It is, yes.
Consider yourself lucky, that “in the vastness of space and the immensity of time,” as Carl Sagan so memorably put it (albeit in an altogether different context), you find yourself in a place where there are people who can help you. The counsellors. The doctors.
(If you’re apprehensive about visiting the counsellor or the doctor, and feel that you’d like to talk to a fellow student first, we could form a mental health support group if there are enough people interested. If you think that’s a good idea, send an email to [email protected], and we’ll see how to move forward.)
How will they help you? They can help you peel back the layer-upon-layer of subterfuge that your mind engages in. Yes, it’s not easy to talk about yourself to a stranger. Nobody expects you to give a TED talk summarizing your life in 18 minutes. You will need to observe yourself, always remaining vigilant. It’s not easy. There will be times when you can’t sustain the intensity required. Keep the faith. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more, because the specifics depend on your personal demons.
I know it seems impossible. You cannot see a way out of your misery. You feel totally trapped. You foresee nothing but more pain. Unlike the parallel railway tracks that appear to meet in the distance, even though they do not, your life holds no promise of ever meeting anything. You find all doors closed.
But other doors, ones you never knew existed, will open up. Believe.
The Barack Obama of 2008 — or at least, the image of himself he wanted to project back then — is not the same as the Barack Obama of 2014. He does, however, say some nice things from time to time.
“I have always believed that hope is that stubborn thing inside us that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something better awaits us so long as we have the courage to keep reaching, to keep working, to keep fighting.”
You have nothing to lose. You’ve lost almost everything already in your travels, which you began what seems like a lifetime ago, from the point of entry into this strange land. You have, however, also lost all that accumulated baggage. Lose some more. For then you can re-build.
Nothing lasts forever. Not happiness. And not your suffering. There will come a day, as unlikely as it seems to you now, when you experience what can only be described as a moment of liberation; a moment when, at long last, you feel alive.
Believe.
Because I’ve been through this in my formative years, I don’t know how much my illness and the medication has shaped me and how much it has taken away from me, how much it has led me astray from what I would have otherwise been. I don’t know. This is who I am now. Yes, I’ve suffered; yet, it is an inseparable part of my identity now.
All this has, perverse as it may seem, given me something. If you’ve been through all that torture, you’ll find you’ve become more sensitive to other people. You can put yourself in their shoes more readily. You have, in other words, become more empathetic.
“It’s particularly courageous for someone to be that generous of spirit in the face of that kind of depression.”
What’s more, you now know what is truly important in life, and what is expendable. You value it because you know how much it means; most people around you think they know. You’ve wandered this arid land, desperate to quench your thirst. When you find that oasis — you will, one day, believe — you’ll know its value.
So, you still think we “don’t know the value of something”? Sorry, my friend. We know it better than you ever can. We know how valuable life is. We know how valuable love is. You think you know it. We, however, feel it in our bones. We value the big things, and the small things. A kind word, a rare smile, a word of thanks. Things you take for granted. You don’t know the value of something until you lose it. We know the meaning of impermanence.
“The world of dew
is the world of dew
And yet, and yet…”
I’ve not yet left the alien land I’ve dwelt in for so long. I’m aware of the fragility of the truce. Too many false dawns there have been. But I think I’ve found the path that leads me back to the world of the living, the world of the “normal.”
And so can you. Believe.
I’m not normal, though — I have my badges of honour. I don’t want to be normal.
Thanks for reading.
I wish to thank the Colloquium team for having organized this discussion.
To the one person who was there when I needed someone most, who was there in this very hostel — you know who you are — I will forever be thankful to you. See what you’ve done.
If you feel you could benefit from a proposed mental health support group — of, for and by students — or if there’s something you’d like to say — anything at all — email me at [email protected].
