For the longest time, I thought that I had been suffering from burnout – a feeling not unfamiliar to me. The art of having to teach for seven hours straight can be quite energy-draining, and no, don’t get me wrong, I’ve always been passionate about my job, but lately, I’ve just felt that I can’t keep up anymore. I kept telling myself that I was just under a little stress and the difficulty would pass. All I needed to do was enjoy the impending school holiday, and then I would feel better – that surely wasn’t the case! The holiday period came and went by, the new terms passed too – and still, I was not feeling like myself. You see the other night I had a self-proclaimed “aha moment”. I randomly found myself in Nandos, poking holes with my fork at the chicken that I should not have ordered.

Why I was sitting in Nandos is perhaps a story for another day, yet, there I was, around the table, being swallowed by this immensely energy-draining conversation. In fact, everything has been draining my energy lately. Suddenly, I realised that the next moment turned into two hours later, and what was most alarming was that I was silent throughout! I was just there, staring at the chicken, lifting my head to occasionally pretend to be interested in what was happening. I was like an unwanted outsider invading the tennis match of a dialogue that was happening around me. In my mind, I kept thinking that there was no need for me to contribute to the conversation. That was foreign. I have always valued my own opinions and enjoyed engaging with people. That’s when I knew… I am not okay.

I am no stranger to voicing my struggles with mental health. When I was thirteen I had my first introduction to anxiety and depression. Up to this day, I am still surprised that I am alive, however, back then I was of course too young to understand what was truly happening to me. I used to think that Allah was not being fair. Why did I have to experience such a severe emotional calamity at such a young age? All I wanted was to be normal; be like the other boys.  “Allaahumma iennie a oothu bieka mienal hammie walhazan (Oh God, I seek refuge in you from anxiety and sadness).” I prayed five times a day, each day, religiously asking Allah to remove all the hurt, but of course, it was not so easy. I had to work on myself.

Thankfully, the episode didn’t last long though. As the various calendars of my teenage life paged by, things seemed to be fine or at least fine-adjacent. Okay! I’ll give myself credit, as things kind of turned out better. I became my old self: loud, in your face, boisterous. I was able to make friends, be extroverted again, and just live a worry-free life – maybe a little too much so… 

Do the good times truly last? Because four years later, when I reached the middle of my Grade 12 year, I woke up one morning with my heart rattling out of control. I was seventeen when I had my first panic attack… I was seventeen when I first fell in love. I was seventeen when I was first institutionalised.

There has always been an immense shame that I carried for being in the psychiatric ward for over a week, but I try my best to speak about it – it’s a cliché, but it makes me feel better.

When I was twenty-three and on my birthday, I thought that I was going to die. Well, I actually made peace with dying. I was finally ready. That day, I stopped breathing. I accepted that Allah was relieving me from my pain. Again, I survived! In actual fact, it was just another mental breakdown that was brewing; at least that time I was more prepared. I am finding it hard to breathe, as I think about it now.

And now, I am on the verge of going mal (mad) once again. This time around I am being baby-reindeered, and it’s a long messed up story that even I don’t smaak (feel like) repeating.  The blackmailing, harassing, and threatening has left me without an appetite. Each time I hear, “Maar jy’t eintlik maer geword, (But you’ve actually become thin),” my sullen shukran (thank you) is screaming that this has not been healthy. We’ve been accustomed to believing that compliments about weight loss are an accomplishment, yet each time I hear those comments, I want to tell everyone that I’m a fraud and that they must not look at me, because… I can’t even look at myself. If I do, I’d be reminded that all my clothes don’t fit. The space around my waist is so wide that if I move too fast, my pants and belt slips off – and oh, I promise that I am not trying to make hangbroek (sagging trend) happen. Don’t get me started on how my underpants floats so wide over my body that looks like I’m wearing a nappie. I am drowning!

Aside from the weight loss, my brain is just not as sharp as it used to be. Most days I feel my screws being loosened, leaving my brain unhinged from my skull. There is just no energy left in me to give my 110%. When I type I make mistakes, texts go over my head when I read, and my concentration span is dismal. Every minute thing distracts me. All I want is for my brain to switch off. Most nights I cannot sleep. I’ve become immune to all these generic pills that only last until 3 am, until it’s time to wake up and forget what breathing is.

Then, a few hours ago, I had a turn for the worse. Things have gotten so dark that this time I really really thought it was it! The anxiety is nothing short of crippling – exactly what this psycho wants. Despite all this craziness, do you want to know what the saddest part is? People say things like, “You can talk to me when you need help. If you need anything just ask. I am here for you,” but in all actuality, they don’t mean it. The one time I tried reaching out to a friend, someone I knew would understand, I was left ghosted. All I wanted was to express that I’ve been trying to cry for help, yet, I was shut down in the worst way. I have this shitty tendency to always show up and listen to others; but… who is showing up for me?

So, now you know what’s been going on in my head. Tomorrow I’ll be voluntarily attending my first-ever counseling session – this is the first time I’m seeking professional help. For me to write and share my journey is the first step to healing. And if any part of you resonates with what I’ve written, please know that you are not alone. We are meant to have everything figured out. The more we share our stories, the more others. 

Tomorrow I begin the new-found healing journey. Despite everything I have endured, I know that I will be okay.