Drab rays of sunlight poured in. With the ceiling fan whirring and the pages flipping, the classroom was a tranquil scene. The board was chalked up with a formula that my mind couldn’t register as I was trying to make a ball out of a loose thread on my sweater. With my fingers, I rolled it. Then it fell on the shellacked floor, unraveling.
I sighed.
It was a regular school day, damp with sweat and suffused with summer’s scent. At the ripe age of thirteen, I was already jaded.
Never an average student and raised to go beyond excellence, I finished primary school with flying colors. By the time I was in 7th grade, I got into a prestigious Science and Engineering program. That year, I ranked first. You could imagine how that felt. However, in eighth grade, I lost my way.
It wasn’t sudden. I didn’t wake up one morning and realize that my world had undergone a seismic shift. I didn’t arrive at our classroom’s front door and make it out in my head as an extension to hell. I didn’t suddenly decide to make my arms a canvas where I could channel my madness into. Depression crept up on me like a serpent, whispering lies into my ears as it slithered in clandestine. Nobody knew that I was already under its spell until I hit rock bottom—not even myself.
Depression affects every aspect of a person’s life. In my case, it was my academic performance that bore the brunt of it. My grades plummeted. Insults from others pierced through my chest. My teachers and parents were shell-shocked. Shame cloaked my identity. But, like any clothing that pinches at first, soon enough, it offered the comfort of an old sweater. At some point, I stopped shrugging it off me. I didn’t have enough energy to stay alive, much less turn the homework in. There was no point continuing what I had begun with when all I could think of was the ending.
A year later, after hitting rock bottom, I moved out of the program. The transfer gave me hope and with courage, I reached out for help. Slowly, I began to recover. I was given a new life—one that wasn’t just about surviving, but actually living—in every glorious sense of the word.
However, my mental health issues had an immense impact in my life, that even when I was in recovery, some ripples of my past had caught up with my present. Even in regular class, it was arduous for me to understand the lessons that were already tackled before. Solving an advanced equation reduced my body into a full-blown tremor. During those days, I would often look back at the girl I was in 9th grade – a kid who couldn’t figure out how to use a formula, a firefly in a jar. I would feel my skin curl up on itself each time.
But I thought: I survived the war, now it’s just the rubble I’m dealing with. So, I fought with the knowledge that I wasn’t fighting alone. I fought my mental battle and the outside threats of ignorance, and thankfully, I won.
Gaining back the knowledge you’ve lost during your depressive years takes Herculean efforts. Although, the challenge isn't the learning itself, but bearing with yourself every step of the way. To begin with, it’s having the courage to ask for assistance, the patience to deal with every mistake, and the humility to accept corrections. It’s knowing when to push harder and when to pause, reminding yourself that academic excellence is as significant as a trophy on a shelf for an achiever, yet mental health is as vital as oxygen for everyone. It’s celebrating every victory while bearing the knowledge that your worth shouldn’t come from any title. It’s forgiving yourself every time you take the blame for the years squandered in the attic of your head.
If you’re worried about the last one, let me tell you, you have a lifetime to take back what your depression has taken away. You have a life in spite of the deaths you’ve died in the wake of your illness, and that’s what matters. You matter – with or without a glittering reputation.
I finished High School with high honors. I’m now taking my dream course in my dream university. I advocate for mental health and also reach out to struggling youth. I no longer have the need to wear sweaters on sultry school noons.
I survived before I thrived. Honestly, there are still days when I fall back into survival mode rather than fighting mode. That’s okay. My excellence matters though not as much as my health. Not anymore.
Edited By: Khushi Kumari
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Fransivan MacKenzie is a pseudonym for a self-published author, scholar, and mental health advocate from the Philippines. She is currently taking her degree in Counseling Psychology at Philippine Normal University - Manila.
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