Snoopy and Charlie. Image from Pinterest.

I was twelve when depression first hit me. It was in mild form combined with social anxiety. Today I know I didn’t grow up as a shy kid but rather as socially anxious. This makes a big part of my story. If I was where I was diagnosed I would have been better but the place shifted and my anxiety increased. When you are an introvert it’s difficult to express yourself in a certain environment initially, you take time to grow and communicate. But when you are introvert and socially anxious you do not grow anywhere. All those social gatherings were a nightmare for me. People shaking hands and talking looked like monsters in disguise. It was exhausting. Conversations were limited to simple hellos followed by hours of silence and a comment that I do not know how to talk and this will bring shame to my family. Having extroverted parents was like cherry on the top, the only difference is that the cherry was rotten. The bitterness slipped between us and we grew apart. I didn’t know where to find comfort if not at my home. I was empty looking for understanding because how do I tell that inside my stomach everything is sinking. There was no word back then to describe mental illness, I finally have a word for it. It should make things easier but it doesn’t. It adds a burden. People go on and ask questions that irritate me and their insensitivity is another of the reasons I feel like giving up.

When I looked for understanding outside I was portrayed vulnerable and weak which is quite true. This vulnerability led me to years of bullying and harassment. I couldn’t give back to people who locked me in a room, ruined my school uniform, mocked my hair, used slurs to describe my weaknesses and went ahead bullying me on various social media platforms. My character was dissected like a frog in a zoology laboratory and I stood there numb watching my own death. I was suicidal. I wanted to die but I didn’t and today I am alive hoping to feel better. I won’t say suicidal thoughts left me because they still come back in handful packets but it’s easier to dodge them. I think a part of me has finally understood that it’s impossible to live without certain pain. I can let go only if I accept. But how do I do that?

The questions are soaked in my ink and my poems try to find answers. At times they succeed and rejoice. At other times they stare at me with confusion. Bewildered we both, my poems and me, leave the place.
I still do not know how to describe what I feel. Depression has left me crippled. It took away my abilities and gave back vulnerabilities. I can go for therapy, I want to but a part of me holds back. I do have one person who helps me with these things and she does this professionally so there’s no doubt. But there is this thought that I do not want to talk to a stranger about my feelings. I just want one person who can understand and give me a little hope. After all, it’s not bad to ask for help. I wish so hard for this particular person that I search them in every face. This makes me more vulnerable. I end up in another depressed state. Humans have a limit of understanding if they do not do it professionally. It limits my heart to speak up and prisons my liberty.

From here I do not know where I will go, I do not even wish to move but there must be a hand to save me other than the Almighty Himself. Is that too much to ask?

©Sameera Mansuri 2020.

The post first appeared on The Poetic Elixir.

How weird that I had to copyright my own feelings too.