I've had many ideas and topics to write about, but words are crammed somewhere in my mind. When they come out, they rush disorderly/ out of order.

I also wanted to share my lengthy perspective on some posts and comments I read here in Journaly. If someone had a look at Word where I wrote down my thoughts, they would find scattered, disconnected paragraphs about: colonialism, neo-imperialism, wars, AI, my mother, my depression, swimming, etc.

Then, I remembered that writing isn't only a hobby I enjoy doing but it's my therapy. Having these disorganized, confrontational ideas on paper and facing difficulties organizing them is just a reflection of how my mental health is upside down.

When I was home a few days ago, I went to check out the symptoms I had sporadically during the last few months. A headache, nausea ending with vomitting (usually more than once), and sometimes defecating. I recall the first time I had them, I was in Anuradhapura, Sri Lanka on the last day of 2023. I was visiting a Buddhist temple with the kind Sri Lankan family who didn't mind embracing a stranger like me for 10 days. I was miserable and in my worst case after having been broken up.

I went with the cheap option, to our local health unit where I'm registered on my mother's card since I'm unmarried.

During the appointment, I mentioned the symptoms along with irritable bowel, depression and being underweight. I also told them that I had a couple of therapy sessions, along with Prozac for seven months, but had to quit due to their unaffordable price. The doctor confirmed how crucial mental health is, affecting how our bodies react. He also pointed out that stopping having Prozac, after just seven months, might have played a role in these symptoms as well. He referred me to the mental health department in another hospital, as this department is not available in our local unit.

I was referred to a female doctor but found my appointment with a male doctor, who asked me seriously why I was there! I got paralyzed for a second, thinking how ridiculous his question was. I whispered to myself: "Am I coming to a resort to have a spa retreat! I'm sick!"

I explained what I've been struggling with physically and mentally. He rapidly asked me questions about delusions, sleeping, feeling lost, etc. He then described two antidepressants and asked me to get them from the pharmacy and return to him. After waiting in a long queue for almost two hours, I got only one as the other one wasn't available. They said it would be there in two days. When I went back to the clinic, I found him holding a cigarette. Yes, in a hospital, in a room without ventilation, he was recklessly smoking. He described to me the medications' dosage and asked me to come and see him in a month. That's it. No talk therapies, no questions about what kind of mental difficulties I face, when all of that started. Nothing. This is our public health care in a nutshell.

As I can't afford to pay for private therapy sessions, I have to heal on my own. I'm not taking these prescribed medications. Having depression medications without therapies would be like stitching a wound without sanitizing it.

I started writing this post since I haven't written in English in a while. I wanted to write anything, thinking the post would include a couple of lines. However, it turned out long and ended in a different direction than planned.