The trees rustled with the birds’ melodies. It’s as if the day was mocking me to cheer up or what, I thought to myself. Indeed, it was a physically and mentally painful day for me. Back in mid-2017, I was rushed to the hospital because of an anxiety attack, and the supervising doctor advised me and my mom and to have myself checked at our local hospital’s psychiatric ward.

I refused to think I was mentally ill. I refused to think that I needed help. I refused the fact that I needed medication and/or therapy, but here I was, lugging my body toward the psychiatric ward of our local hospital.

My mom and I weren’t talking much.

I couldn’t bring myself to talk anyway. My brain felt like it was running on backup power. Not only that, but my body was sore, too. When I had my anxiety attack, my whole body stiffened and started to shake uncontrollably. My jaw was sore from gritting my teeth too hard as well.

I don’t wish this experience even on my worst enemies. It’s mentally and physically taxing.

I dragged my feet through the entire process—filling out forms, answering some questions, and all that jazz. I was then instructed to enter a room where a doctor planned to ask further questions about my experience so that they could properly diagnose me.

I never thought that I would be cooped up in a room with a medical professional.

But I was desperate; I then decided that this might be the perfect first step to knowing what had been happening to me. After all, this wasn’t my first time opening up to a stranger (or strangers) about my problems.

There’s a saying that it’s easier to open up to strangers. There would be no judgments but, rather, neutrality. Moreover, doctors are sworn to keep things professional and confidential, and this made me feel safer.

Scared at first, I was stuttering and shaking. The doctor was doing his best to stay calm, too. He tried to make eye contact with me as he asked what had happened to me. As soon as I opened my mouth to answer, my eyes poured out backed-up tears as I dumped everything on him. There was too much I was holding back, and I felt like I needed to get everything that was happening to me off my chest.

I forgot what I exactly said, but I was just lost. My brain felt like it was hardwired the wrong way, and I could neither think straight nor speak straight. These reasons alone made me have a hard time maintaining my relationships with everyone in my life, especially my family. It didn’t help that I was raised in a conservative Catholic family. This was a first for my parents—that one of their children had to go through a psychiatric assessment at all. You probably already know how the comments from conservative and religious families go.

I think you need to pray more.

Maybe going to church with us could help.

Let’s not think about negative things.

We know what’s best for you, just follow what we say.

I understand the concern, but it won’t work with me. Thinking positively won’t help. I wish I dared to say these in front of my family, but of course, I couldn’t. That would just branch out to nastier arguments.

After my initial assessment, I left the room to meet my mom who was waiting for me. She looked distraught as she checked up on me and asked how the assessment was.

Worry and fear were written all over her face. I couldn’t blame her reaction. She’s never been to a psychiatric ward, and she worries about me despite our not-so-perfect relationship. “I’m scared that you might develop worse mental illnesses than the patients I saw.”

There are no “worse” mental illnesses, though—just different ones. No one should ever think that their mental illness is worse than others’ (although maybe having multiple mental disorders is probably worse). We all deal with our mental illnesses differently, and we can only handle so much.

In my case, I was handling it poorly at the time. It was new and fresh. It felt like I was trying to tame a poorly trained dog running amok inside my head—angry, resentful, and anxious.

Later on, I met with the psychiatrist again, who finally diagnosed me with generalized anxiety disorder (GAD) and major depressive disorder (MDD).

Ever experienced constant worry about a lot of things, menial or not? Yeah, that’s GAD. I guess that explains the feeling of being always on edge and expecting the worst. It’s normal to worry and feel nervous from time to time, but that feeling clung to me day and night.

I somewhat expected the MDD diagnosis, too. I barely had energy for most things that gave me joy or pleasure. The feeling of existential dread crept up so frequently and uncontrollably to the point that I just wanted to vanish. I didn’t want anyone to remember me or know me.

Upon hearing what conditions I had, my body froze. To an extent, I was happy that I knew my diagnosis because it shed a brighter light on what I was experiencing. At the same time, I was terrified of how I’d deal with it.

Toward the end of my consultation with him, the psychiatrist administered some medication for each of my diagnoses.

I took my medications as prescribed for a week. I remember the psychiatrist telling me that I shouldn’t take the medication with alcohol and caffeinated drinks for obvious reasons. However, being the hard-headed person that I am, I took my evening medication and went to my regular gig at a local bar in our city.

I always loved drinking while playing at a gig. After we finished our first set of songs, I went for a smoke at the bar. To my surprise, a person with an unfamiliar face approached me with excitement in his tone.

“Hey! What’s up!” he exclaimed.

I did my best to study his face. “I’m sorry, have we met? I don’t think I remember your face, sir.”

He then gestured, “Okay, picture me with a white coat.”

Then, it dawned on me. How could I be so dumb? He was the doctor who conducted my initial assessment at the psychiatric ward last week. For now, let’s name him Dr. X.

I excitedly gave him a pat on the back and asked him how he got here in the bar. He said he was with his dad, and they love watching live bands play at bars while having a beer or two. We were both somewhat tipsy as well, but he still managed to remind me to lay off the drinking because of my medication. I agreed, albeit insincerely; I couldn’t let him have all the alcoholic fun without me.

It then became time for my band to perform again, so I parted ways with my psychiatrist, leaving him in the crowd. After my band and I played another set of songs, I was approached by Dr. X’s dad. He confessed that he had been meaning to tell me something ever since he saw me. I couldn’t remember what he exactly said, but it went along these lines:

I just want to thank you for opening up to my son. He had a lot of patients in the psych ward that he found difficult to talk to. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not blaming his patients. It’s difficult to understand and converse with people with mental illnesses, but you were the first one he talked to properly. He told me that his interaction with you made him feel like he can be a good doctor.

I wanted to tear up in front of him. Despite not having a good grasp of my life and my mind, I made someone like Dr. X feel good simply by opening up to him. In deep thought, I found myself reflecting on what had happened when I arrived home after the gig, after hanging out with both Dr. X and his dad.

For a while, I forgot how bad everything was. Crossing paths with my psychiatrist and his dad made me realize that I shouldn’t refuse help. Regardless of whether or not they are professionals, people willingly give their time and bandwidth to help people in distress. At the very least, we should learn to appreciate that and accept whatever they offer to us.

I didn’t expect that opening up to Dr. X during my assessment also had a positive impact on him and his dad. I saw Dr. X and his dad the following week but never saw them again. I’m glad I cherished that moment, though. I’d like to picture Dr. X as a successful doctor right now in whatever field he is in.

As years passed, I learned to accept any kind of help from time to time. It could be in the form of eating out, spending time with people, having ugly crying sessions, playing games, or just sitting in comfortable silence.

I do still have episodes where I refused help. Sometimes it was better that I handled them alone.

Other times, it took a turn for the worst. In turn, I screwed up many of my relationships, romantic or not.

Could they have felt a sense of relief and belonging with me if I just have been more open? Wouldn’t they feel tired with all the crap I kept dumping on them? Maybe there would be more times when I would actually feel better if I had just been more vulnerable. I’ll probably write about my answers to these questions some other time.

In the meantime, I approached the poorly trained dog inside my head as I tossed him another treat. To be honest, I lost count of how many treats I made for him, and he hates most of them. What I noticed, though, is that he developed a liking for the treats that my friends and family give him. I think I should ask for their recipes.

Tickles

Tickles is an aspiring writer and musician who resides in Baguio City. He is constantly on the lookout for weird food combinations and cozy games to play with friends. When he’s not writing or playing at gigs, he loves to try and get prizes at claw machines.

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