I learned so much that semester. I learned about the different ways a person can fall in and out of love, how to measure specific heat capacity of a metal in Chemistry lab, the perfect step-by-step method to parallel park for my driving test, what medical specialty I would likely end up in after the grueling pre-med years and…about depression.
During that semester, I would become intimately familiar with the illness known as depression.
An illness that I had been largely unaware of throughout my life. An illness that I had brushed aside by the sheer will of what I often call “African stoicism,” a tough outer shell, impermeable to hardships and unperturbed by the twists and turns of life.
Depression? Who is that?
That semester. The lack of appetite. The loss of interest in life. The avoidance of friends and classmates. The skipped classes and missed meals. The unexplained sadness, unprovoked irritability, and unstoppable tears.
All signs pointing towards depression. All signs we could not see. All signs we would not see.
That is, until they became signs that refused to be ignored.
After endless probing and pleading, you finally confide in me. You tell me that you need help. That you have been struggling for a while. That you are sad all the time. That you don’t see the point of living anymore.
The last part breaks me.
You tell me.…you think you might be depressed.
It turns out that while I have had no experience with mental illness, you’ve had far too many. Enough that simply uttering the word “depression” elicits a visceral reaction.
You have experienced the shame and isolation associated with seeking mental health care. You have seen family members live silently with mental illness, afraid of whispered rumors and the inevitable judgement of others.
Unlike you, I did not grow up hearing words like depression, anxiety, and bipolar disorder. I am ashamed to say that I knew nothing about your illness at the time.
But I am determined to get you through this “hurdle.”
Straight A’s. Type A. A perfectionist. High achiever. This is simply another question to answer. A difficult but requisite college course to travail.
I do my research.
Exercise. We walk and walk. We talk and talk. Until our legs hurt and heels blister. Until we have exhausted both our words and our selves.
Diet. No more skipped meals. We are first in line at the cafeteria. A healthy breakfast to start the day. Lots of fruits and vegetables. Don’t forget to stay hydrated, always.
Music. We explore the rich music of my culture. I teach you the lyrics and dance moves. You marvel at the vibrancy and uniqueness of Afrobeats. I marvel at the fact that the music I took for granted could be so deeply appreciated by another.
K-dramas. We watch all the good shows, all the bad shows, and of course, everything in between.
School. We study together at our highly coveted spot in the library. You help me with art projects. I help you with Calculus I.
Everyday we live in this bubble of our own design.
Has the ever-looming cloud of sadness passed? Are you smiling more these days?
Or am I imagining the slight curve of your lips? Do I hallucinate the faint gleam in your hazel eyes?
I must have. Because you aren’t better. Distracted? Maybe. Not better.
We have been pretending that nothing is wrong. But ignoring an illness does not make it go away.
I am crippled by the fear that I can’t help you. That I am not enough. This thought terrifies me.
You are my roommate. Brought together by luck of a random draw and yet, you have become so much more. You are my friend.
I have learned to always push through obstacles, fearless and determined. But this isn’t just an obstacle. Your depression isn’t just a problem to be solved. A thing to bulldoze through with my endless optimism and stoicism. One more adversity to face boldly with my shield of resilience.
I bring up the next logical option. It’s time to seek help from a professional. Therapy, maybe?
You resist the idea. I knew you would.
But I persist. And reluctantly, you agree.
We walk and walk. But this time, we are not simply taking endless loops around a geese-invaded lake. This time, we walk with a purpose. This time, we walk to get you the help you need.
We walk, but don’t talk. Instead, we allow our minds to wander in an odd yet peaceful silence. And then I wait.
Your first counseling session is hard. But week after week, without fail, we continue to go. We continue to walk. I continue to wait. Now we have a new routine.
This time, you truly seem better. I am numb with relief.
Because in those months, I couldn’t tell you how scared I was. Afraid that our efforts would be inadequate. Afraid that you could sense my ignorance about your illness.
Thank you for letting me in. Thank you for getting out of bed at my insistence. Thank you for trying.
And thank you for allowing me to care for you.