Recently, I heard about the book Flatland, by Edwin A. Abbott, which tells the story of a two-dimensional square, astonished at the existence of three-dimensional life as it is revealed to him.
It reminded me of an idiom from a story from India – ‘the frog of the well’. The concept is similar: the frog of the well thinks the well is the entire world, and nothing exists beyond it. When he meets a frog from the ocean who tells him about the wonders of the ocean, the beach, and everything he came across on his journey to the well, the frog of the well cannot believe his ears.
I’ve thought long and hard about why we need awareness days, weeks and months at all. And the best answer that came to me was from my own journey. Back in medical school, things had been incredibly difficult for me. Every day since the beginning I felt I was carrying a rock on my chest, my back, my head – and a fog in my mind. I tried every day to make the most of the time I did have to study, carrying a book with me all the time, everywhere – in the hope that if my brain decided to function, even for 10 minutes, I would use that opportunity to study. Every attempt ended in vain.
By the third year of medical school, things were the worst they’d ever been. It had been three and a half years of each day being more or less a torment. Some days were better. Some days I could function. Exercise. Feel ‘happy’. But I was on a gradual decline to the worst – at least for me – that depression has to offer. I was finally diagnosed after a friend disclosed his recent diagnosis of depression to me. It took knowing that this can happen to anyone – that made it real. More tangible for my brain to understand as a real concept, a real possibility in my world, for me – rather than a chapter in a book that affected the patients on a ward.
I didn’t think anything of my friend’s revelation of his diagnosis at the time. It was a superficially quiet realisation. A ‘huh’. A downward gaze. A couple of months later, after my own condition had been at its worst – it suddenly struck me. Depression.
Depression.
Google symptoms of depression.
I read the first few lines, and could not resist the urge to call him. “When you were diagnosed, what were your symptoms?”, I asked him. As he started listing them one by one, I couldn’t control my tears, and started crying uncontrollably.
The next day, I was at the psychiatrist’s office. Diagnosed with clinical depression. I went to my class right after. My friends were concerned to notice me in tears throughout the lecture. But what they didn’t know was that these were tears of relief.
Relief. Of having been found. Of having been seen. Of having been saved. Of finally having and feeling hope again.
The reason it took me more than three years to realise that I wasn’t just being lazy – was because mental health was not something that had ever been talked about in my life. In my culture, if you’re struggling, you need to push harder. If you don’t – the assumption is that you can, that not having a visible disability means not having a real limitation. You don’t – as a choice.
I wondered how many of us in our generation had suffered silently, and even more in the generations before. I didn’t want anyone to suffer the way I did, not as long as I was standing. This experience, reflection, realisation and commitment led me to pursue psychiatry.
I am so grateful for the opportunities that Cygnet has provided for me to deepen that resolve, and to live my purpose. I continue to think of ways I can contribute to ease, grace and happiness in the world. Awareness of my mental health made all the difference – and thus the importance of awareness came to light.
“Awareness. It’s the one thing that changes everything.”
– Dr Somya Pandey