I've Never Been (un)Happier
PENGUIN BOOKS
I’VE NEVER BEEN (UN)HAPPIER
Shaheen Bhatt is a screenwriter and has lived with depression for over seventeen years. She was born in Bombay and lives there with her attention-seeking family and her three cats, Sheba, Pica and Edward.
Shaheen Bhatt
I’ve Never Been
(un)Happier
PENGUIN BOOKS
For Soni and Mahesh, and Alia,
who learned to love me in darkness when I was all out of light.
For Neha and Namita,
the unwitting caretakers of a surly, reclusive teenager.
For sixteen-year-old me,
who did not yet know that this suffering can be a gift.
And for anyone
who has ever felt different.
‘Though my soul may set in darkness,
it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly
to be fearful of the night’
—Sarah Williams, The Old Astronomer
Contents
Notes from Shaheen’s Journals
Preface
I’ve Never Been (un)Happier
Acknowledgements
References
Notes from Shaheen’s Journals
I think mama and papa expect a lot from me. I’m constantly at war with myself. I know it’s very cliché but that’s the thing. I only feel like crying these days. I get sad very suddenly. I feel like I’m no good.
Age 13 (2001)
I’m silent but the screaming won’t stop, I’m calm but the restlessness goes on, I’m smiling but my frown won’t fade, I’m laughing but the tears don’t die away, I’m living but that won’t stop death from coming my way.
Age 15 (2003)
Although I now act indifferent to the pain, I silently pray for a miracle every second. By doing this I disobey myself, disobey the rule of never giving into the pain.
I cover my ears, my eyes, hoping it’ll go away. It doesn’t work. It never does.
Age 16 (2004)
I appear to have stumbled upon a tragic fact of life. You run and you run to end up where you started.
I am what I am and nobody is buying. I feel like a fraud. A facade with no interior. I’m constantly cloaked in fear. I wear it like a prize. No wonder no one’s buying. I have nothing to sell.
How many times must I try to become another and fail?
Age 18 (2006)
I don’t feel like engaging with the world. It’s too … trivial.
I saw him [Smokey] die. I held him as he stopped living. The realization came that if he can go, then so can I. And I will. What is that? How is that? Surely this is all a joke. Surely life isn’t as fragile as all that.
So long as I don’t see him any more and don’t ask why, I can say to myself that I will figure it out later. I can put it in a box.
Age 25 (2013)
When you agree to create, you agree to destroy. No one ever mentions that. Infinity allows for infinite ends. It feels like I end every single day.
Does nothingness exist? By definition it seems like something that can’t. This is why people accept God. Because you have to tell yourself something.
What happened to the little girl I was? When did she die inside me?
How do I resurrect her? What could that girl have grown to be?
Age 26 (2014)
My mind is an animal I cannot control. I feel starved for real human contact. No matter how much I have, it isn’t enough. I fixate on people I barely know without even the slightest provocation. I expect transcendence. I expect permanence. I expect to be proved wrong. Constantly.
All that has gone on in the world, all that is going on, why should how I feel be anything at all? I. I. I. That’s where it all goes wrong. My feelings are evolutionary collateral damage.
Age 27 (2016)
Self-destruction is the only way forward.
I want to separate. To isolate myself from everyone around me. I want to stop being looked at. I want freedom from the concern of people. Freedom from their love. I haven’t felt like this in a long time. This broken. This watched. I haven’t wanted out like this in a long time. I want out right now. No more. Not one more second of it. Enough. I won’t do it though. Never. But I want it.
Age 28 (2017)
Preface
At twenty-nine-years-old I’ve lived with depression for all my adult life. In fact, I’ve lived with depression for longer than I haven’t.
Somehow, against all odds, I’m in constant anguish. Now I’m not talking about the ‘Netflix-cancelled-my-favourite-show-and-I-keep-dropping-chicken-curry-on-my-favourite-pair-of-jeans-so-my-life-sucks’ sort of anguish. I’m talking about the ‘there’s-a-deep-unexplained-sadness-in-me-that’s-eating-away-at-my-hopes-and-dreams-and-skin-quality-and-makes-me-want-to-jump-out-of-this-window’ sort of anguish.
Situationally speaking, I’ve never been subjected to or lived through anything truly horrific; nothing that is unique to just me, at any rate. The lifestyle I enjoy is not one I worked my way up to through hard labour, and a lot of the opportunity afforded to me comes from groundwork that was painstakingly laid by my parents. Along with the financial security my circumstances afford me, they also grant me the means to make demands for and exercise my rights to freedom and equality, which a lot of people in India, and the world over, can’t do. In short, I possess all the qualifications of what they call a ‘lucky’ one. I’m aware I am free in ways a lot of people aren’t.
I was diagnosed with clinical depression when I was eighteen-years-old, after already having lived with it for many years. It took me a long time to understand the nature of the illness I was living with since as a condition, depression is particularly stigmatized in Indian society and not to mention widely misunderstood in general. So before I lay bare my own experience, I think it is of vital importance to clear up these misconceptions and understand what depression really is. Let’s start there.
