I've Never Been (Un) Happier

by Shaheen Bhatt

  SHAHEEN BHATT

  I’VE NEVER BEEN (UN) HAPPIER

  foreword by Mahesh Bhatt

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Contents

  A Note on the Author

  Foreword

  Preface

  1. The Feeling

  2. Yesterday

  3. Teenage Dirtbag

  4. Show Me How to Live

  5. Crawling

  6. Talk

  7. Spoonful of Sugar

  8. Break Stuff

  9. Fake Happy

  10. Let It Be

  Illustrations

  Footnotes

  Teenage Dirtbag

  Spoonful of Sugar

  Fake Happy

  References

  Acknowledgements

  Further Reading

  Notes

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  A Note on the Author

  Shaheen Bhatt is a screenwriter and has lived with depression for close to twenty years. She recently launched Here Comes the Sun—a mental health awareness initiative and support system for people living with mental illness. She was born in Bombay and lives there with her attention-seeking family and her three cats—Sheba, Pica and Edward.

  For Soni and Mahesh, and Alia, who learned to love me in darkness when I was all out of light.

  For Neha and Namita, the unwitting caretakers of a surly, reclusive teenager.

  For sixteen-year-old me, who did not yet know that this suffering can be a gift.

  And for anyone who has ever felt different.

  ‘Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night’

  —Sarah Williams, ‘The Old Astronomer’

  Foreword

  There is an end and there is an ending to that end, and I was face-to-face with that end. My friend, philosopher, guide, U.G. Krishnamoorthy, who was the lodestar that had seen me through many a dark night, had opted to die without seeking any kind of medical intervention. At his behest, albeit unwillingly, I had left him in Italy, in the quaint town of Vallecrosia, in the company of an American friend, and made my way back home, without any idea whether I would ever see him alive again.

  It was the darkest hour of my life, but for some strange reason, my friend, in his hours of death, had left me with a heightened taste for life.

  ‘Your life is finished, Daddy,’ said my twenty-year-old daughter, Shaheen, as she gazed at me, thoughtfully with those grown-up eyes of hers. I had just arrived back home, and it was well past midnight.

  ‘People want to live for a long time, just so that they may experience even a fraction of what you are living through right now. You have already reached the summit. Where will you go from here? This is what mystics have spoken about at length when they journey through the dark night of the soul,’ she said, as I read out to her from those scraps of paper on which I had scribbled my heightened emotions.

  Having unburdened myself of what I had lived through to my little girl gave me a few moments of respite, but it also made me feel worried for her. She had listened to me with every pore of her young being. That’s when I got the feeling that there was a kind of desolate vastness within her that was able to contain the depths of such emotion. And I was reminded of what Nietzsche had said . . . that he was more afraid of being understood than misunderstood. Because if he was misunderstood, only his intellectual vanity would be hurt. But if he was understood, he would feel even worse, because that meant that the person who understood him would have had to have suffered enough in order to have understood what he was saying in the first place.

  And as dawn broke, I sensed for the first time that my little girl had suffered intensely. But I only knew how much when I read her book all those years later.

  When a grain of sand gets into the craw of an oyster it causes it great pain. So, in order to escape from that pain, the oyster covers the grain of sand with a substance that turns the grain into a pearl. Nowhere does the oyster intend to create a precious jewel.

  This is what struck me when I read the rough manuscript of Shaheen’s book which she had mailed me. Shaheen, in order to escape from the darkness which she had perhaps genetically inherited from me, had dared to embrace that darkness like I had done to stay functionally sane. I realized as I sat there riveted while reading it, that, for her, writing this book was an act towards sheer survival.

  When a sandalwood tree burns in a forest fire, it releases a perfume that turns the whole fire into a fragrant blaze. The pain that Shaheen used as fuel to write her book has released her fragrant core. Not only to me as a parent, but to thousands of people out there who are shadowed by this biochemical ‘disorder’ called depression.

  When I was an insomniac teenager I would often slip out in the middle of the night and go to a dargah or to buy a cigarette, and somehow get through the long night. One night I encountered a Sufi fakir, who said something to me which will shadow me till I die. He said . . . if you seek blessings from the lord above then ask him to shower you with pain. Because pain wakes you up . . . Ya Allah takleef de . . . dard jagaata hai . . .

  I asked him, what kind of an absurd prayer is this? Who on earth would ask God for pain? He peered into my eyes and said smilingly, ‘It is pain that keeps you awake my boy . . . otherwise you would be sleeping soundly in that high-rise building in some air-conditioned room . . . and where the hell would that get you?’

  Where would we be without our pain, Shaheen?

  Human suffering, after all, is the wound from where great religious movements, political movements and artistic movements have bloomed. My pain is the bedrock on which I have built the edifice of Mahesh Bhatt the filmmaker. Your pain has helped you produce this remarkable book, which will be a coping device for those millions out there who suffer in silence.

