Subscribe to our Newsletter

Before my own episode, I had heard stories about depression. It all sounded far off, like the distance between the moon and Earth when viewed from the sky. It sounded exaggerated, something outlandish, something that happens to people who are weak, attention seekers. I realised afterwards that there are subtle deposits of reality in these tales when I had my experience. I tried to give it other names to push it off me, but it rebounded like a suspended ball kicked against a wall. It took me one whole, complete month to finally come to the agreement that I was depressed.

For what it is, depression is so gloomy and self-indulgent after all, and perhaps that is why we do not really talk about it here so much like the way we talk about other human conditions, because we are a happy people, or used to be or we just like to smile through the suffering. But after flooding my WhatsApp and Facebook pages with different stories about the different shades of grief that I was witnessing, which had darkened the stark whiteness of my heart, I finally accepted and looked forward to having myself cured of depression.

This Thing Called Depression

Depression is natural. It means being at your lowest and not able to get over the feeling–that feeling of worthlessness, that feeling of paddling with your hands, relentlessly in an ocean with no rescue boat in view. Depression, like all illnesses, cannot be faked because the symptoms are right there for you to see. But it is unethical for Nigerians to utter the word out as it seems or as the handwriting on the wall clearly states–I’m depressed. It is such a foreign word. There is no Nigerian word for it, in pidgin or any of our tribal languages. But does that mean things begin to exist only when we give them names or attach a nomenclature to their being? Of course not. I saw somewhere on the internet that anything that has a name or has been named has existed in the past or still exists. Africans in the past didn’t just have a name for it, probably because it was uncommon to be stuck with the past or worry about the future–the gods were always there to take care of everything, but then Africans of the past committed suicide. Africans of the past were saddled with worry and dejection that they felt even their gods wouldn’t save them. We are not expected to utter the word, especially males. Depression exists, but in my part of the world, it is considered taboo, just like homosexuality. You must not be seen or heard affirming it in public.

I found that this is a very personal ailment, one you face alone because the people around you wouldn’t want you to mention it or diagnose a remedy for it. So you have to carry it alone, privately away from public eyes, and when it begins to show, because like most illnesses, it has its symptoms, you can just fake a smile and lie to their faces that nothing is wrong with you. Everything goes back to normal for them, but not for you.

Some would even refer to it as a spiritual attack or the plan of the devil to sow deceit into your hearts since we quit the religious people. Some would tell you to reduce the way you overthink and be happy. But they never refer you to a therapist. Hardly, because sending you to a therapist would mean you are truly depressed, and that’s their number one fear–people hearing outside that their child is depressed and even went to see a therapist. It’s also a waste of money to them, and they would not fail to tell you that, but the truth is most don’t even have the money to afford one, so they tell you that to make themselves feel they made a point.

Depression builds up with time; it does not show up just like an Impromptu visitor. But it also has no business with pathogens gaining entry against formidable antibodies. The illness of depression arises from expectations falling short of projected successes. It usually arises from too many expectations of yourself or others. Expectations are good, especially ones that come with being rewarded for hard work, but they can sometimes be destructive as well. Sometimes, it arises from our illusions, our mind playing tinko-tinko with us. Such as imagining you are not good enough and that you are the least loved person in the family. The mere thought that you are a drop of water in an ocean. The mere thought that the air you exhale is thick with fumes and toxic gases capable of depleting the stronghold that binds your families together. And for these, you try to think of ways of removing the problem from the midst of a beautiful society, which is, of course, you.

Depression and Its Stages

It began with my taste for things ranging from food, and even the things that used to excite me. They became boring, bland, and tasteless like a meal without its required seasonings. The first thing I did was to confide in my close-knit friends physically or through social media with a singular message. “Hwfr, nothing day sweet me again.”

To which most of them replied, “Maybe it’s an illness. Go for a medical check-up to know what is wrong with you at once.”

And of course, I corrected.”It’s not that kind of illness.” And almost immediately, I stopped because I couldn’t describe it further.

“Abi you need a break?”

Why not take a break? Most of them advised. I was sure they had an idea of what I was passing through. But they were scared to say. I was also afraid to utter the word. It was so easy telling someone I’m down with malaria fever or I’m down with typhoid. But not those words. Never those words.

Once or twice, I find myself muttering the word, I don tire for this life self. I knew it was normal to bemoan and wail and cry to prove that we were truly humans. Some went further to explain to me that it was just a phase and it would pass. They talked as though they wanted to lift the burden off me. But it wasn’t possible. It was a personal burden that I alone had to carry. So, I heeded their advice but carried my burden alone and waited for the phase to pass. I tried to tell myself that it was just a phase and that it was bound to pass. I would become better, and all the ill thoughts would leave me.

