by Hajra Bano
The idea of ending my life became a constant, frightening companion. Sharp objects seemed inviting, and I considered slitting my wrists or jumping from heights. The urge grew stronger until one day…
There was a period in my life when I was confronted with words that shattered my heart: “You are mentally unstable, you are very ill, and you need rest.” These words struck me while navigating the most arduous and unforgiving phase of my life. They tore my heart asunder, leaving me feeling fragmented and bereft of hope. My faith in humanity, in myself, and in my family was eroded. The only thought that consumed me was suicide; it seemed like the sole escape from the overwhelming darkness that enveloped me.
Everywhere I looked, shadows of despair loomed. No matter how hard I searched for a glimmer of hope, all I could see was an impenetrable darkness. It was as if, even if I ran in search of light, not a single ray would break through. I struggled, I cried out, but it all felt futile. I was ensnared in a period of intense hardship, unlike anything I had ever known.
Initially, I dismissed my mental health issues as trivial, a fleeting inconvenience. I believed that a few days of medication would restore me to my usual self. It seemed no more serious than a fever or a cold—something that a brief course of treatment could cure. When I visited the doctor for a routine check-up, I thought I might as well get my mental health assessed, just to be sure everything was fine. As she asked me questions, I responded with a mix of smiles, sadness, and silence, never grasping the seriousness of my condition.
The doctor studied my every reaction with care. She posed a seemingly simple question: “How many times a day do you wash your hands?” I told her it varied—perhaps 10 to 15 times if I was in a dirty environment, otherwise about 8 to 10 times a day. She then asked if I always felt my hands were dirty, and I replied that I did. After this, she prescribed medication for me to take each night before bed.
Initially, I thought it was no different from taking medicine for a fever or a cough. But after a few days, I noticed no changes, although my friends observed shifts in my behaviour. I became more irritable, laughed for no reason, cried without cause, and was constantly restless. My friends expressed concern, but I believed I was perfectly fine. However, a senior friend of mine, whom I regarded as a sister, insisted on accompanying me to the doctor on my next visit.
When we returned, the doctor asked if I had noticed any changes. I said no, but my friend detailed the various changes she had observed. The doctor appeared concerned and suggested further tests, ones I had never undergone before. The sight of these tests made me more anxious and frightened. Why was this happening to me? I thought I was fine, but deep down, a small part of me feared the truth.
The tests revealed much, and soon my medication was altered. With these new prescriptions, I noticed unsettling changes within myself. I was becoming increasingly disturbed, both physically and mentally. Emotions and feelings long buried within me began to surface. The medications were so potent that they left me disoriented and exhausted. I could no longer discern where I was or what I was doing. My memory started to falter; I began to forget names, addresses, and even, at times, my name.
My eyesight grew sensitive to light, prompting me to seek refuge in darkness. I withdrew from others, spending most of my time in my room. Though my friends tried to help, I pushed them away. Anger and fear consumed me, and they became afraid of me. My speech was affected; there were days when I could not speak at all. I came to understand the struggles of those who are unable to voice their thoughts. My heart ached for them, for I now knew the frustration and helplessness they must endure.
During this time, I encountered faces I never wished to see again. Some people ridiculed me, treating my condition as a joke, while others genuinely tried to help. Yet, the mocking words cut deep. Nightmares tormented me, and I would wake in terror, feeling as though someone had hurled me from a great height. These sudden, jerking movements, as medical science terms them, only heightened my fear and anxiety.
I was terrified of everyone, even those closest to me. It felt as if the entire world was conspiring against me, and I could trust no one. I stopped talking, stopped going out, and confined myself to my room. My room became my refuge, a place where I felt a semblance of security. I feared that stepping outside would result in an attack from the world beyond, like an animal being hunted.
My hearing, already impaired from childhood, worsened, and my vision began to deteriorate. The light became painful to my eyes, and I removed my hearing aids as sounds grew unbearable. This sensory overload was torturous. My mind was clouded with paranoia, convinced that people wanted to harm me. I felt utterly alone, lonely, and misunderstood.
As my condition deteriorated, thoughts of suicide began to haunt me. The idea of ending my life became a constant, frightening companion. Sharp objects seemed inviting, and I considered slitting my wrists or jumping from heights. The urge grew stronger until one day… Fortunately, my friends found me in time, bandaged my wound, and tried to console me, telling me I could confide in them. But I still could not bring myself to trust them.
This torment continued not for days or months, but for two long years. Frequent doctor visits, changing medications, and tests became my routine. I struggled to keep my mind and body intact. My memory became so frail that I would forget where I was going or what I was doing. My college attendance dropped as I could no longer function normally. Despite the best efforts of my friends and doctors, I felt like a burden—useless and unwanted.
I lost confidence in my very existence, seeing myself as a weight the world would be better off without. I felt devoid of purpose or significance. The thoughts of ending my life grew stronger. Depression and anxiety suffocated me, leaving me feeling like an outsider, even among friends. The world seemed like a hostile place.
However, this dark period taught me invaluable lessons. It revealed who truly cared for me and who did not. Difficult times have a way of exposing our real friends, and this was certainly true for me. Some people supported me, lifting me when I fell, while others turned away from my struggles. Yet, despite everything, some remained steadfast, helping me through the darkest days.
The emotions I experienced during this time are beyond words. The despair, fear, loneliness, the feeling of being lost, and moments of hopelessness are indescribable. Yet, sharing this story is important because it illuminates the internal battles faced by those enduring similar struggles. This is merely a glimpse into the agony of mental illness, a fraction of the pain and turmoil experienced.
In the end, it is the support of those who genuinely care that makes a difference. Understanding, patience, and empathy can guide someone through even the darkest paths. My journey through depression, anxiety, and schizophrenia was filled with pain, but it also revealed the strength of the human spirit and the profound importance of compassionate companionship.
(The author is a blogger and healthcare professional. She is the author of two books, Who Am I and Journey from Darkness to Light. As a nurse and midwife, she brings a unique perspective to her writing, drawing from her experiences in the medical field. Ideas are personal.)
