Readers Write In #776: Where do I begin? Navigating life, mental health, relationships and goals

By Sudharsanan Sampath

Where do I begin? Why am I typing this? What am I hoping to get from this? I am not sure. But here goes. People used to know me by many names, but now I’ve settled on Sudha. Sudha seems to be closer to who I really am. Not as close as I’d like it to be, but closer than the other ones. So, you can call me Sudha. I’ve led an interesting life so far. I was born in a dingy government funded hospital in a small town in South India called Chengalpattu.

Before I can speak I was yanked away to another small village called Guduvanchery where I spent about 16 years, playing cricket, getting chased by buffaloes, learning to ride mopeds, and other adventures. There were fun times, but by no means my childhood was easy. But I don’t want to get into that pandora box. Then I moved to Chennai, a nearby metropolitan. Weird, surreal and formative four years. Again, I won’t get into that now. Everything has its time. Like a good little Indian boy, I studied Mechanical Engineering. But for some inexplicable reason, I wanted to move to New Zealand to study film. Something about New Zealand attracted me. The quiet, the green, the remote location.

But I ended up in Canada and did a project management degree. Why? I don’t know. I gave up asking why. Six excruciating years in Canada. Homelessness, poverty, hunger, deep depression, constant suicidal thoughts, just a buffet of exciting mental issues. I didn’t even visit my family once. But one day I decided it’s enough. I packed my bags and moved to India. Two wandering years in India. Then for some reason I secured a job in a remote corner of Southern China. Confusing first year, and a beautiful second year. Then COVID hit. Why? I don’t know. Someone decided to eat a bat in a wet market? Or was it the Americans? Or a bio war? I don’t know. All I knew was I couldn’t get back to China. I went back to India. Spent 2 years in a room locked up with my parents. About thirty panic attacks later, I packed my bags and moved to a remote island in Thailand. What a beautiful year that was! I went to India for a few months and then moved to Canada for a few months, then moved back to China for a year. Now I am back in Canada. I am sitting in an uncomfortable chair, sipping a coffee, looking at the bleak winter scene outside while typing this. So many people I’ve met along the way, so many relationships, so many promises, heartbreaks, panic attacks, meltdowns, road trips, vacations, work stress and underneath of it all, a constant, gentle hum of anxiety. I’ve always had this habit. When I am in distress, I get away from everyone, have a panic attack, while rocking back and forth. I slap myself a lot during these “incidents”. This is just a tip of the proverbial iceberg. I never understood myself. I always thought everybody does this. ‘It’s normal to slap yourself while being collapsed on the floor.’

Yet I’ve always asked myself this question. “What’s wrong with you?”, “Why are you not normal?”, “Why can’t you feel normal feelings?”, “Why?”, “Why?” …. I’ve had this strange suspicion, that crying almost everyday is not normal. I am not saying that I’ve never had happiness, or moments that are mundane and normal. But they always seemed few and far between.

Even therapy and psychiartry never seemed to hit the mark. Until I had a session with my recent therapist who specializes in neurodivergence, ADHD, among other things. I didn’t plan on seeking her out. It just happened.

We had many sessions, and in one of the sessions she said, “Without a shadow of doubt that you are on the spectrum. I’ve been working with neurodivergent kids my whole career, and one look at you, and I could tell.” … I am only vaguely familiar with the world of neurodivergence, spectrum, autism. What does it all mean?

So in the next few sessions, we spent many hours exploring my life, my behaviors in the past and present, my weekly meltdowns, slapping myself, my inability to keep a relationship, lack of a “proper” emotional response, my forgetfulness, my decision paralyses, my health anxiety, my million intrusive thoughts at the same moment rendering me incapable of being in the moment, and many many many many more.

She said, “Autism and ADHD. I am quite surprised that you never had this diagnosis before.” I was stunned. That two hour session made me look at my life in a profoundly different way. It’s like that M. Night Shyamalan movie The Sixth Sense. When you finally realize Bruce Willis was a ghost all along, you look back at the film, and everything falls into place. All the little things, tiny details, dialogues, everything miraculously re-arrange themselves to reveal a whole another film to you.

A dual diagnosis.

My friend once knocked my door unannounced and wanted to play cricket with me. I panicked, and hid underneath my bed not making a sound. Even though I wanted to play the game. But I panicked because he came unannounced. I didn’t control that situation.

Why can’t I be normal for once?

Two months ago, my friends wanted to give me a surprise farewell party as I was leaving China. The moment I suspected that my girlfriend is taking me to a restaurant where people are waiting to surprise me, I started panicking, and collapsed on the floor heaving. There was no threat. These are my dear friends. But I am not in control.

Why can’t I be normal for once?

Turns out the answer was staring at me the whole time. I am 35 now.

What next?

I am now attempting to figure out how to navigate this new found truth, and how to live life true to my potential, true to my passion, and goals. True to who I really am. In spite of all this, I want to make at least one film before the show is over.

All of this was too much. I needed a break.

My girlfriend begged me to get out of my basement in Canada. I didn’t want to. I couldn’t even get out of my bed. I had to convince myself to get up and brush my teeth, let alone, getting dressed and going outside. She wanted to meet me. She is in China. I am in Canada.

After hours of convincing, we decided to meet in Oman.

Why Oman?

Seemed like it was a half way point for us. The plan was to rent a car, and do a road trip around Oman.

Every fiber of my being was protesting against this. Even thinking about airports, boarding passes and security clearance made me want to curl up in a fetal position. But I had to try.

One fine winter morning, I flew to Oman.

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