Every end of the year, I reflect on what transpired over the course of the past 365 days. I am a naturally introspective person, so I enjoy examining these events and the effects they’ve had on me.
Living with depression, it’s always the default to see things in extremes, i.e. this year has been terrible. My perspective is skewed to look at the shitty parts of life, so in this post, I’ll do my best to be as rational as possible.
Trigger warning: This post includes a discussion on suicide. I am in no way encouraging anyone to take their own life; I am merely sharing my experience and perspective. Please seek professional help for any mental health issues you may have.
A friend of mine told me a story.
An acquaintance’s sibling* attempted to take their life. Afterwards, when asked why, he simply said that he was already happy as is.
My friend didn’t understand. If you’re already happy, he said, then why try to kill yourself? It doesn’t make sense!
I took a shot of vodka before saying: it makes sense to me.
My anxiety has been making an unwelcome reappearance, together with my depressive symptoms. I didn’t have much of an appetite, I was sleeping too much, and I was crying everywhere (seriously, everywhere: in my shower, in the bathroom at work, in the Grab car on my way home).
So I made an appointment with my psychiatrist a few weeks ago. After his assessment, he put me back on meds: divalproex sodium, sertraline, and clonazepam.
I was at work, chatting to a friend about my upcoming trip to my psychiatrist.
It’s my anxiety, I said. It’s been acting up again. I might need to go back on meds. My heart keeps racing and my palms are even sweatier than usual. Breathing is a challenge despite me being stationary in front of the computer for 8 hours.
I barely noticed another friend of mine sidling up, apparently listening to the conversation. I gave him a brief acknowledgement before going right back to my story.