My Diagnosis of Persistent Depressive Disorder Leaves Me Unsure of How I Feel

Are you happy?

Am I happy? I always answer that I’m okay; people shouldn’t worry about me. Because I’m truly okay; life goes on. Sadness is just there, always present — standing, staring at me, waiting for the perfect moment to attack.

Mental health is not a priority in my country. It’s always in the background. You are raised to believe that you need to be stronger than what you feel and better than the challenges you face. There is no room for being vulnerable, at least in the type of environment I grew up in. Whatever it is, you just have to suck it up.

That’s why I like writing. I don’t know how to express myself verbally. It’s either I’ll just ignore what I feel or I’ll just cry.

Yesterday, I finally took a big leap. I consulted a psychiatrist. It was just an online appointment, and we met over Zoom. The doctor looked very friendly, but I didn’t open my camera. I hadn’t showered at that time, and I didn’t even want to get out of bed unless I had a scheduled call.

I noticed how gently she spoke. She asked about basic things about me, then proceeded to questions about how I feel, my triggers, the duration, the things I do to cope, and all that. I always knew that I must have been experiencing something. I like to self-diagnose; I even suspected that I have PTSD.

For context, I consider my childhood normal. I always did well in school, which made my parents happy. My dad was a kind man; I have no words. He’s in heaven now, and all I wish is that he is looking down at me, feeling proud. My mom, on the other hand, is something else. She can be intense — something I will dedicate time to writing about. I have younger brothers. We live a middle-class life in the province and have very religious roots. But our family is not expressive. We don’t talk about problems; we ignore them as much as we can. We don’t congratulate, praise, or say “I love you” to one another. We just let actions show how we feel.

If I were to trace the history of my sadness, it would probably stem from the frustrations I’ve felt over the years. There’s always been this expectation to excel, to be the smartest, to be the prettiest. I can’t keep up; I’m just me.

Then, after that, there’s this series of disappointing men in my life. Let’s just say my experiences with men haven’t been the best, and they have taken a lot of my confidence, patience, and trust.

When the psychiatrist told me that my diagnosis is Persistent Depressive Disorder, it made sense. But at the same time, I had mixed emotions. Instantly, I thought of all the things I did to self-sabotage and all the people I may have hurt during the times when I wasn’t okay. It’s not a very good feeling to have, but being aware now, I think, is one step towards being a better human, at least.

I was prescribed an antidepressant. It’s my first day taking it. Who would have thought that I would be on antidepressant medication? No one. I act normal like you, and I’m even the emotional dumping ground for some of my friends.

The universe is still kind to me because PDD is considered “mild to moderate.” My goal this year is all about self-improvement, and this reality check is essential for me to know and understand how to deal with things in my life. I’m new to this, but I know I won’t be very vocal about it. I hate being seen with problems because people tend to judge, and I’m usually the problem-solver of the family. I don’t want that kind of judgment right now.

If this resonates with you in any way, hit me up. I want to know your perspective. I know I’m not alone in this.