My life has been tough for the last 25 years. I was young, and at the peak of my career as a journalist, a job I adore, when all began.
Too much pressure, too much work, no schedules, always at call, ten or twelve hours working a day, no time to spend with my family, began to be a tremendous load over my shoulders and my soul. Maybe a predisposition in my genes took me down, and I began to feel tremendously tired and desperate. Tears often filled my eyes without any apparent reason. Sometimes in public, and I felt awful. An obsessive thought invaded my mind: everything you do is wrong. Your life is worthless. What sense have to continue living?
Two years after great suffering, pretending before my bosses and coworkers and before my family that everything was ok, my best friend and my family, who were no blind, and have tried to help me in many ways, convinced me to go to the shrink.
And yes, I was diagnosed with a deep depression. I had to go to the hospital several times. I kept working for many years until it was impossible to continue.
In my desperation, I often had hurt myself.
It isn’t straightforward to describe what happens when you’re so depressed. Your body refuses to follow your orders; your mind wanders through the darkest places unable to listen to the warnings your doctor, your family, and friends or even yourself give you.
But I found hope in the middle of that hell.
It was love. My family loved me, no matter what. I discovered who were my real friends. The ones who didn’t disappear from my life in those years. And I had God’s love who gave me what I needed in the darkest hours.
I remember one morning in Manhattan. I was desperate, alone, far away from my family.
My doctor had told me to put distance between my job and me, so I crossed the ocean and went to the States.
I went to the subway station. The commuters filled the platform. I felt out of strength to fight with all those people. The train left without me.
When the train left, and it came to the silence, I heard a street musician playing his violin beautifully. A calm, melodious sound filled the station and my soul. Another train came. Again the crowd was too much for my nerves, and I stayed still. Once again, that hypnotizing, beautiful music calmed me. At the third try, I collected all my renewed strength and was able to board the train and go to work.
Was it a mere coincidence? I don’t think so. Someone above knew I was asking for help to get along with my day and sent me what I needed: music.
And I could tell many stories about how, when I was at the edge of the cliff, a glimpse of hope saved me from de abyss.
I’m still depressed and medicated, but I have accepted my situation, and I was able to do many things during those long years of illness.