Depression is a common mood disorder and a serious medical illness.
There are many types of depression and they vary in source. All depressive disorders, no matter their type or cause, will negatively affect how you feel, think and act. According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders published by the American Psychiatric Association, depression is largely split up into two categories: major depressive disorder, and persistent depressive disorder or dysthymia. Both forms of disorders cause sadness, low moods and feelings of hopelessness but the difference between them lies in the severity and duration of the depressive episodes. A person with major depressive disorder will have a sad or depressed mood that lasts anywhere from two weeks to a number of months. Once the episode passes and the patient goes into remission, they feel ‘back to normal’ again. Persistent depressive disorder, on the other hand, is a chronically depressed mood that lasts for at least two years or longer. The symptoms of persistent depressive disorder are less severe than those of major depression and those who have it suffer from a constant ‘low level’ sadness. When one has persistent depressive disorder coupled with periodic bouts of major depressive disorder, it is known as ‘double depression’.
Depression is a complex disease, and while its exact causes are under scrutiny, it is speculated to occur in individuals for many reasons. In some cases, depression can occur because of biological factors such as genetic predispositions, hormonal changes (including menopause, childbirth or thyroid problems) and differences in biochemistry (an imbalance of naturally occurring substances called neurotransmitters in the brain and spinal cord). In other cases, depression is caused by psychological factors, severe life stressors, substance abuse and certain medical conditions that affec
t the way your brain regulates your moods.
To add to considerations of complexity, the symptoms, intensity and experience of depression vary from person to person such that it manifests differently in different individuals. Unlike other chronic illnesses such as diabetes or autoimmune disorders, depression is not consistent with its symptoms. Some people sleep too little, some sleep too much, some lose their appetite, others binge-eat, some manage to function in their day-to-day lives while others are completely consumed and debilitated by it. Depression is not a one-size-fits-all illness, and the diversity of its markers makes it that much harder to identify.
Many challenges arise when trying to explain what depression is to someone who doesn’t understand the condition or approaches it from a place of denial, one of which is in the belief that mental illnesses can be tackled and overcome by sheer force of will alone. The absence of physical symptoms traditionally associated with disease makes it difficult for some to appreciate the seriousness of the condition. Depression doesn’t cause a 103-degree fever or a visible rash; the symptoms are psychological and therefore harder to conceive of as medical in nature. For many who live with it, the greatest obstacles on the road to recovery are family and friends who do not ‘believe’ in depression. The assumption is that if you have a happy and comfortable life, you have no cause for, or no right to, the despair you’re feeling. We ask that a person pay a price before we allow them to hurt. In short, you can’t be depressed if there’s nothing wrong or if you have no real problems. (Ironically, people who believe this also believe that those with ‘real problems’ don’t have the time or luxury to suffer from depression.) So those who are unfamiliar with depression are misled by the lack of bodily symptoms and tend towards familiar statements like: ‘Think positively.’ /‘You have to want to get better.’ /‘You’re only doing this for the attention.’ /‘You’re just being lazy.’ /‘You aren’t even trying to pull yourself out of it.’ Statements like these suggest your salvation lies in a choice you are simply electing not to make, but of course, that is categorically untrue.
We’re taught early in life to keep our emotions hidden and we’re especially taught that negative emotions have no place in a public domain. The overwhelming narrative is that succumbing to pain or sadness indicates weakness and that they’re the sort of feelings you ought to keep to yourself. Such misconceptions are dangerous, with lasting consequences. My belief that they contribute to worsening the symptoms of depression and preventing people from getting the help they need is the reason I chose to write this account of my experience. The reactions I received when I told people I was writing a book on depression only confirmed what I felt—a handful were enthusiastic but most were instantly uncomfortable, many of them seeing it as unnecessary oversharing.
I don’t write about my experiences with depression to defend the legitimacy of the pain I’d give anything to be free of. My pain is real; it does not come to me because of my lifestyle, and it is not taken away by my lifestyle. But make no mistake, my lifestyle is an advantage when it comes to living with my condition. It provides me with easy access to the medical and social resources I need to support and fuel my recovery, which are both necessities and luxuries so many don’t have access to. I can wake up on a bad day and afford to stay in bed. I can pay the price that good medical care and therapy come at and I am lucky to have family and friends who are well-informed and supportive. Most importantly, I’ve been able to cultivate an awareness of my condition in myself, and it’s the only way I’ve been able to rid myself of the shame those with mental illnesses are often plagued with.
Imagine, despite all these advantages, I still wake up some mornings wondering if I’m going to make it through the day. My life is a best-case scenario for someone living with depression. Take a second to imagine what the worst-case scenario looks like.
