Talk to Me

By Dwimirnani

What does it feel like to find out that you have a mental illness when there is no friends or family around? Would you survive suicidal thoughts between the sleepless nights? Where would you cry to when no one is there? 'Talk to Me' tells a story about the author's journey with the depression after her recent move to London. Being alone in a foreign country has inspired her to find a consolation in random conversations with strangers. Hiding her name and identity, she starts to approach people in cafes, pubs, and other unexpected places to build a confidence by unveiling her charming personality through the eyes of strangers, one time at a time. As she gets a grip on herself, the book begins to give a warm vibe to the readers, notably to those who face similar situations.

In an amalgam of true events and imaginations, Dwimirnani collects the stories to help people with similar issues and raise public awareness of mental health; that the person who sits next to you may not be all right.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dwimirnani
• Release date: Jul 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387817986

Dwimirnani

I wrote my first short stories collection when I was eight. At thirteen, I started to write my first fantasy novel and completed it years later. Despite obtaining a bachelor degree in interior design, I had my first job as a journalist. Writing helps me to pour out emotion. My relation to the literary world is perfectly portrayed by a quote from Anne Frank: “Paper has more patience than people.” In my gloomiest days, I found consolation through writing.

Book preview

cover-image, Talk to Me

To all the lonely people stranded in this garish world, wishing that someone would notice and hear your voice:

Talk to me.

All character’s names are altered for confidentiality,

and any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2018 Putri Dwimirnani

Published by Dwimirnani at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Note

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favourite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ISBN 978-1-387-81798-6

Contents

Prelude

Pre-talk

Another Day

One

Afternoon Tea

Speakers' Corner

Victor Hugo

Waterstones

The Pavement

Two

Pubs

The Duke of Wellington

The Eagle and Child

White Mustache

Three

Outdoors

Clapham Common

Goodge Street

Hampstead Heath

Trafalgar Square

Four

Music Hall

King’s College Chapel

Royal Festival Hall

Royal Albert Hall

Five

Elsewhere

Syracuse

Leeds

Euston Station

Greenwich

Post-talk

On A Train Ride

About the Author

Prelude

Lately, the number of suicides had rapidly increased to the alarming level where it demands more awareness from the public. I had thought of suicide many times, so it was easy to relate when I heard Robin Williams, Chester Bennington, and Kate Spade made a tough decision to end their lives. However, the death of Anthony Bourdain put me into a shock. I did not understand why, a person who seemed to have the best job in the world—at least, for me—also needed to struggle with the depression. His death brought me to think, will I be able to survive?

I was never aware of my condition until 2015. Before knowing about clinical depression, I thought that it was merely stress or trauma. As many other Asian children, I needed to fulfil the parents’ demand to be the best in everything. Yet, even after the endless and strenuous work, I—and many other children—never received any acknowledgements from them. Life for me means aiming higher and trying even harder. When I failed on something, my own self was always be the first to blame. I thought it was normal. I thought that everyone else in this world would do the same. The day when I lived far away from home for the first time was a turning point for me. I realised that it was not stress, all along. It was depression—a severe one, according to the test that I took on the NHS ¹ website. It took me by surprise that I had been living with it for a long time, and I did nothing to it.

This time, I wanted to the right thing, to get myself treated. Sadly, I was too scared to see the GP (General Practitioner), and I was completely on my own. I would have asked my mother or sister for help if only they were present, but they were thousands of miles away from me during that time. Asking my flat mates was also not an option since they barely knew me. The thought of myself creating a negative impression had chickened me out, regardless of having a psychology student as my flatmate.

Years of having negative thoughts and fears had finally brought me a strong will to heal. Even if means I had to do it alone, I would do it. I wanted the torture to end. Hence, I started to search for self-treatments online to find these options: Getting more exercises, cutting down alcohol intakes, giving up smoking, and eating healthy food are believed to lower down the depression . I snorted. As someone who always keeps a healthy lifestyle, of course I tend to eat healthy food. I never smoked, not even once. In fact, I am allergic to nicotine. I detest alcoholic drinks—the only things I drink are still water and non sweetened tea. And, if cycling everyday is not considered a regular exercise, I do not know what is.

I almost gave up trying when my eyes caught on something: talking therapies, such as Cognitive Behavioural Therapies (CBT), are considered effective to help people with depression . CBT is a form of therapy that involves several talking sessions with a therapist, usually between 30 to 60 minutes, to help us deal with negative thoughts. That might work for me, if only I didn’t have one big problem: I hate hospitals and clinics . On top of it, I hated the fact that I needed to make a call for an appointment with the GP and open up to someone who might have preconceived notions on me in twice a week sessions. All of these in between classes and course works? I really had no enough energy left.

An idea came after I read some mental health related books, from which I learned that the only way to release the tension is by sharing our problems with others. Mental illness is a serious issue that can only be healed by constant care and treatments. We cannot overcome this alone. Obviously, I had nobody to talk with. However, I lived in London where thousands of other people were also dealing with depression, but they—we—had nowhere to go and no one to talk because we were completely by ourselves.

