Depression in the time of Duterte
We have to have a better conversation about mental illness
Update: De Leon has already apologized for his misinformed remarks. [source]
In a segment of a popular noontime show, hosts were shown interviewing a family about their elderly mother’s case of depression. One of the hosts showed interest in learning more about it, but the elderly woman’s daughter offered very brief answers, referring to a doctor’s diagnosis that her mother was suffering from depression related to old age.
Indeed, the elderly are at an increased risk of depression — with about four in every five older adults afflicted with at least one chronic health condition, it is not hard to imagine how depression can be common among them, especially when their functions are limited by those illnesses, or they are in constant pain.
Instead of commiserating appropriately, one of the hosts remarked that depression was ‘just something made up by people’ (“gawa-gawa lang”), implying even that it was ‘something only rich people experience’ (“nagpapasosyal”).
Another host tried to counter this by saying that depression was a real illness and not a joke nor laughing matter, and that those with depression need to be supported.
Perhaps in an effort to outdo his last inappropriate comment, the other host brushed this comment off, and said, on national television, that people with depression should not be supported, because they are ‘just making it up.’
All in their head. Imaginary.
That this comment comes at a time when life is absolutely batshit everywhere makes it absolutely dangerous — how many depressed persons did he discourage from seeking help? How many depressed persons did he put at risk? And, even worse: How many loved ones of depressed persons did he misinform?
Sure, Mr De Leon. Let me tell you about something I completely made up, right here. It’s all in my head, after all.
I remember when I realized I had to see a doctor: I no longer could experience joy. It was months after the Duterte administration assumed office, and working at the news meant constantly being exposed to his expletive-laced speeches, and keeping track of every single reported drug-related death at a time when people were literally falling dead left and right like flies in the night (By end August, the number of deaths had already reached 2,000. That’s 30-plus deaths every day from July 1st.)
I think my numbness was my brain putting up its final defense: If I didn’t feel anything, it would hurt — all this dying, and all this helplessness, not to mention that all the voter education efforts we did during the elections amounted to nil, subverted by carefully crafted machineries that operated better than the paper. It was what it was: We failed to arm the voting populace with enough information to help them see through the propaganda. I felt so exhausted and defeated.
Defeat was a common thread as my depression unraveled. I didn’t believe it myself at first — I had to see a doctor so she could tell me what was wrong. She told me it was clinical. I could see it in your eyes. I sat in her office for an hour or so, crying as we tried to figure out where it all began.
By the time Hillary lost to Trump in November, I was already on medication, but even then I stood in front of the television, watching the news and contemplating an overdose. Something was wrong with me. And it wasn’t something that would go away after taking meds for a couple of weeks. It was something that stayed.
And stay it did. I experienced mood swings and cycles of low energy. If you have known me for more than a couple of years, perhaps the change is more apparent: Being with me these days is like being with a Lite version of myself from years past. Sometimes focus is a hard thing; I struggled to express myself, oftentimes losing trails of thought that had been easier to gather when I was younger.
I am still slowly making my peace with the fact that I will never be the person I was before this all happened.
I left the newsroom at the end of 2016, if only to be able to tune out the President every once in a while and choose my battles, so to speak. This year has been an exercise in balancing self-care and love for country, in a way. I’m still learning. I want to believe I’m getting better at it, day by day.
What I am also learning about: How to talk about this illness, how to respond to questions about it, how to support other people who might have it, and how to express my disagreement whenever things like these noontime shows promote so much disinformation about it. As for these cases, I’m still learning too.
I wanted to end with resources for depression, but I’m ending instead with a couple of useful articles by Pam Pastor, who was instrumental to my journey to getting better. She has written so openly about her experience for the Inquirer and I am thankful for her. Thank you Pam! I hope wherever you are in your journey, you are well.
