Dear reader, we all came from different places and went through different paths. In my case, visiting a doctor and, more so, taking medicine was not one of the things that first came to my mind when my depression overtook my entire life. Therefore, I would go over what prevented me from prioritizing seeking professional care and the adventures that followed.

Bios and its origins

If you grew up in a first-world society, congratulations. The following story will be a fun read. If you, like me, didn’t have the privilege to grow up in a culture where depression is recognized as a severe condition, then my extraordinary reader, you will find many relatable moments in this text.

Growing up in Eastern Europe had many favorable impacts on my development as an individual. The beauty of nature and local folklore shaped my wild imagination. The unjust and far-from-logical educational system made me thirsty for objective knowledge rather than opinionated ideas. Yet, on the opposite end, neither society nor the medical field recognized depression. When someone has symptoms of depression, there would be two pieces of advice they could hear: first – you don’t work enough because if you worked more, you would not have any time for your sad feelings. Second, you need to be more “normal” and go out drinking with your buddies more often. When analyzing my choices now, It is no surprise that going to the doctor was the last thing I attempted to deal with my overwhelming anxiety.

Sometimes, it takes a few tries to get the right medicine

I was greeted by a nurse whose name I don’t remember. Nurses come before the doctor to take your vital measurements and ask why you came here today. It wasn’t easy to talk. I stared at the floor with a spaced-out look but an overwhelming storm of alert and panic inside. A few minutes after I answered the usual questions and the nurse left, the doctor came in. He wasn’t my primary care doctor, and although I had one or two visits in the past, I had no opinion about him. After repeating the same story I told the nurse, he said, “I understood.” Then, “You’re not alone” followed shortly. I remember how his words made me want to cry. It felt like an overtightened string just snapped inside of me, and it was tough to hold back the tears that felt like they had been accumulating for ages. Shortly after, I picked up my first prescription medicine that would help me deal with anxiety. It was revealing to think that I would take a small pill, and in a week or two, I would be back to the usual myself.

The pills worked their magic. I felt relief from anxiety as soon as I took the first dose. Those were nonaddictive drugs that I could take up to three per day. Everything seemed better for the first time in a while, but as usual, there was a catch. The doctor told me that one of the side effects of the pills is that you become drowsy when taking them. Drowsy is not a word in my vocabulary, so I didn’t quite understand the potential behind its meaning when I was told that it equals sleepy. One of the days, I took two pills as my anxiety didn’t calm down after the first one. I still remember how I was wrestling myself to not fall asleep in the middle of a busy day.

For those of you experiencing depression today or who had it in the past, you know that anxiety is one of the symptoms of depression. Yet, I didn’t realize it at first. Although anti-anxiety pills were helping to numb my panic, after some time, I fought myself feeling extremely sad and detached from everything I used to enjoy. I felt like nothing had any meaning or purpose. The feeling I had was as if someone close to me had passed away. That feeling was coming up every second. I recall driving on a freeway and thinking what if my life ends here? Is there a purpose or reason for me to continue? Catching myself on those thoughts and sharing them with my lovely wife made me realize I needed to see a doctor again.

Second visit to the clinic. This time, I got a different doctor. Remark: I don’t blame doctors who become numb to their patient’s problems. They must see people on the worst day of their lives and then return home, leaving the weight of someone’s struggles back at the clinic. Luckily and unusually, my doctor was different. I clearly remember how she looked at me with extraordinary understanding and empathy. Because I felt seen, I poured out every heavy thought and feeling. I remember describing depression as an oil spillage in the ocean. You are a fish or bird suffocating under the dark, sticky glue. You chaotically move to escape, but nothing you do helps. She replied: “You would make a great writer”. I don’t know why I remembered her phrase, but I can’t deny that her reply became a foundation for my blog and its mission. As usual, I had difficulty accepting praise or compliments and replied with humor rather than saying simple thank you. My visit ended with new medicine, hope, and inspiration.

Dear reader, it’s time to conclude. I hope you enjoyed the read. Remember, depression is real and needs medical attention. Although this period seems like the darkest night, I assure you that the brightest sunrise will follow.

P.S. Thank you,

V.