I’ve always sucked at making decisions.

In the past, choices were either what I wanted to eat or what I wanted to wear. As I got older, I learnt to limit my choices by restricting my food choices to efo, moin moin, chicken and fish. I eat other things too if I’m left with no choice, but I’m that guy that orders grilled chicken at steak houses.

Coping mechanism? I think so. Less anxiety = more comfort. Recently however, I had to make a decision that was a little more complex than chicken breast or filet mignon. It was more like deciding between my small or medium sized grey shirt for the day. (This is real btw; it’s all about the fit). Regardless, I would wear black jeans, black shoes and a black hat. The shirt however, makes all the difference.

PsyndUp is my love child. I fell in love with all the precarity in Nigeria, and how it, in spite of this, shakes your creativity into a whole new genre.

Mental health? Online? Why? Why would I spend my allawee (N19,800/month), minimum wage and time doing this? I don’t know, but here I am a year later, writing about my humanity, hoping someone else accepts theirs.

Like parents who often have to put their dreams on hold to raise their children, I set my professional career aside. School can wait I said. This is important. Helping people is important. Mental health is important? Yes!

That’s great and all but my parents grew sick of me at home. They knew the easiest decision I’ve ever made was not what I wanted to eat, but that I wanted to be a mental health clinician. Why then would I delay that for so long?

Like choosing between my small and medium grey shirts, I was stuck between pushing mental health in Nigeria and a degree in counselling. Damn, I hope that was a good metaphor.

Anyway, I chose the latter. I left Nigeria after nights of waking up soaked in sweat with a racing heart, anxiety attacks and irrational fears of my plane crashing. It felt like God was angry with me. I always thought he gave me this great idea and I’m just turning my back on him. Dude. Scariest feeling ever.

Since then, I can’t say I’ve been myself. Most times, I step out of myself because dealing with the thought that God is angry with me is a lot of mental work.

Being here feels like my shirt doesn’t fit. Like I put on a little weight and everyone can tell. It feels like I made the wrong choice today. It’s not chicken or steak this time. It’s the choice between two things I want to pursue with everything in me.

How do I do that without occasionally breaking down? Occasionally, I (mentally) run far from myself, but I always end up back home.