I’m not an expert. I don’t have a degree in medicine or psychiatry, nor have I spent years studying the ins and outs of mental illness. I don’t have the weight and experience of age to back me up. I’m young and I still (hopefully) have a lot of life ahead of me. But I do have what I’ve come to learn on my seventeen-yearlong journey with depression and by sharing these reflections, I hope to add to the awareness of what depression is and how it can look on the inside as well as the outside. And I hope this humble effort will make it easier to identify and support depression rather than judge the circumstances and legitimacy of it. By writing about my experiences I hope to prove—and this is the important bit—that depression is nothing to be judged or ashamed of.
October 2018
Mumbai, India
I’VE NEVER BEEN
(UN)HAPPIER
The Feeling is a shape-shifter.
Some days it comes to me silently, taking me by surprise—cold, unfeeling and blank; an infinite void disguised as a wisp of smoke melting into the very air I breathe. It inhabits me, hijacking my entire being until there is none of me left, just more of it.
Other days it’s a colossal monster that shakes the ground beneath me, makes me shiver with every deafening step in my direction. It settles itself on my heart, crushing the life out of me yet never killing me, leaving me immobile, useless and broken.
On the worst days it comes to me as myself, as everything I could have been and as everything I will never be: immaculate, and completely without fault. It taunts and belittles me, obscuring my successes and highlighting my failures, reducing all that I am to a loathsome, insignificant speck.
The Feeling first came to me when I was twelve-years-old and didn’t know its many faces.
At first, it came little by little. It lurked in the shadows, hiding just out of sight so that I would not see it. It came as a cold breeze, a heavy lump, a snide voice, inconveniencing me but not yet paralysing me.
And then, without warning, it came all at once.
In the blink of an eye the cold breeze became a blizzard that threatened to engulf me, the lump now a boulder that stifled my every sound, and its voice grew so loud that I could no longer hear anything else. It guilefully altered the very essence of my being as I slept, leaving me to contend with a complete stranger at the start of each new day. The moment I familiarized myself with it, it changed. I was a quick learner, I thought. But the Feeling was quicker.
I call the ages between fifteen and twenty-three the Dark Days because the Feeling never left me during that time. I went to bed with it and I woke up with it. It lived inside me. It became me.
It wasn’t until I was eighteen that I found out that the Feeling had a name.
Depression, they called it, and then everything changed.
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The room is in disarray.
Clothes, books and objects at random lay strewn in messy heaps all over the floor, the bed is unmade, the curtains are tightly drawn, and my bedside table is littered with half-empty strips of medication. The only light comes from a small yellow lamp in the corner of the room. It feels around 4 p.m., though there’s no real way to be sure. Day and night have been one; there’s been no indication that the sun has risen and no indication that it has set. In this room, time has stopped.
From somewhere on the bed comes the muffled sound of a vibrating phone. It’s flooded with messages that have gone unseen and calls that have gone unanswered. All this activity has earned it a special place, buried deep under the pillows.
At the heart of this disarray is me. My hair is unkempt, my lips are chapped, and I’m huddled on the floor of my dry shower cabinet crying hysterically.
The shower cabinet is a strange place to take refuge, I know, but it’s something I’ve done since I was a teenager. Maybe it’s a leftover reflex from when I shared a bedroom with my sister and the bathroom was the only place I found any privacy. Maybe—in direct contradiction to my claustrophobia—small spaces make me feel safe when I’m upset. Whatever the reason, I’m here, and it’s the first time I’ve gotten out of bed in three days.
My breath comes in gasps as I rock
back and forth, heaving with sobs. The tightness in my chest does nothing to deter the deep, guttural sounds that escape from me against my will. It’s as if my senses seamlessly teeter between being heightened and dulled: my puffy, leaden eyes are blinded by the bathroom lights though my vision is hazy, I’m awash in noise that jangles my nerves but it all seems to be coming from far, far away. Even the tiled floor feels stony and jagged against my unnaturally sensitive skin. In this moment of physical discomfort my insides match my outsides. My body may be at war with my surroundings but it’s oddly welcome, distracting me from the other, invisible war being waged in my mind.
I clutch my knees and cry until the tears no longer come, until my body is as spent as my mind, then I slowly peel myself off the floor and return to the bowels of my bed. On some days this bed is my home, on other days it is more like my captor. I’m unable to tear myself away from it, unable to even sit upright. Each time I muster the will and energy to lift myself up, I’m pulled back into its depths by some overpowering magnetic force.
I lie in bed and stare unseeingly at the ceiling. I’m exhausted and in pain.
It’s been the same for days: emptiness peppered with unexplained torment. For the most part I feel hollow and lifeless, like I will never experience another positive emotion again, like I must go through the rest of my life with ice for insides. Then, the pain comes. It comes in waves; it wells up inside me without warning, and suddenly it’s as if the anguish of every living thing in the world is being fed directly into my mind. I can’t stop feeling it, can’t stop thinking about how much pain there is in the world—how much suffering, how many sad, unfulfilled, lonely, grieving, dying people there are. But this is just what torments me today. Yesterday, I was treated to a highlight reel of every negative and damaging moment in my own life, and it played on without pause until I was convinced I did not deserve to be alive.