Moving out and living on your own is a significant milestone for many college students. It’s a time of newfound independence, but what I didn’t expect was the companion that came with it: loneliness. I had imagined that being free from noise and distractions would enhance my ability to study. Instead, I found myself confronted with a different kind of noise – the continuous barrage of thoughts echoing off the walls around me.
To make matters worse, my family painted those walls gray, believing it was a better choice than white or black. They failed to realize the oppressive nature of this color. As I entered my first semester of college, I found myself wasting mornings that should have been spent in class by sleeping instead. When I woke in the afternoons, dark thoughts already filled my mind, dominating my every waking moment. The noise of traffic outside seemed incapable of drowning out the voices in my head.
Looking down from my 27th-floor window, I could see the bustling streets filled with pedestrians. Yet, they remained distant figures, unable to provide the companionship I craved. Nighttime was no better. Instead of enjoying the breathtaking view of stars, I opted for the artificial glow of a screen, spending all-nighters binge-watching Korean dramas instead of working on assignments. My bed remained unmade, a reflection of my reluctance to leave its comforting embrace. And on the rare occasions when I did get up, it was solely to indulge in my unhealthy binge-eating habits, fueled by the 24/7 7-Eleven conveniently located just downstairs.
Feeling guilty about my behavior, I finally confided in my parents and sought help from a psychiatrist. I believed that receiving treatment would ensure a better second semester, but unfortunately, history repeated itself, leading me to take a leave of absence. Even when I returned home, surrounded by my family, I still succumbed to my late-night food smuggling. I tiptoed to the kitchen, prepared meals that were too substantial to be considered snacks, and silently returned to bed, fearing that the sound of dishes would wake my parents. The remaining dishes I rinsed in my bathroom, well aware of their unhygienic state.
Overthinking became a constant companion, causing me to question whether I was ungrateful for feeling the way I did. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t find happiness despite my blessings. This reminded me of a conversation from a book called “Darius the Great is Not Okay.” Darius, the main character, is asked why he’s depressed, but he can’t provide a definitive answer, leaving him with an overwhelming sense of inadequacy. I found myself replaying that dialogue in my head, engaging in this internal conversation with myself. However, I came to realize that mental illness doesn’t discriminate. Each person’s struggle is unique, and it’s important to have self-awareness and use our privileges to advocate for better mental health care accessibility.
I consider myself fortunate to have access to a supportive living environment and mental health care. It has ignited a desire within me to reach out to those who lack such resources, championing for better mental health care accessibility for everyone. Some individuals have been dealt a much harder hand than I have, and I acknowledge that. Mental illness knows no boundaries, but unfortunately, access to mental health care does, and this is a significant issue not only in the Philippines but globally. According to a recent study published in the journal Frontiers in Psychology, the country has a staggering shortage of hospital beds and psychiatrists compared to other Western Pacific countries. Consequently, we must continue to demand government intervention and policies that address this critical issue.
However, it’s essential to remember that location and depression are not permanent shackles. I have learned to view my once-lonely apartment as a space for potential friendships. The commute to school, which I once dreaded, now fills me with anticipation for the opportunities that lie ahead. It has been a challenging three-year journey towards healing, and I know it’s an ongoing process. But I remain hopeful that one day, our country will see progress and make mental health care accessible to all. We will reach a better place, both physically and mentally.
About the author:
Ora Francine D. Astilla, 22, is a student of creative writing at the University of the Philippines Diliman. In addition to her literary pursuits, she shares her musical talents on her YouTube channel, “Cheenee Astilla.” Ora is also the founder of “Habong,” a registered youth organization dedicated to advocating for the mental health of the citizens of Calamba, Laguna.
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