I was 16 when I first felt that something had changed in me. But I didn’t know how to talk about it to anyone without having them think that I was mad... or am I?

COMMERCIAL BREAK
SCROLL TO CONTINUE READING

I am 24, a hotelier turned journalist. I’m battling early signs of schizophrenia combined with bipolar disorder, which is a mood disorder like depression or mania. Doctors call it schizoaffective disorder. I’m giving you the medical terms because it explains it best. I am on medication. But I am told the problem is only going to get worse with time. So, it scares me when people don’t understand.

I was 20 when I finally spoke to my family that I needed help. I was already in therapy on and off for five years. Seeing a psychiatrist only made things more concrete, with the diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder.

It took three years for me to finally hop on the road to recovery. Whatever normalcy I have in my life is thanks to my family. Their unconditional love keeps me afloat when I struggle with the clouds of my disease looming over my head waiting to burst and drown me.

I found out about my condition while in college during my final year. While my classmates were busy with placements, I was struggling to keep myself sane. An epiphany pulled me through: I realised I couldn’t sit at home and wait for a miracle. That was not the end of my battle with schizoaffective disorder, but the beginning of many.

I worked with a hotel for about eight months. During the time, I found myself slipping away since I’d stopped medication. When I couldn’t carry on, I packed my bags and moved back home. I stayed there for about two months before moving once again to Mumbai, and the same cycle repeated. This time, it was because I had started drinking. Even one drink can harm you, I learned from my experience. Once again, I was back home, and my parents, my doctor and medicines helped piece together a normal and stress-free life. I have slowly built myself up again, and now I’m working as a journalist. One by one, the battles have to be fought; you lose some you win some; the secret is to keep fighting. Trust me, things do get better.

I now know that my affliction can’t pull me down forever, for I will always rise. What can though is the lack of acceptance. People only understand physical pain.

Having to keep my condition a secret, I can’t help but draw parallels with Mr India; how he exists but no one is able to see him. Or maybe a ghost? My world floats in and out of reality. I guess it’s a lot like being high all the time. Even the smallest tasks involve an astronomic size of concentration.

I had friends, at least until I decided to come out with my problem. Some could not comprehend, some thought I was lying, some were scared, as if I would kill them.

But then, here I am, trying again, talking about my affliction. Could you also try to be more accepting?

The author is a reporter and a sub editor with a newspaper in Bhopal

Your words could be the cane of courage for another person battling similar issues. Write to dnaofhealth@gmail.com with your story