by Ahmed Mukhtar
Of late, I have been having nostalgia. I long for the good moments I spent with my best friend. A friend that knows me more than I can ever know myself. Enyewe tumetoka mbali. It is like we are Siamese twins. We have shared moments that I have never shared with any other person; in some of the moments, he understood me better than I could ever understand myself. Unfortunately, we lost touch in my pursuit of happiness. I believed that when I am happy, he is happy. Little did I know I would lose my confidant along the way. Nor did I know that I would annoy my personal person in my pursuit of happiness. Yet all along he was my source of peace and joy.
The main question is: Do I even understand the concept of happiness? Have I even given a thought to what constitutes happiness? Wasn’t I the happiest person when I arrived home at 7:30 pm looking like a street kid, without my parents knowing where I had been the whole day, only to be reminded the African way that I was not the master of the house? Still, I was happy after a thorough beating. Wasn’t I happy with our escapades when I never knew right and wrong? When I was punished for an offence, the punishment ended up being more adventurous.
After my childhood, I remember I used to look forward to just sitting down for a wordless conversation with my best friend. The friend that knew what made me happy. The friend that I could watch TV with. The friend that I could sit down, close my eyes and listen to. The friend that would listen to me without judging. This nostalgia makes me keep questioning myself on why I kept searching for happiness while my happiness was within myself. I envy the old me that used to be so close to this friend that every time we had a sitting he would have the biggest and most beautiful curves on his face for no given reason. I wonder where and how I lost this friend. I wonder what I actually did to this friend. The friend that used to give me beautiful thoughts, beautiful memories and candid conversations. The friend that would remind me of where I came from so that I could remain grounded. The friend that used to tell me the truth. The friend whose counsel I used to seek before making any moves. This friend has changed. Or was I the one that changed? I no longer have those sweet moments. Whenever I try to, my friend just gives me sad memories and hurtful thoughts. At times, my friend decides to forget the most important details. It reached a point that I needed to silence this friend. This friend that lives within me—my brain.
As I said, this friend knows me more than I know myself. Nowadays, I find my friend forcing me to relive moments that I never wanted to. I wonder why one would subject their close friend to such tormenting moments. The unfortunate bit is that for some good number of years I tried my best to forget these moments as they were my worst. I was forced to relive moments that I never wanted to ever remember in my life. Moments that I believed belonged in my past. To silence these moments, I started running away from my friend, trying to keep myself so busy that I had no time to listen to him nor give him audience despite his appetite for attention, a trait which we both share. I remember working so hard at work to exhaust my mind. Sometimes I would listen to very loud music. I still do. This technically worked until the voices in me adapted to the situation and got my attention.
This is the point at which I realised I was sinking into depression. I realised I had lost control of my mind. Let me take you a step back. I love being in control of my thoughts. I did not abuse drugs due to the fear of losing control of my mind. My love for control is immense to the extent that I could programme my brain on what to dream of. Now, imagine such a person being overridden by his worst fear: loss of his mind. The belief that people who have lost their minds are the ones that walk naked in the streets is a fallacy. Loss of mind could be as simple as being overwhelmed by thoughts that you cannot control, mood swings, loss of memory, irritability and loss of concentration. What I have listed are some of the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). That is what my friend had developed and I had to walk the journey with him.
If I was to liken this moment to any other, then my close-to-death moment would seem like a joke as I still hoped to live. With PTSD, I felt dead inside. The eight months from diagnosis were the lowest moments of my life. The thought of losing oneself is not easy to endure. The thought of knowing you are sick but there is nothing you can do about it is disastrous enough. It kills. In my case, the side effects of the medication were greater than the benefits. The medication never served the purpose of silencing my mind. It induced me to sleep and help reset my brain. Unfortunately, I have been an insomniac for the better part of my life. I have a very active brain. Even antidepressants failed to suppress my thoughts. Since I could not get enough sleep, I developed severe migraines, heavy tongue, dry mouth, low libido, among other side effects—even after changing medication thrice.
I wished there was an option of emptying my mind. If only I had a way of draining these thoughts, I would have peace of mind. Unfortunately, the mind does not have a valve that could be opened like a floodgate to empty the thoughts and then close the valve and fill it with new thoughts. So, I was forced to face my greatest fears. I had to have a meeting with my lost friend and discuss whatever he wanted us to. I had to pay attention to my brain. I not only relived the sad moments but also assessed the situation to see what I could do. ‘So, while you were young, you were sodomised by a close relative. Now that you have all the resources, do you want to take legal action or to forgive and live with it? But wait, won’t the society blame you for going to his house? Or won’t the society see you as a lesser man?’ These were the bitter thoughts that I had been avoiding all along. I have been opening these thoughts to process them afresh. It is like I am learning how to walk again. Or learning how to breathe deep in water. It is the hardest thing ever. Like I used to tell my swimming instructor, “I was never taught how to breathe as a child, so how do you plan to teach this old dog this new trick?” It was not a pleasant discussion. It was not a single sitting. Nor have I fully finished the discussion. The conversation is continuous and it pops up whenever my mind feels like having it. I would compare the situation to when a woman tells a man ‘we need to talk’. The man will begin recollecting all the things he has done, whether knowingly or unknowingly, to try to figure out what mistakes he might have committed to warrant the summoning.
Anyway, to shorten the long story, I am making amends with my long-lost friend, or is he my frenemy? Let me not annoy him by giving him names; let me just stick to his original name, ‘my brain’. This is the story of my suffering from depression in a non-depressing way. Let us learn to listen to our friends, relatives and colleagues. We might be the source of their peace of mind and we could help them to get out of depression. Let us treat depression the way we treat malaria and typhoid. Or even better. Let us look out for our suffering friends and give them much-needed support. It is the least we can offer.
Ahmed is a pained soul who fears being judged. (journey4rmdpression@gmail.com)
Editor’s Note: This is the third piece in a series of pained thoughts by Ahmed Mukhtar. Read the first and second pieces. You may write to editor@nairobibookshelf.com.
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