I remember the moment I lost all hope in humanity. It was when my own mother told me how lucky I was and how grateful I should be that I had the opportunity to travel to several places, while my brother and sisters had not yet had the same chance.
She said this while I was calling her in the middle of one of the most difficult periods of my life. I was struggling with the way the upper management at the company where I worked abused their power over their employees. I remember crying so desperately, hoping that my mother would understand the suffering I was going through and somehow offer me comfort.
I lost that hope the moment she said those words. I remember replying to her, “Do you wish for me to become a lunatic while having all the money to travel around the world? What good would it do me, even if I had all the money in the world? Is that more important than my own sanity and peace?”
It hurt me deeply, and it still saddens me that my own mother could say something that pushed me to the brink of what would become the beginning of my depression. It felt as though something inside my heart had snapped, and all the color drained from my life.
I had never cried so desperately before. All I wanted was for someone to stand beside me and support me through what I was experiencing. Instead of receiving comfort, the words that came from her heart felt like a dagger driven through my own.
That day, ten years ago, I remember being diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, and my life has never been the same since. It felt as though all hope had disappeared. I constantly felt useless. There was no room for anything good in my mind, and I was bombarded every day with negative, intrusive thoughts.
I remember crying constantly because those thoughts would never leave me. The images in my mind of being left completely alone, becoming a beggar who fed the birds by herself, became a daily occurrence. I remember wishing that I could simply fall asleep and never wake up from that nightmare.
I could no longer think clearly. My heart was constantly pounding, and I felt restless all the time. I could not process what other people were saying, nor could I understand the context of their conversations. I did not know what to say when I was with strangers or even with family members I had once been comfortable around. Whenever I had to face any kind of human relationship, I would immediately imagine the worst possible outcome.
I was even terrified of going to church to listen to a sermon. Every sermon, regardless of the topic, would fill me with overwhelming guilt because of my many sins.
I also remember feeling like a child who had just learned how to walk and read. I felt like a blank canvas, as though I had no basic knowledge of even the simplest things. I did not know how to cook, what I should prepare first before cooking, how to organize the ingredients, or what needed to be done before moving on to the next step. Even something as simple as making a friend or knowing what to say when meeting a stranger for the first time felt overwhelming to me.
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I was terrified of what other people would think of me.
I remember losing a dear colleague whom I believed had been on my side, simply because I had been diagnosed with a mental health illness. There was another person whom I considered one of the closest people to me, yet she gradually distanced herself from me at the company.
Surprisingly, the person who showed me the greatest kindness was the one I least expected. She was the same person I had argued with before and the one I had once made cry because I had been too harsh with her. While others remained like bystanders, she shone the brightest, even though she was not a Christian.
I also remember desperately scrambling for help from Christians whom I knew were actively serving in the church. None of them helped me, nor did they refer me to someone who might have understood my situation and condition. It felt as though I had been left completely alone to save myself from the mess I was in.
I remember going for days without sleeping at all. I remained awake night after night, and whenever I walked, I felt constantly dizzy and confused. I pretended to be fine in front of the people I met, both inside and outside the company.
I remember trying everything I could just to get one or two hours of sleep, but nothing worked. Every day, I walked up and down the sixteen flights of stairs to my apartment, hoping it would exhaust me enough to sleep, but it had no effect whatsoever. Nothing seemed able to give me a good night’s rest.
I began reading the Psalms, yet I still found no answer as to why all of this had happened to me. I could no longer conjure ideas for my work, and I felt ashamed every time I cried at the office because it meant admitting to upper management that I was no longer able to perform my job.
I remember facing my colleagues, especially during lunchtime. It felt as though I was sitting on thorns for what seemed like an eternity. I had to rack my brain to think of what to say while trying to process words that no longer made any sense to me. I could not understand a single sentence of what they were trying to say. It was pure torture.
I was simply exhausted from trying to make sense of everything happening around me and from constantly wondering what I should say in those moments. I would force myself to smile while my heart was restless, terrified, sad, and confused. More than anything, I just wanted the day to end so I could return to my bed.
The worst part was watching everyone else laugh, chat, and enjoy each other’s company while I felt completely alone in what I was going through. No one experienced what I experienced or understood how I felt then — and, in many ways, how I still feel even now.
