As I write this today, I can’t help but imagine what would have or wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t gotten help on time. Help is such a subjective term to some people but to me, it means that you come out stronger than before. There is no shame in asking for help if you’re dealing with problems because you never know what solution might come out. If only you’d ask for help. 

Trigger Warning: Talks of suicide and self-harm 

If you’ve read my earlier posts, you know the condition I’m battling with. For those who haven’t here’s the background to my story:

I have schizoaffective disorder which is almost like an onset of schizophrenia and bipolar. I have also been diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD). I’ve been going through this for the last two decades. For almost 10 years, I fought silently because I didn’t want anyone to perceive me any weirder than I already was but in 2011, I finally spoke up and thus began the countless doctors, various treatments and a lot of support from very few people. Hey, I’m not complaining. 

Now the reason why I’m writing this is not because I am sad, it’s because through my story I want to let you know that it’s okay to ask for help. I’m also not saying that I am “cured”. No, far from it but I am on the road to self-recovery and maybe even self-discovery. 

Suicide is an option that I contemplated every day for a very long time and sometimes even still do, when things get too much. The only thing that stopped me or stops me till date is the fact that however few I will leave some people very unhappy and helpless behind. I fear as the helplessness would fade it would be replaced by anger and resentment of not being able to do anything and I wouldn’t wish this feeling even on my worst enemies (if I had any). 

Since dying by suicide wasn’t an option, I chose self-harm and boy, did it help. It brought on a sweet physical pain that, even if momentarily, masked the emotional pain that I was feeling. I kept repeating the process for years in the hope that one day I wouldn’t need to. To be honest, I have no regrets. In fact, I wear my scars proudly and don’t hide them either. 

Today marks the day of being discharged from NIMHANS and it’s difficult to fathom that it’s only been 8 years… It seems like a lifetime ago. Though my memory has been compromised over the years because of some of my medication’s side-effects, the day I first walked into NIMHANS is slowly coming back as I write. Let me tell you what I do remember: We were there at the crack of dawn because getting an appointment in the OPD was near impossible even if you were referred by one of the top doctors in the country. Mom and I just stood there for hours patiently waiting our turn and when it finally came, it brought with it a series of questions by doctors that I’d been sick of answering for 3 years. Details don’t matter anymore because when the doctors asked my mom to admit me, I remember running away as fast as I could. Just wanting to hide somewhere till they changed their mind and when they didn’t, I gave up the fight and accepted it as my new reality. 

The only thing I was scared of was the opinion and perception everyone would have of me once I went back to college and I wasn’t wrong. I was the certified “pagal” in the campus but people did have the courtesy to at least laugh behind my back (I don’t know if they were scared of me or just being polite). 

In NIMHANS, I really got to know the meaning of family and friends. All those people who hung out with me vanished and only a few remained; they’re still there even if I don’t speak to them all that much. And family, what would I ever do without them? You know not too many dads would quit an assignment abroad to take care of their daughters (who are not suffering from a “serious” condition). Well my dad did and much more. Nani dropped everything and came to Bangalore and mom was always a constant. Special mention goes out to my sister who at the time didn’t understand what was going on but made her life’s mission to find out. She is now pursuing a career in psychology and is the most educated person in the family. 

Nightmares came and went along with the person screaming in the next room but I stayed for two whole months. I thought I’d given up on the day I was admitted but deep inside I still had the fight in me and the fight I did. The voices increased and so did the self harm. There were episodes and then, there were episodes but the family was constant. 

10 years and counting; we’re still at it with my husband as the newest addition on this journey. It hasn’t been an easy one but the point I’m trying to make here is that I asked for help after silently crying for a decade and now after 11 years I can go on in life. The situation hasn’t changed, I have. I have learnt to manage it to the best of my abilities. There are still days when I go back to my old ways but then there are some when I feel like the luckiest person to be alive. 

Ask for help, even if it’s for the smallest of things. Someone or the other will always come through for you. All you need to do is ask. 

I know this has been a long post and I’d like to thank you for taking out the time to read this and hope that you are doing well and are safe during these trying times. :)