Life through Sunglasses: My First Experience with a Psychologist

I often ask for help. I look for it in family, friends and romantic partners. When all those options failed me, it was healthcare professionals’ turn. I visited a psychologist for the first time in 2015. It was there that I finally felt heard and understood. They told me I had depressive symptoms, which I expected to be the case, but it was the analogy used that stuck with me and saw me through the darkest years of my life.

College. They say these are your best years but I was clearly not part of that privileged group. Ever since day one, it was not a pleasant experience. I was studying Physiotherapy because it was my favourite among the “wise” options available. I did not feel fulfilled and seldom was I excited about what I was studying. I spent my classes reading instead of paying attention. I had no purpose.

I had wanted to be a writer ever since I was a kid. Childhood’s own condition and my inherent wide imagination led me to believe I wanted to be a multitude of different people. Literature was the constant though. So, how did I end up studying Physiotherapy? I was an insecure child and teenager. Medicine was my second favourite field and people around me would always advise me in that direction. I was told that science and technology was the wisest choice in high school and I could change back to literature later on. Physiotherapy was the best choice if I ever wanted to get a job and earn enough money. I did show my interest in literature every step of the way but I did not have the guts to opt for it.

My doubts never left though. I asked to change degree when I was in my second year of college. My family would not pay for that and I could not picture myself earning enough money to do it (again, insecure teenager). I was also worried about giving up on my Physiotherapy degree. I already felt like a loser because I had not pursued literature before and, fed by the negativity surrounding me, I pictured myself changing my mind again in the future. I felt stuck – I was not moving. Even though I was still productive enough and sure about succeeding in college, I spent my days in my rented room, running from my housemate, crying, watching TV series and playing online video games.

I did have satisfactory social support. I was, and still am, part of a group of four close friends. We laid low. We were not really into the popularity most of the others seemed to be chasing. However, I was not able to be open about my mental health issues with them. I also had romantic adventures during those four years. Looking back at those, I can’t say any of them was fulfilling. Love had long left me and it would take years before I found it again.

My first partner had died just before I went to college and, even though we were no longer together, that situation had an impact on my mental health. Looking back, I understand that the guilt associated with his death worsened all the others in my life. When I went home from college for the weekend, I often stopped at the graveyard he is buried in and I spent my time there asking for his forgiveness. I may not believe in life after death but that was one of the few comforts I had back then.

Now you know what I was going through (at least the majority of it) and why I chose to visit a psychologist. I had asked my parents for it before but I was tired of hearing them minimizing my mental health issues and complaining about how much I cost them. A friend of mine had been going to a psychology clinic and first consultations there were free. I decided to take matters in my own hands for once.

I was very anxious that day. I had an idea of the possible diagnosis but I needed a confirmation from a professional. I got in and we started talking. I told them my life story, sparing no details. It was cathartic. In the end, they told me I should come back. I knew I could not afford that and I asked for a diagnosis instead. Quite unwillingly, they gave it to me: depressive symptomatology. They said it sounded as if I was looking the world through sunglasses. I had found the answer.

I started questioning my perception of reality. Maybe they are not talking about me. Maybe I am not as ugly as my reflection in the mirror is. Maybe I can write. Maybe I am worth it. Slowly but surely, I started shifting my way of thinking – filtering negative thoughts as the misrepresentations of reality they were.

Living with a mental illness is different for everyone. I never stop being productive (even though my level of productivity decreases when I am in a crisis). I do not drink nor do I take drugs. I know I have depressive symptoms (and an undiagnosed level of anxiety). I found I am the only one who will truly understand what is going on inside my mind.

However, feeling validated by that first psychologist helped me climb out of the hole I found myself in during college (and the ones that followed as well). I urge anyone who is facing similar doubts to the ones I faced back then to look for help. It is hard for other people to understand someone else’s pain and healthcare professionals may be the only choice in some cases. Even though I still see life through sunglasses, I now know they are there. I compensate their presence with a dash of suspicion towards my perception of the surrounding world.