  My child, you are the firefly that illuminates the darkness in the jungle by burning its own fuel, and as it does so, it lights up the way for the lost traveller.

  9 March 2019

  Mahesh Bhatt

  Mumbai

  Preface

  At thirty-one, I’ve lived with depression for all of my adult life. In fact, I’ve lived with depression for longer than I haven’t.

  Somehow, against all odds, I’m in constant anguish. Now, I’m not talking about the ‘Netflix-cancelled-my-favourite-show-and-I-keep-dropping-chicken-curry-on-my-favourite-pair-of-jeans-so-my-life-sucks’ sort of anguish. I’m talking about the ‘there’s-a-deep-unexplained-sadness-in-me-that’s-eating-away-at-my-hopes-and-dreams-and-skin-quality-and-making-me-want-to-literally-jump-out-of-this-window’ sort of anguish.

  Situationally speaking, I’ve never been subjected to or lived through anything truly horrific; nothing that is unique to just me, at any rate. The lifestyle I enjoy is not one I worked my way up to through hard labour, and a lot, (if not most) of the opportunity afforded to me comes from groundwork that was painstakingly laid by my parents. Along with the financial security my circumstances afford me, they also grant me the means to make demands for and exercise my rights to freedom and equality, which a lot of people in India, and the world over, can’t do. In short, I possess all the qualifications of what they call a ‘lucky’ one. So I’m aware I am free in ways a lot of people aren’t.

  Nevertheless, I was diagnosed with clinical depression when I was eighteen years old, after already having lived with it for many years. It took me a long time to understand the nature of the illness I was living with since as a condition, depression is particularly stigmatized in Indian society, not to mention widely misunderstood in general. So, before I lay bare my own experience, I think it is of vital importance to clear up these misconceptions a
nd understand what depression really is. Let’s start there.

  Depression is a common mood disorder and a serious medical illness.

  There are many types of depression and they vary in source. All depressive disorders, no matter their type or cause, will negatively affect how you feel, think and act. According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders published by the American Psychiatric Association, depression is largely split up into two categories: major depressive disorder (which is what I live with) and persistent depressive disorder, or dysthymia. Both forms of disorders cause sadness, low moods and a feeling of hopelessness but the difference between them lies in the severity and duration of the depressive episodes. A person with major depressive disorder will have a sad or depressed mood that lasts anywhere from two weeks to a number of months. Once the episode passes and the patient goes into remission they feel ‘back to normal’ again. Persistent depressive disorder, on the other hand, is a chronically depressed mood that lasts for at least two years or longer. The symptoms of persistent depressive disorder are less severe than those of major depression and those who have it suffer from a constant ‘low level’ sadness. When one has persistent depressive disorder coupled with periodic bouts of major depressive disorder, it’s known as ‘double depression’.

  Depression is a complex disease, and while its exact causes are under scrutiny, it is speculated to occur for many reasons. In some cases depression can occur because of biological factors such as genetic predispositions, hormonal changes (including menopause, childbirth or thyroid problems) and differences in biochemistry (an imbalance of naturally occurring substances called neurotransmitters in the brain and spinal cord). In other cases depression is caused by psychological factors, severe life stressors, substance abuse and certain medical conditions that affect the way your brain regulates your moods.

  To add to the considerations of complexity, the symptoms, intensity and experience of depression vary from person to person such that it manifests differently in different people. Unlike other chronic illnesses such as diabetes or autoimmune disorders, depression is not consistent with its symptoms. Some people sleep too little, some sleep too much, some lose their appetite, others binge eat, some manage to function in their day-to-day lives while others are completely consumed and debilitated by it. Depression is not a one-size-fits-all illness, and the diversity of its markers makes it that much harder to identify.

  There are a lot of challenges that arise when trying to explain what depression is to someone who doesn’t understand the condition or approaches it from a place of denial. One such challenge lies in the belief that mental illnesses can be tackled and overcome by sheer force of will alone. The absence of physical symptoms traditionally associated with disease makes it difficult for some to appreciate the seriousness of the condition. Depression doesn’t cause a 103-degree fever or a visible rash; the symptoms are psychological and therefore harder to conceive of as medical in nature. For many who live with it, the greatest obstacles on the road to recovery are family and friends who do not ‘believe’ in depression. The assumption is that if you have a happy and comfortable life you have no cause for, or right to, the despair you’re feeling. In short, you can’t be depressed if there’s nothing wrong or if you have no real problems. (Ironically, people who believe this also believe that those with ‘real problems’ don’t have the time or luxury to suffer from depression.) So those who are unfamiliar with depression are misled by the lack of bodily symptoms and tend towards familiar statements like: ‘Think positively.’/‘You have to want to get better.’/‘You’re only doing this for the attention.’/‘You’re just being lazy.’/‘You aren’t even trying to pull yourself out of it.’ Statements like these suggest your salvation lies in a choice you are simply electing not to make, but of course, that is categorically untrue.