I used to have dreams– wild dreams that I tried to bring within my reach and make them domestic until I began to be assailed by bouts of insomnia. That I was not sure I would achieve any of them, and by dawn, my nights would have been marred by fears of the future. Fears of failing. I failed at numerous things that I laid my hands on: businesses both online and offline, poetry, relationships. At that time, I felt like I was losing everything – my writing flair, close friends, and mind. And when I noticed that the world didn’t stop for a second while I mourned my losses, I felt the impact of worthlessness. I kept reeling over the statement. Nobody really cares about me.

During that particular time, I felt that life had cheated on me and other faithful lovers, especially those of us hoping for a change, and when it isn’t forthcoming, we give grief a chance, allowing it into our hearts. I cried my eyes sore like every heartbroken person would. I cursed, wished I hadn’t been born. Don’t we all cry when we are overjoyed and cry to God when we are in trouble, then to our family, then to our friends, then to ourselves, then to no one in particular?

But after crying, I didn’t feel any better. My worries would still be lurking at every corner of my heart. I realized that there are three stages of depression.

First Stage of Depression

The sulking stage. I gave different hints, anything except for my obvious utterance that I was depressed. I became lost in my world. I felt everything and everybody was so boring to me. Funny enough, it used to be things that made my world spin round and the light in me glow. Social media was worse off–people showing off their successes, and I imagined everybody huddled in a corner laughing at those people, at me, who couldn’t even bring out one successful story. Not even in a month, not even in a year. And the ‘we regret to inform you that your work wasn’t the right fit for us’ kept piling up in my mail. Week in, week out, I returned to the same statement like all the editors were the same person working with different magazines.

Then I stopped checking the mail and stopped replying to the rejections. I uninstalled WhatsApp, stopped logging into Facebook. There was an app where I could read books for free, but I stopped reading it. I deleted all the short stories I downloaded from online magazines via Chrome. I quit everything that used to give me light.

At home, I rarely went out or visited anybody, and feigned being asleep when other people visited. I didn’t laugh at family jokes. No more sitting to eat at the dining table. I was always the first to go to bed. My mother was the first to notice, and she continued asking me what was wrong. At almost every interval when my face was longer than shadows in the evening, I got the question, “What is wrong? You look dull,” to which I replied in monosyllabic “nothing” and nothing else. But the question didn’t stop until I snapped at my mother. She was quiet for a while until she left without saying a word. The questions stopped. I was glad.

The Second Stage of Depression

The second stage is the antagonizing stage. After feeling sick in the stomach for watching other people succeed while you don’t know where to place your feet, then you become an embittered person, rattling and cussing at the slightest provocation. I resorted to snapping at everybody because I realized it got the job done quickly. People tend to leave you alone when you snap at them.

Most things irked me. The people who came close to caring faced my vicious and uncouth tongue. I wanted them to go to hell, go wherever they wanted to, but their existence aggravated me.

My brain kept telling me I was alone because I was not the perfect balance of good deeds and self-worth. I was not a good person; people like me have no friends, no one who loves me in my community. I looked around me, everybody was happy, everybody was getting loved. People were asking about others, but not me. People joked around, shared memes, and had hundreds of likes and a good laugh, but not me, because I’m a terrible person. That is why I am alone, because I am a bad person, and I have no self-worth. Then, I began to feel loathing for everyone. It would be better if I should remain the villain in their own story.

It was the veil I had decided to wear to further steal myself away from the world, from everyone, with the ease with which a frown creeps into my face, a repulsive gesture which acted like a shield until I was a loner, and I began to feel bad again. I would wake up every morning feeling tired and frightened by what Lay ahead, lurking like a bandit waiting to pounce on me with a surprising hostility.

After realizing that you don’t get things your way by acting the bully or being like an ass, you begin to tumble down the tunnel of the third stage of depression.

The Third Stage of Depression

The third stage is the withdrawal stage. This remains the most deadly phase, as such a person is prone to committing suicide if not given urgent care and attention.

During those trying moments, shuffling through the third stage of depression, my room became my only solace, my safe haven. I stayed in the room more than anywhere else in our house. My mother would knock and walk in because most of the time, I did not reply to her; I just pretended to be asleep. Her eyes would search my body for clues of my seemingly worrying introversion. She would ask me if everything was okay. Was something wrong? I would say nothing. She would give me a more cynical look and say nothing. Even my father, who rarely stayed at home, would probe me. They would ask me why I refused to take my bath. Why I refused to barb my bushy hair or even try to comb it. I wouldn’t give them a reply, contemplating within me the best possible place to run to if they disturbed me too much. They knew I was initially introverted, but I guessed they could see and sense the oddly new habits I had developed, probably something they hadn’t seen in me before. They knew I was past my adolescence and could not ascribe my sudden change of attitude to teenage exuberance.