On one of my sleepless nights, I generated a crazy idea: to write a book about the gruelling process I took on overcoming depression. It was around 2 am on a winter solstice night, when I sat alertly on my bed and opened up my laptop to start on planning. I spent weeks crying alone in my room, hoping that someone would help, yet nobody did because I had no courage to speak—not even to my flatmates. Speaking is a basic form of communication and people may laugh at the fact that I was afraid to talk the truth. However, those who suffer from depression would know that all the things that might seem nonsensical are eventually real. That night, I swore to myself that I would find a way to heal and share it. I wanted to show that we can win against depression.

Last but not least, the content of this book is an amalgam of true events and imaginations. I changed all of the names so that all identities would remain safe with me. The only thing that I left intact is the name of places I visited, hoping that readers might feel the emotion I had by visiting them. These places were randomly chosen and they were not written in orders because sometimes it was easy to find someone who would love to hear my story, while most of other time people were just being Londoners—they were always in hurry.

PRE-TALK

Another Day

A Muslim who meets with others and shares their burdens is better than one who lives a life of seclusion and contemplation

~ Prophet Muhammad, PBUH

It was Christmas Eve in London, 2015. I was alone in my shared flat, staring at my phone screen and waiting for someone to call or text—or whatever communication platforms they use in 21st century. In fact, there was one message coming from Tinder. It came from a guy who asked me to be his ‘friend with benefit’—just for fun, he said. I deleted that lousy app at once. How funny it was that I wanted to be surrounded by friends and family on Christmas, looking at the fact that I never even celebrated it. The only thing that mattered to me was: on a day when people gathered around with their family, I was alone.

It is fate, perhaps, as a psychic had warned me before. According to him, there would come a day when people start to leave me because of my dark aura. I found it ridiculous. First of all, I believe in science and logic. Why would I care about his prophecy? How would people leave me if I keep being myself? Would people change? Or, would I be the one who changed?

My mind wandered to the time when I skidded razors on my fingers, imagined of jumping to the middle of the road to be run over by a bus, or hit my head repeatedly to the wall. Nobody knew, not even my parents, because I was too scared to say. I always wanted to be an outgoing person who puts a smile on faces of others, even if it means generating a false image to my friends. Little did they know that I would go straight to my bedroom and lock myself in it once I got home, to avoid interacting with others. Faking myself had drained so much energy that nothing much left in me.

The age nineteen was my best period of life when I finally managed to become someone that I had imagined myself to be. I was young, restless, and surrounded by friends who always supported me. This kind of situation made me cry less, work harder, and laugh more. I became much happier because of the path I took. Unfortunately, the sugar-coated life had to come to an end. All the hard work and struggle were in vain, following the detour I needed to take in my career, leaving nothing but memories. Life is a matter of choice; you either pick this way or the other, and there is no chance to reverse. That is what makes life interesting. You would never know the upcoming challenge from the path you chose, but we need to face it anyway. This decision, however, had taken out all the plans and passions from me.

The pleasant life that I had during my early twenties was gone. I moved to the worst metropolitan city where I got struck by depression only months after. I thought it was because of the job I had, so I decided to quit after working for six months. Within the last two months, I sometimes locked myself in the toilet only to cry and hit my head against the wall, then went back to my workspace as if nothing happened. At night, I used to call my close friends and cry on the phone. It was a challenging moment. I worked at one of the biggest national media companies. The editors praised me as a promising writer, despite having no degree in journalism. Had I continued to work there, I might be gaining a bright career path. I still don't know what made me so stressed.

I remember the last time in 2014 when the depression hit on me again, only a few days before my birthday. I ran away. I did not even tell my parents where I was going. I could not face people. When the service lady in my housing knocked on the door and asked for my dirty clothes, I got scared. I quickly dropped the laundry basket, told her I was sick and closed the door. I could not buy the food outside nor order a delivery service because I did not want to meet—nor talk—with anyone. I wanted to be alone.

It was the hardest time I had ever had during the last three years. I could not stop shaking and crying. I realised that there was something wrong with me that is needed to fix. So, I decided to go to Bantul, the suburb of Yogyakarta where paddy fields became the daily scenery. I took the train to Yogyakarta on a window seat where nobody sits beside me. It was perfect. I read some books and tried to write a journal during the nine-hour travel. The homeowners were very welcoming, and the cleaning ladies were exceptionally kind. They lent me a bicycle to travel around the town, which is more convenient for me, as I was afraid to go by public transports where I might encounter people. I spent my time travelling around the city by bicycle to visit many random places. I burnt my skin and sweat a lot, my thighs soared with pain, but it was good for me. It is better to have that kind of pain instead of hurting yourself with knives or razors. Now I understand why people need to work out when they are stressed.

Nevertheless, stress and depression are two different things which I failed to realise until now. When I first arrived in London, I was all excited and thrilled. I put on high expectations, unaware of the upcoming depression that would haunt me in no time. To be worse, being exposed to winter for the first time had led me to SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). I could not sleep well at night but fell asleep in the early morning until dawn, then refused to get up. My life had been a mess. I could not cope well with people around me, and I was anxious that friends might not want to hang out with me. I became a completely different person just by a flip of the hands.

