These past few days have plunged me into a relentless battle with my own mind, a battle against the insidious grip of depression and the relentless waves of high-functioning anxiety. As a South Asian adult, I’ve often carried the weight of expectations, the ‘eldest daughter syndrome,’ and the tendency to be unforgivingly hard on myself. For years, I tried so hard to hold it all together, to meet the standards set for me, and to be that dependable rock for those around me. But like a dam bursting under the pressure, everything broke loose, and I found myself drowning in the abyss of my own emotions.
The tears have flowed endlessly, an unrelenting storm of sorrow and despair that has left me feeling utterly helpless. Each tear carries a burden of its own, representing the years of unspoken pain and suppressed emotions. It’s as if life itself has spiraled out of control, and I’m left adrift in a sea of chaos, powerless to steer my course.
In this tumultuous descent, even the most basic acts of self-care have become distant memories. The once-soothing rituals of a warm bath or a nourishing meal feel like unattainable luxuries. For eight long months, I wore a mask of strength as Ashwin was away, but the news of his extended absence hit me like a tidal wave, shattering that façade. My nerves are frayed, and my emotions are in constant turmoil, like a turbulent sea.
The weight of my own insecurities has grown unbearable. The revelation that I’ve been undervalued at work was a crushing blow, fueling the relentless flames of self-doubt. The unintentionally hurtful words of a close friend have acted as salt on an open wound, intensifying the feeling that her life is a flourishing garden while I remain trapped in a barren wilderness, unable to find my way out.
And then, as if testing the limits of my endurance, today brought a fresh onslaught of heartache. My cherished boss, who had been a source of inspiration and support, announced their departure. Simultaneously, the news of my mother’s ICU admission added another layer of worry and despair. Overwhelming waves of worthlessness and defeat pounded against me, eroding my self-esteem, leaving me questioning whether Ashwin deserves the burden of marrying someone weighed down by their own insecurities and the crumbling pieces of our relationship.
The yearning for old friends, the comfort of family, and the warmth of their presence gnaw at my soul. The isolation that depression imposes is a relentless adversary, driving a wedge between me and the people I hold dear. It’s like watching life’s vibrant colors fade into shades of gray.
As I grapple with the complexities of my own mental health, there’s a poignant irony in my role as a mental health promotion professional. It’s dumbfounding that I’m tasked with helping others navigate their emotional landscapes while I myself am adrift in this turbulent sea of emotions. Yet, this experience is a stark reminder that mental health struggles can affect anyone, regardless of their knowledge or expertise in the field.
In this moment of despair, I cling to a glimmer of hope that these dark days will pass. I hope to rediscover the strength within me, and for the pain to ease, making way for the joy that currently feels so distant. The path ahead may be obscured, but I refuse to let these struggles define me. Instead, I choose to believe that my resilience will guide me back to the light, where I can find solace, healing, and the restoration of my spirit.
Sarona's Silent Scribbles 