  We’re taught early in life to keep our emotions hidden and we’re especially taught that negative emotions have no place in the public domain. The overwhelming narrative is that succumbing to pain or sadness indicates weakness and that they’re feelings you ought to keep to yourself. Such misconceptions are dangerous, with lasting consequences. My belief that they contribute to worsening the symptoms of depression and prevent people from getting the help they need is the reason I chose to write this account of my experience. The reactions I received when I told people I was writing a book about depression only confirmed what I felt—a handful were enthusiastic but most were instantly uncomfortable, many of them seeing it as unnecessary oversharing. But, ‘oversharing’ is now the most important thing that we can do. Depression is the monster that’s hiding under your bed, and here’s the thing, monsters can only live in the dark. It’s when you turn on the light that you see that what you thought is a monster, isn’t a monster at all, but something you can tame if you learn how. Monsters like depression live in the dark, and the way to turn on the light, is by talking about it.

  I’m well aware that it is my privilege that allows me this platform through which I can talk about depression and the havoc it wreaks. Part of why I have been given this opportunity has to do with who my family is and the fact that I live with depression is particularly interesting when it’s put into the context of my family.

  I don’t write about my experiences with depression to defend the legitimacy of my pain. My pain is real; it does not come to me because of my lifestyle, and it is not taken away by my lifestyle. But make no mistake, my lifestyle is an advantage when it comes to living with my condition. It provides me with easy access to the medical and social resources I need to support and fuel my recovery, which are both necessities and luxuries so many don’t have access to. I can wake up on a bad day and afford to stay in bed. I can pay the price that good medical care and therapy come at and I am lucky to have family and friends who are well-informed and supportive. Most importantly, I’ve been able to cultivate an awareness of my condition in myself, and it’s the only way I’ve been able to rid myself of the shame those with mental illnesses are often plagued with.

  Imagine, despite all these advantages I still wake up some mornings wondering if I’m going to make it through the day. My life is a best-case scenario for someone living with depression. Take a second to imagine what the worst-case scenario looks like.

  I am not an expert. I don’t have a degree in medicine or psychiatry, neither have I spent years studying the ins and outs of mental illness. I don’t have the weight or experience of age to back me up. I’m young and I still (hopefully) have a lot of life ahead of me.

  What I do have is what I’ve come to learn on my almost twenty-year-long journey with depression. I can’t claim to be an authority on anyone else’s mind, only my own, but by sharing my reflections, I hope to add to the awareness of what depression is and what it can look like on the inside as well as the outside. I hope this effort will make it easier to identify and support depression rather than judge the circumstances and legitimacy of it. By writing about my experiences I hope to prove—and this is the important bit—that depression is nothing to be judged on or be ashamed of.

  The Feeling

  The Feeling is a shapeshifter.

  Some days it comes to me silently, taking me by surprise—cold, unfeeling and blank; an infinite void disguised as a wisp of smoke melting into the very air I breathe. It inhabits me, hijacking my entire being until there is none of me left, just more of it.

  Other days it’s a colossal monster that shakes the ground beneath me making me shiver with its every deafening step in my direction. It settles itself on my heart, crushing the life out of me yet never killing me, leaving me immobile, useless and broken.

  On the worst days it comes to me as myself, as everything I could have been and as everything I will never be: immaculate, and completely without fault. It taunts and belittles me, obscuring my successes and highlighting my failures, reducing all that I am to a loathsome, insignificant speck.

  The Feeling first came to me when I was twelve years o
ld and didn’t know its many faces.

  At first, it came little by little. It lurked in the shadows, hiding just out of sight so that I would not see it. It came as a cold breeze, a heavy lump, a snide voice, inconveniencing me but not yet paralysing me.

  And then, without warning, it came all at once.

  In the blink of an eye the cold breeze became a blizzard that threatened to engulf me, the lump now a boulder that stifled my every sound, and its voice grew so loud that I could no longer hear anything else. It guilefully altered the very essence of my being as I slept, leaving me to contend with a complete stranger at the start of each new day. The moment I familiarized myself with it, it changed. I was a quick learner, I thought. But the Feeling was quicker.

  I call the ages between fifteen and twenty-three the Dark Days because the Feeling never left me during that time. I went to bed with it and I woke up with it. It lived inside me. It became me.

  It wasn’t until I was eighteen that I found out that the Feeling had a name.

  Depression, they called it, and then everything changed.

  The room is in disarray.

  Clothes, books and objects at random lay strewn in messy heaps all over the floor, the bed is unmade, the curtains are tightly drawn, and my bedside table is littered with half-empty strips of medication. The only light comes from a small yellow lamp in the corner of the room. It seems like it’s around 4 p.m., though there’s no real way to be sure. Day and night have become one; there’s been no indication that the sun has risen and no indication that it has set. In this room, time has stopped.

  From somewhere on the bed comes the muffled sound of a vibrating phone. It’s flooded with messages that have gone unseen and calls that have gone unanswered. All this activity has earned it its special place, buried deep under the pillows.