The fear of rejection. The dread of not finishing the course well. The fright of not contenting the tutors. The burden that I had for representing my country as a scholarship awardee. These things only made my depression worse. The truth is, I lost control of myself when the melatonin level raised up high. The lack of sleep resulted in fatigue and heaviness in my head. I hated it when people told me to do regular exercises. Didn’t they see how I cycle every day? I even took care of my diet and stop drinking coffee. Instead, I drank herb tea with no caffeine, such as chamomile and lavender, to help me sleep better. Yet, nothing really helped me. There were times when I gave up and took sleeping pills to rest, but lately, it did not work anymore. I decided to stop after a desperate thought of taking a handful pill occurred to me.

I finally knew why so many people died of an overdose. The sensation I had after weeks of insomnia was unbearable. These sleepless nights were killing me slowly from the inside. I started to lose my communication skills because my brain was not functioning well. It became harder for me to talk. It was getting on my nerve, literally.

ONE

Afternoon Tea

I don’t want to be alone; I want to be left alone.

~ Audrey Hepburn

As a tea addict, I used to drink tea like water. Unfortunately, I needed to be more cautious in choosing the kind of tea to drink since black tea made my insomnia worse. It is a good thing that I lived in London, a city that offers the great varsity of decaffeinated herb tea. Lemon ginger, peppermint, and lavender were my favourite. Whenever I had tea, chocolate brownies or any other variants of cakes also came to accompany. I tried numerous kinds of brownies in London, and I do miss them a lot sometimes, now that I no longer live there.

People might think that I was trying too hard to follow the English culture, but I could prove them wrong. As long as I remember, my mother always prepared us tea with snacks every afternoon, and I have been keeping this habit until today. There was no single day passed without tea; check inside my cupboard and you would know how addicted I am. First, you would find a box of Earl Grey, which has always been my favourite. Then, I also keep the Java tea that comes from one specific brand. Rummage a bit deeper, and you would find a pack of chamomile, peppermint, lavender, and green tea—not to mention the ‘relaxation tea’ that I bought on a business trip to Frankfurt and ‘relief tea’ that I bought in Seoul. The list could go on and on, but we would better stop it here.

There was a guy who worked in the university’s cafeteria who knew it well that I always ordered the specific green tea and lemon. One day, I was lethargic by the heap of course works I did overnight, so I ordered a cup of cappuccino instead. The cafeteria was unusually busy that day, so I noticed that a woman whom I had never seen before was present at the pay desk to help him. The woman mentioned my order to this guy, who was in charge of preparation. To my surprise, he handed the cappuccino to a girl beside me. I saw the coffee being passed on and stared at him, with my mouth hanging open.

I was too tired to protest, but the guy noticed my presence and asked the lady, Did you take her order?

The woman said, Yes, I said cappuccino, but you gave it to that girl!

He frowned, Cappuccino? She didn’t order cappuccino. She asked for tea!

I was aware of the confusion and laughed, No, I did. I did order cappuccino.

He was surprised, You did?

Yes, I’m too sleepy. I need coffee.

He put on a long face and apologised, I’m sorry, darling, you never ordered coffee before. I didn’t know.

That is how my relationship with tea depicted. In a world where millions of other people drink coffee, I stick to my tea. I forgot the guy’s name—I am a terrible person, I know—but his face sticks in my head. Sometimes, I miss the moment when I stared at the open refrigerator, trying to find some tomato mozzarella sandwiches for lunch. Or, the moment when I ordered the very same green tea lemon in the afternoon and got tempted by the collection of cakes on the side table. I don’t really like sweets, but English cakes were exceptional. It was hard for me to pass a day without eating cakes.

My friends laughed every time I brought in some chocolates or any kinds of cakes to the class. They said I could not stop having sweets. Girls envied me a lot for eating so much without putting on weight—I gained four kilos by the end of my study, to be fair. I became a sugar-addict without realising that it was a symptom of depression. I recognised this when the summer had ended, and it was almost time for me to go home. On my last days in London, I strolled around and bought myself some of the best chocolate brownies in town to commemorate the bittersweet experience I had with depression. It surprised me to know that the brownies were so dense and sweet, I could not finish them. I started to wonder how I became addicted to this intense sweetness and ate the whole box of Sainsbury’s mini brownies in a day.

On the next day, I went to the Waterstones cafe to treat myself with a pint of peppermint tea. When I saw their signature banana and peanut cake, I could not help to order. So, I took a seat at my favourite corner—on a high stool against the glass windows that faced Gower Street—and tried to enjoy my very last afternoon tea in this particular cafe. It supposed to be perfect. However, for the second time, I found the cake surprisingly too sweet. The answer came months later when I was already back in my home country. In a random search, I found the fact that we may require more sugar when depressed.

I had no idea that my addiction to sweets had the connection with my mental health. I was always in need of tea, which tasted good with an accompany of cake, and that is all I knew. However, I must thank this regular activity that had helped me to talk with strangers. It all started when I sat alone in the cafe, trying to kill some time while waiting for a friend to meet in an hour. London had