TO PEOPLE WHO DON’T UNDERSTAND DEPRESSION

I’m sorry I have to rant about this: I hate the ignorance of people who make fun of depression and treat
it like some capricious ‘kaartehan.’

My battle with depression started in high school, years after my father died. While I was studying, I
struggled hard for life to go back to normal. I had panic attacks. The depressive episodes resurfaced
when my mother died just before I graduated, and intensified when I moved to Bulacan to stay with
relatives. Then my life plateaued again. I didn’t know I had depression during those years. I thought I
was just ‘sad’ because that was the natural thing to feel and the normal way to be. I was orphaned
before I turned 18; a textbook case of predisposition.

It wasn’t until when I was in junior college that I realized how severe my depression was. People thought
it was ironic that I would be afflicted with this illness when I was for fuck’s sake finishing a degree in
Psychology. On the contrary, my knowledge of psychopathology helped me understand my condition. I
knew the symptoms of clinical depression so I sought professional intervention. In 2002, I was diagnosed
with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD) and Panic Disorder.

It was hell. I had to hide my condition from my friends for fear that they would avoid me. Eventually
they did because my weird behavior became very obvious. I couldn’t blame them. I guess they got
scared. This time I was already reacquainted with my biological family and even my sister was bothered
by my behavior. I was so bizarre. My sister would watch me hold a spoonful of food as I tried to shove it
into my mouth but instead of swallowing, I would just leave it hanging in mid-air while my mind
ruminated on dark thoughts. I couldn’t eat. It was a struggle to eat. There were mornings when I found it
hard to get out of bed. I would palpitate automatically as soon as I opened my eyes. Normal people take
for granted the mundane motions they had to go through every day. But for me, even the simple act of
getting food from the kitchen was an ordeal. I had to dissect the process of getting out of bed and going
to the kitchen to get a sandwich. Step by step. Should I stand and get up? Should I let myself just fall out
of the bed and crawl on the floor till I reach the kitchen? Should I ask someone to get food for me? What
would I tell them? Wouldn’t it be embarrassing? I would replay these thoughts in my head over and over
again. Every routine task was a complicated procedure for me; even going downstairs and going to the
food cart across the street to get a sandwich. In everything I did, I felt a heavy weight pressing down on
me. It felt like a never-ending descent into madness.

In school, I tried to hide my panic attacks but some of my teachers noticed my strange behavior. I’d
sweat and shiver because of feelings of terror that came out of nowhere. When I attended classes on
the eighth floor, I’d have sudden panic attacks and the stream of consciousness running in my brain
went like: “Oh my God! What if there’s an earthquake? I’ll die here. No one will be here to help me.
What if the building collapses? Oh my God!” So I would interrupt the teacher in the middle of her
lecture and say, “Please excuse me. I’m feeling dizzy, I need to go to the clinic.” Then instead of using
the elevator, I would take the stairs and run from the eighth to the ground floor till I reach the open
space outside the building. But I never went to the clinic. The staff in our clinic didn’t have the
competence to deal with and understand my condition. In one of my episodes, I remember complaining
about my panic attacks to the doctor and she just laughed it away condescendingly and said I was
experiencing separation anxiety. How stupid! So I never went back to the school clinic. Often I would
just wait in a tree box, wait for the class to end, and ask a friend to take me to the gate. Because I
couldn’t even bring myself to fucking walk alone to the fucking gate!!! “Rhutee, please take me to the
gate. I’ll be OK as soon as I get on a jeep. Please…”
I was usually a cheerful and energetic person but when I took my medication, I often got groggy and
dazed in class so I stopped. I became an alcoholic. With alcohol, I could be more relaxed and bubbly at
the same time, especially when in class; and two half-litre bottles of Red Horse usually helped. But not
for long because everything got even worse when the alcohol wore out. I stopped reading books
because I’d be too consumed by what I read that I’d often hurl the books away from my sight because I
was afraid the scenes were real. It was a living hell. It was like a vicious curse. It was a slow, torturous
suffering. It was dying a little each day.

I experienced frequent relapses. In my previous jobs, I never disclosed my condition for fear of not
getting hired. I only lasted for a few months in each job, if I was lucky enough to cope well. It was a
continuous struggle. Luckily, I found a job in an environment that was conducive to my mental health. I
met a lot of people in the artistic community who experienced or was still going through one or another
psychological illness. I found hope.

My battle with depression took years but eventually I won. Luckily, I was aware of my illness so I was
never suicidal. I knew I needed help. I may have lost some pals because of depression but I was
fortunate to have a strong support system of family and friends who stood by me and were willing to
stick it with me till I was able to recover. I feel deeply indebted to them all.

Even in my angriest moments, I would not wish my enemies to be plagued with depression. For me it
would be the unkindest thing to ever wish on anyone. I’d like to encourage everyone to learn more
about depression and other psychopathologies and spread awareness about this often misunderstood
disease. Let’s not make fun of it. Depression is not merely histrionics of the attention-deprived, as some
ill-informed people think. It doesn’t have a face but IT IS REAL! One moment you see someone having a
good laugh; the next thing you know they committed suicide. It can happen to anyone of us; rich or
poor. To those who are going through depression, please know that you are not alone. Please try to
reach out and seek help. I can only pray that you may have the courage to do so. There is always hope.

Some people think depression is a sign of weakness. It is not. If I had been weak, I would never have had
the balls to go through this ordeal and survive. It took a lot of strength for me to regain my sanity. Like I
always say, I am the strongest person I know. Because it takes one an enormous amount of willpower
and strength of the spirit to take back and piece together one’s broken soul.