I am Nandhu Sundaram, a freelance journalist with schizoaffective disorder (SZA). I was diagnosed 15 years ago. Ten years ago, divulging that I had mental health issues may have harmed my career. But these days, people lend a keen ear to such stories without batting their eyelids. So here I am, hoping that sharing my story will not only exorcise my own ghosts, but also help others come to terms with theirs. This personal narrative is mostly about my suffering, but it is also a testament to my ability to hang in there. You are welcome to empathise with my account, but I also want you to take note of the simple achievements I take you through.
Let’s rewind to the beginning.
At the age of 14, sleep had begun to elude me. In other words, I had insomnia. I was very anxious about my performance in the Class 10 examinations, especially in Mathematics and Tamil. I used to wake up in the middle of the night, hours before the alarm rang, and lie awake. I could only watch helplessly as the innocence of my childhood was rudely snatched away from me. With time, the problem only got worse.
Soon after puberty, I had also begun to experience palpitations and depression. I would wake up to the sound of my heartbeat in my ear. My ordinary, middle-class family did not quite know how to go about solving this problem. After the birth of my brother, who is four years younger than me, my mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Gradually, over time, my father became dependent on alcohol.
My mother passed away on December 16, 1996, just as I entered the final semester of my BSc Physics course. I flunked two major papers. When my depression grew worse, my grandparents had no choice but to take me to a psychiatrist. I was prescribed lithium, which was deficient in my blood.
Despite taking the medication for a long time, lithium levels in my blood were still not at optimal levels. However, after an initial course of drugs, I was advised to stop the medication.
I passed my BSc in Physics in 1999, two years later than I was supposed to. Even after getting admission into a journalism course at Madras Christian College (MCC), I continued to be depressed. It was a dreadful affair, and I began keeping a journal. I tried to define depression as it applied to me.
Around halfway into my course at MCC, I decided to attend the entrance exam for the Asian College of Journalism (ACJ), which was moving from Bengaluru to Chennai. I began preparing for the exam with fervour. I also decided not to finish my course in MCC, as I saw no point in doing so. I subscribed to all major newspapers and magazines. The discussion around fixing in cricket was still a major subject, and I remember reading quite a bit about that.
After I appeared for the ACJ test, I knew I had aced it. I was happy in impossible ways. I was on top of the world when they asked me to appear for the interview. I aced it as well, even though it was quite difficult for me.
I frequently woke up for classes with the burden of depression on my back. My doctor had advised me that if I could take the heat of ACJ without resorting to tablets, I was welcome to do so. I was so elated by the idea that I began studying earnestly. Compared to my classmates who had graduated from top universities across the country, I felt I was at a disadvantage. I could only make up for this by studying harder.
I was crushed by the realisation that my father was about to die of liver cirrhosis. Even though his liver was in an advanced state of decay, appa never really stopped drinking. The knowledge that his death was impending never actually left me, which gradually became an impediment to my studies.
During that crucial year in ACJ, some of my family came to visit me in my hostel. My father visited at least twice and became thick and fast friends with many of my classmates.
Towards the end of the course, my father died right before my unbelieving eyes. His body was taken from the hospital to my aunt’s house in Thiruvananthapuram, where my friends gathered in force to pay him a final tribute.
After my father left us, I was forced to finish my course requirements in ACJ. Once done, I stayed back in Chennai until every last one of my friends packed and left town. I returned, emotionally exhausted, to find a house in chaos. I kept flirting with depression as I took in the enormity of my father’s death.
I found a job in a TV production company as a correspondent and joined work on August 1, 2001. Even as I struggled as a rookie, I spent countless sleepless nights, crying into my pillow. Friends, though they meant well, were of scant help.
My symptoms grew worse, and I had to see a psychiatrist, who diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. This was in 2002. I was put under medication for a short time. When I found a job in Hyderabad, my psychiatrist told my grandparents that I need not take medication as it would interfere with my work. At least that’s what I understood. Relieved that I need not contend with medication and the associated exhaustion, I joined work in Hyderabad, trying to start a new life.
I ended my short stint in Hyderabad a year later, with a ghastly accident that burned a part of my left foot. I spent a month at home recovering and then joined a company in Chennai. My depression, lack of concentration, and unreasonable mood swings were things I kept mostly to myself.
I went to the office when everybody left at 8 pm, and came back from work around 2 am. I watched movies I rented from DVD stores every night. Even though I was back on medication, I loved my work and was insanely happy on most days. I kept the illness to myself and never officially declared it at work. Some close colleagues though knew that something was off about me.
I moved jobs again and soon found myself isolated to a great extent. I was the only one on the desk and was left to be in charge of it on most days. A year into the new regime, I decided to take a break and go on a retreat in Bengaluru. I was able to take care of my depression and mood swings at the retreat. I returned charged, fresh enough to tackle work once again.
I don’t quite remember when I was diagnosed with SZA. But it was sometime after 2008. Work responsibilities ran high, and I had also started smoking addictively, which did not bode well for my treatment. I had always smoked, but I had kept a lid on it. Every time I lit up, I burned through the chemicals my drugs had pumped into my body. So the medication was less effective than they were supposed to be.
In November 2012, I quit my full-time job to try my luck at freelancing. Though I am not wildly successful, I do make ends meet. I experience horrible episodes of SZA now and then. I take pride in the fact that I bounce back every time. I work odd hours, mostly from home. Freelancing isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I work hard at it. It’s a constant race against time to meet my goals.
It’s been 10 years since I started working on my own. Sometimes, days go by without me writing anything. It’s been a while since I finished reading a book. During a four-and-a-half-year stay in Ooty, I swore off streaming to improve my reading habits, and that produced wonderful results. These days I fret a lot about writing and how little of it I get done. I berate myself with each trip to the ATM and how little cash I bring in.
My wife also has SZA. We knew of each other’s problems before we got married. We didn’t mind. It’s been almost 12 years since we got hitched. I have no regrets, and I hope she doesn’t either.
I would like to end this story with a note to people living with mental illnesses. It can’t be just about the tablets. The fight must be alive inside you. Make sure it is.
Views expressed are the author’s own.
Nandhu Sundaram lives in Medavakkam, a Chennai suburb, with his wife and daughter. He loves the city deeply and wants to change it everywhere he goes. He loves movies (all kinds), books and cricket. He is also trying his hand at short stories.