

 

“Nerea, please, did you do it…?”

 

“Not yet, I got cold feet…”

 

“Phew, listen, I’ve been thinking about it all weekend and this is what I have to say, please hear me out…”

 

“Okay.”

 

(Singing soulfully) “Nakuomba Nerea, usitoe mimba yangu we, Mungu akileta mtoto, analeta sahani yake, leta nitamlea, usitoe mimba yangu we, Mungu akileta mtoto, analeta sahani yake …”

 

You’re crying. The mid-morning brunch crowd around you is clapping in awe, but a few elements throw you disgusted looks. Sauti is hugging you, swaying, shushing you. You know what you need to do.

 

 

Inspired by the song Nerea by Sauti Sol featuring Amos and Josh:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rtNZK3PUme8

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.