Lately, I learnt that someone close to me is severely depressed. As their story unravelled, I felt both overwhelmed with empathy, because I have battled depression myself (as I mentioned in a previous post), and with powerlessness, because I'm not sure how I can help. A friend of mine and fellow depression sufferer once asked me, "How did you get over it?" I suppose she was hoping for some trick, some tips on how to beat it. I wish there was a magic spell to make people better, but I don't know any.
I do know one thing, though: it helps to know that you're not alone, that other people know what you're going through. This is why I am writing this today.
The first time I remember suffering from depression is as a teenager. I was a very lonely child, as I had huge difficulties relating to others because of my Asperger's syndrome. I was bullied because of my quirks, and I had no idea how to make things better for myself. I also had self-esteem issues. I cried a lot and felt misunderstood. It's around that time I started self-harming. At first, I would tear bits of skin from my fingertips with a needle. Then I started cutting with a pocket knife. Seeing the blood on my arm gave me an odd sense of relief, as if the mutilation matched the wounds that were tearing me inside.
One night, I tried to commit suicide by taking some pills. I was rushed to hospital. I remember my father telling me "We love you". I also remember telling my parents I was so screwed up I needed a psychiatrist. Unfortunately, the lady they took me to likely had no experience dealing with teens, and I stopped going after a while, claiming I was feeling better (which was false). At that time, I also promised my grandmother I would never try to kill myself again - a very important promise that may have saved my life.
When I was 18, a few things helped me feel better. Thanks to my parents' support, I traveled to London to study English for a year. That year was a turning point for me. First, because people had no expectations of my behaviour. At school, I had been the depressed girl who was always crying. In a vaguely conscious way, I felt trapped in that persona. In London, I could try and be someone different, someone happier. I made new friends, people who accepted me as I am. All of them were members of the church I went to, which links to the other important factor: I became a Christian.
My faith helped me in different ways. The Christian idea that God forgives our sins lifted the burden of guilt off my heart. I was keenly aware of ways I had hurt my loved ones through my behaviour, and felt I did not deserve happiness. Believing I could be forgiven and start afresh was a huge step. However, there are two sides to that coin: the Christian doctrine of sin can add new and heavier burdens to one's soul... but I am getting ahead of myself.
Faith also gave me a sense of worth, and a purpose. I have worth as a child of God - I am loved beyond all measure, and my purpose is to have a relationship with God. These basic beliefs still help me tremendously today.
I still had regular bouts of anxiety and distress, though. I often cried and often felt lonely and at odds with other people.
The battle was far from over.
If you're a woman, I'm sure you've been through this before.
You're at a concert or some other event, and you very, very urgently need to powder your nose (if you are too shy to call a spade a spade) - that is, you are desperate to pee. And, of course, the queue to the ladies' room is so long it spills out in the hallway.
And the men's are empty.
What do you do?
Well, when this happens to me, I can tell you I have absolutely no hesitation. I need to go, dammit. No qualms about it. And I really don't see why it would be a problem.
Yet, it seems that for some people, it's such a big deal that they had to pass a bill forbidding transgender people from using another bathroom than the one of their birth-assigned gender.
I mean, seriously?
I'm not going to debate transgenderism here. It's a complex issue, and as a cisgender person, one that I don't know enough about. I am just concerned that male-to-female trans people, for instance, are probably at risk of harassment and bullying when they use the men's bathroom.
But really, I just find the whole thing ridiculous. And I'm talking about the bill, not about transgenderism. Why is it such a big deal, who is using which bathroom?
Obviously, as a woman, I can't very well use a urinal (well, I tried once because I literally had no other option, but trust me, it's highly impractical for girls - and that's an understatement). But there are usually also cubicles in the men's, right?
When I use the restroom, I really don't mind who else is using it. My main concerns usually are:
1. Is there still some toilet paper?
2. Is there soap and water so I can wash my hands afterwards?
3. Is the restroom, and the cubicle and seat I am going to use, especially, clean?
But I really don't give a rat's arse whether the person in the next stall is male, female, or something else. And said stalls are separate anyway, we no longer have Roman latrines where people are happily chatting together while doing their business (although maybe we should, it could de-sensitize us to this whole thing. After all, male, female or trans, we all need to go, daily. Maybe it shouldn't be such a big taboo.).
I just have this crazy idea: we should just have gender-neutral bathrooms. Or maybe we should just stop worrying so much about it. When I meet someone, their genitals isn't usually the first thing I wonder about!
I was 13 when the army invaded. Those who were around the last time it happened had told us about the atrocities they committed, and we were really scared. So, along with many others, my family and I packed a few belongings and fled.
My mother took our little dog along and he became our air strike warning. He would hear - or feel, I'm not sure - the planes before we did, so whenever he started whining, we took cover, often in ditches. My mother would cover us with a big red blanket. I don't know what kind of protection she thought that was! The noise from the planes was terrifying, the bombs were even more so.
We crossed the border, but we were not welcome. Villages had signs saying there was no water for us. We were exhausted. We had to sleep in ditches.
At one point we met another family who came from the same village as we did. One of the boys, who would become my husband once we grew up, wrote me a card. I still have it. But we lost each other again that time and only saw each other again when we came back to our village.
I understand those people fleeing war. We did the same thing.
- my grandmother
When the German army invaded Belgium in 1940, 2 millions Belgians, Dutch and Luxemburgers fled and became refugees in France.
