I feel weak — in perception, purpose, and participation. It has been over 2 years since I went to the psych ward in hopes that the system will protect me from myself. I found support and then as I got out, I decided to try out every possible method to awaken my mind.

At least for sometime, I succeeded. In the pits of my misery, I traveled with my 3-month old by myself to refocus my mind. The risk-loaded trip awarded me two weeks of vitality after I returned. Then, the daily hike to Kilimanjaro restarted. I meditated every day to keep myself from slipping but the effort needed was unsustainable.

At last, after a thoughtful discussion with my partner about his family’s struggles with clinical depression, I decided to go under treatment.

Zoloft was prescribed with a pre-clinical dose of 12.5mg. The first dose brought a dramatic shift and after a week-long course, I requested to stay on the same dosage. I found energy and self-love. However, what illustrated the effect of the treatment was my ability to support at least two people through their own times of crisis. Also, during this time, my father passed away in India. Yet again, in that grief, I found love.

After 6 months of Zoloft, I decided to live without it. And in the first week, I felt the waves crash on me again. I kept faith and embraced the change. However, a couple of months later, I realized that I was back to where I was before the treatment. This time though, my will to overcome my condition was gone. In place of it was exhaustion and disappointment.

Today, I’m still in the same place. Perhaps the year-long intense job derailed my recovery. However, it also allowed me a level of focus and participation that I craved for so long. And how do you explain that despite being out of that job for over a month, the dullness and sadness refuses to go away? There are moments of happiness and fun. However, none of it is envisioned, planned for, or dreamed.

Life is passing through me every day and every moment. There’s deep agony without an urge to do anything about it. In fact, my ability to read, listen, and to understand has vanished. When someone talks, unless it’s about the past, I fail to stay attentive. I struggle to think, plan, and execute.

Suicidal thoughts are casual — they neither threaten nor invite me. On a day or a moment when it seems effortless, I might just go for it.

I still believe that life is a gift. However, in a loveless child’s hand, it’s a toy ready to be trashed.

What do I do now? A few days ago, I met someone who got a late diagnosis of another mental health condition. They are now under treatment and look at it as a huge relief. The clinical supervision lets them detach their problem from their personality. I wonder if I must seek treatment again too. As someone whose physiology has strengthened through careful resolution of several conditions, treatment of my never-ending depression perhaps calls for a second chance.

The clouds hound me though. What if I never regain self-belief without a pill? What if I have to live with it for the rest of my life? What if I exist without my eccentricity? Who, then, will I be?