The Help

Simple as it may sound, amidst all that pain and confusion, that's about the most difficult thing to do.

That's why I kept my pain to myself for so long that it gradually became a routine. I was scared to tell this to others as I myself didn't know the reason of the sudden change in me.

I was the textbook example of a happy-go-lucky person. The one who had everything going on for her. But suddenly, one day, I found myself crying on my bed, unable to sleep.

Soon, that became the norm. As it got worse, I tried to talk with others but that did little good. They were as clueless as I.

I tried going to parties. But what meant all the fun for me earlier had become machines of malice. Parties had people. People talk. That meant tears for me. Oh! People talked about that too.. More tears.

I turned to the internet. Google advised to get medical help, but I was afraid to do that too. I had that typical Indian stigma holding me back on seeing a doctor to help me on mental illness.

But I couldn't continue like this, either. The help I needed had to come from myself. It took a lot of self convincing to get myself a pen and paper and pour down my thoughts. I used to write a lot at school and had  won several competitions. But now I had almost lost that skill - thanks to almost a decade of not writing at all.

I was scared that what I write could disappoint me, and push me further down to the pit I already was in. I somehow managed myself to get down what was happening in one of my sleepless nights. The writing was terrible. But surprisingly, that didn't bother me much. Instead, i felt a little better. A little relaxed.

I write a little more each day. I met some amazing people on these writing portals - who were kind enough to understand and support me. That helped me more than I had ever imagined.

I still cry myself to sleep.. But each day, I cry a little less. I can see rays of hope - miles ahead, but reachable.