Sometimes, I would politely tell them to leave me alone. My stomach would churn, grumble, but I would be too lazy to go to the kitchen, too exhausted to get out of bed. I didn’t mind if the worms in my abdomen ate my stomach, my intestines, my liver, my kidneys. They would be doing me a favour at best. My family was patient with me while I went through the stages of depression. They even included me in things that would cheer me up.

And in those fleeting moments, I thought about how a lot of people who know me would mourn my death, how friends, family, and foes alike would post me on their social media platforms, writing elegies about me. They would ask Why me? Why not some unfortunate person whom God hates so much? And then the thought began to irritate and annoy me altogether. What would people say about me, especially people who know me? How would they ask themselves why I didn’t reach out to them? I would be loved for a week or two. I would trend all over social media. But deep down, I didn’t fancy that kind of end for me. I desperately wanted to heal. To live again. To be free again. To be happy again.

Two things happen when we fall ill: Either we recover from it and begin the healing process, or we don’t. I have recovered from mine. It took me close to a year, but the most important thing is to recover. And when one is ill in my country, we can seek medical attention from either the traditional way or the modern way. I, however, chose the Nigerian – my own – way in combating my depression.

Tackling Depression

There is this saying about asking the people who are returning from the path you are heading to know what the path is filled with. That is the only way to learn and have a somewhat smooth journey. I heeded the advice. I tried to listen to others who must have passed through the same phase. I searched relentlessly on Google. At first, I tried to tackle it using the best method. I also realized that nothing is new under the sun. A lot of people must have experienced what I was going through, so I searched for answers from them. The methods they used helped me as a guide to sail through my own depression. Most of the answers on Google suggested I consult a therapist.

I live in a rural environment, so I searched for a therapist in the nearest city, which was the Federal Capital. The fee per session and accessibility to the therapist threw me off balance. I was broke at that time, with no money. And I needed therapy. So, I cut off seeing a therapist from my remedies and tried to look at other options.

Others suggested I speak to someone about it and try to be appreciative about life, so I made it a habit to constantly watch the sun rise and descend over the horizon, reminding myself of the beauty of life and nature. Indeed, if one enjoys watching the beauty in the rising of the sun and how it casts its orange rays, one has to endure the darkness of the night. I realized everything has a time and phase. I knew my depression one day would also pass, welcoming me into the rays of fulfilment, the dynamism of life, and the radiance of gratitude.

I took a break from social media, which attracted calls from my friends, and it warmed my heart like wax brought close to the heat. Evaluated my life outside social media, held on to a singular moment to be grateful for. I made more physical friends at the nearby field where I played football, preoccupied myself, and exercised my body and mind. I binge-watched funny content creation from various funny comedians on YouTube and Facebook Reels. I took frequent evening strolls around my vicinity. Read more, write more.

I created different playlists on my phone; songs to vibe to, songs about life, and appreciation and gratitude. Songs with moral lessons. I listened to people who have been through similar phases and have survived. From the raw emotions they put into their music to the lyrics, each word narrating fragments of their stories. I followed therapists and motivational speakers and read most of their content on Twitter, Facebook & YouTube, reading through threads, appreciating and feeling grateful for life every single day. At the end of the month of my self-therapy, I logged into Facebook, congratulated those who needed to be congratulated. I chatted with a few friends, reconnected with a few others, and answered a dozen questions as to my whereabouts.

The beginning of my healing process started when I realized that fulfillment comes from within and not from what people think or say. I became my own player and my own scorer, even though life was the referee. I bonded with this formula from street football. I began to play down the line with the neighborhood boys. You don’t get to choose the players to play with; the coach does that. All you have to do is connect and play as a team. Sometimes, you lose. Sometimes, you win. Sometimes, the players do not agree with each other and hurl hurtful words at each other. But every evening, we converge to play again. After every game, the coach would ask us to evaluate ourselves on whether we did well or not, and the areas we needed to improve on. That formula made me realize you do not quit, despite having a rough game week in, week out. You obey whatever decision the referee makes, whether it favours you and your team or not.

It’s like the Nigerian Indoor card game of Whot when you don’t know what the opponent has in store for you, but you have to get as much immunity as possible in a bid to win. You don’t know what Life has in store for you. You are not even sure if there are blessings lurking around every disappointment that comes your way, but you know that you have to win. You have ideologies and theories to prove wrong. Life has taught me how to play this game: What to do when you lose, what to do when you win, and most importantly, how to win over depression all the time.

In the end, it was worth it. Here’s an illustration of mine:

I didn’t let the pain outlive me – pick two.

I have accepted my losses and moved on with my gains – general market.

I am alive and happy, and I will live my life the way I like – check up.