Something Like Living
Just maybe, she could still choose what came next. And for today, that was enough.
Years ago, she had a somewhat realisation when her psychiatrist told her that one of the problematic aspects of her personality was her all-or-none mentality.
That realisation was the only good thing that came from that wretched psychiatrist.
Mr. Johnson cut off her thoughts. She immediately paid attention.
She couldn't remember the last time she admired an instructor's teaching that much.
She always had trouble focusing on lectures, her mind jumping from one thought to another, landing in the most bizarre and irrelevant places.
She had ADHD.
She hadn't been officially diagnosed, but she knew it for a fact.
Mr. Johnson paused in front of the class, his voice steady.
"What troubles us in life, the reason we often find ourselves struggling with psychological disturbances, is our demands."
He took a few steps across the front of the room, glancing at the group.
"These are the primary 'musts' we place on situations. Expectations so rigid that they feel catastrophic when they don't happen. Like it is the end of the world."
The class was silent, listening.
"It can feel unbearable," he continued,
"or push you to interpret everything through a negative lens."
He stopped and looked around.
"Now, let's explore each of these demands individually."
With her insatiable curiosity about what was to follow, Sunny was now fully engaged.
"Let's start with awfulising," Mr Johnson said.
Sunny smirked to herself.
Funny word.
He continued,
"Awfulizing is seeing a situation as bad as if it's the end of the world."
Hearing that made it seem less humorous.
That was once Sunny.
She had been in her version of the end of the world, where she thought there was no going back.
Mr Johnson:
"That kind of thinking keeps you stuck because it's rigid and inconsistent with reality. When a client comes to you saying something is end-of-the-world bad, your job is to help them recognise that it isn't. Nothing is the end of the world, apart from the end of the world itself."
At that moment, Sunny was no longer in that room.
A memory she had pushed deep down rose and took full grasp of her mind.
She heard her grandmother's voice:
"Let me help you, Sunny."
Sunny had burst at her, projecting the frustration that stemmed from her feelings about herself.
"You're even having trouble walking yourself. How could you possibly help me?"
Sunny had felt instantly regretful.
She never meant to hurt her grandma.
She loved her deeply and knew she was only trying to help.
It was herself she was having trouble loving.
Fixated on her movements, she continued walking.
Side to side.
Come on, Sunny, just one more step towards right, and you'll be there, she kept telling herself.
It seemed like there was always that one more step she just couldn't take.
She finally made it to the seat in front of the doctor's desk.
She tried to smile.
Her mother had promised her that things would get better.
Then the doctor looked up and said,
"Is this how you really walk? Like, all the time?"
Sunny felt devastation surge through her.
No, this wasn't how she usually walked.
This was her walking better than usual.
Yet she couldn't say that out loud.
To find solace, she turned to her mother, searching her face for something that might comfort her.
But her mother's face was blank, too stunned to offer anything back.
Sunny did her best during the examination.
When it was over, she sat down and began biting her nails as if she knew her soul was about to be shattered.
"Well, I'll be clear. It's not looking good.
Best case, you'll remain the way you are.
However, the likelihood of getting worse is high.
Even if we slow it down, the most likely outcome is a gradual decline."
Sunny's ears tingled.
The world spun.
She couldn't breathe.
She cried out in a whisper:
"Mom."
Her mother froze.
She couldn't even look at Sunny.
It was her grandma who spoke out, attempting to make sense of everything that had been said.
"So, what does that mean?"
"It means there's nothing we can do to get her out of this condition.
We could try to slow it down.
I want to be clear, though.
No progress is being promised."
That was it.
No miracle, no way out.
This was her life now, the one she didn't want.
It was her end of the world.
She couldn't breathe.
She had to escape the personal hell her mind had constructed.
She tried to remind herself where she was.
She looked around to ground herself.
She had practised mindfulness before.
Even though it took everything in her to bring one of those strategies to mind, she managed to recall the grounding exercise where she had to find five things she could see.
Her eyes darted to the classroom window,
the cracks in the tile floor,
a pen cap someone had dropped,
the subtle movement of a classmate's foot,
and her own shaking hands.
Naming them quietly to herself, she felt the pull of the memory loosen its grip.
Then, four things she could hear.
Suddenly, she could hear Mr. Johnson's voice again,
the ticking voice of the clock,
the sound of leaves hitting the classroom window,
and the whispering among her classmates.
It was working.
Now, three things she could touch.
Her notebook rested beneath her hand, and she reached for the water bottle, first feeling the smooth plastic then sliding her fingers up to the harder texture of the lid.
Two, she could smell.
Taking a deep breath, she could smell the odour in the classroom and her perfume.
Almost there.
One she could taste.
She took a big sip from the water bottle she was already holding.
She was back.
However, she knew there was no way to fully come down without taking the pills her doctor had prescribed for moments like this.
She excused herself to Mr. Johnson and walked out of the university.
She decided to walk home.
Walking always calmed her down.
She couldn't help but feel a sense of surprise at the irony.
What had once been her biggest fear had now become her way of calming herself.
Parkinson's, bite my ass, she thought to herself.
Even if she had spent a lifetime wondering, she never would have guessed it would be Parkinson's.
Yet there she was, at age 26, diagnosed with Parkinson's.
Even though accepting this situation was not easy, her primary emotion was relief because she finally got a diagnosis.
The lack of a diagnosis was what prevented her from being treated.
At times, it felt almost as if those memories stemmed from another life.
A life that wasn't hers.
Maybe this was the reason why she couldn't heal from its reality.
She never allowed herself to process the trauma she had been through.
She questioned whether she should go back to therapy.
She had experienced it positively at the time.
The time when she wouldn't go through a day wishing she were dead, at least three times.
She even searched for ways to end her life that could be mistaken for accidents.
Thinking of death soothed her.
That was her backup plan.
She didn't care to be alive when she had to live like that.
The shame had drained every trace of joy she once felt for life.
To the point that she hated every part of her existence.
She felt like she owed it to herself to leave her last memory for others as she appeared when she was healthy.
When she was the light in the room.
Even when death felt better than life, her last wish was to make it look like it wasn't.
She couldn't bear to appear weak to others.
That was how proud she was.
As she walked down the street, a wave of fresh aromas reached her nose.
The scent of warm butter and chocolate, fresh from the oven, blended into a delicious harmony.
With that mouthwatering smell drifting around her, she became consciously aware of the sound coming from her stomach for the first time that day.
She was starving.
When she turned her head to the left, she realised she had just passed her favourite bakery.
She thought to herself that there was no better day than this to reward herself with a splendid piece of baked goodness.
She sat on the bench just outside the bakery, still out of breath, pastry warm in her hand.
She took the first bite as if she were tasting something for the first time in years.
She didn't need to be fixed at this moment.
She took another bite, the chocolate still warm in the centre.
"I'm still here," she whispered.
It wasn't healing.
But it was something like living.
The diagnosis hadn't changed.
Her past hadn't disappeared.
But maybe, just maybe, she could still choose what came next.
And for today, that was enough.
Stories often begin quietly, in fragments that later gather weight. This piece was one of those fragments, the seed that later unfolded into my “The Authenticity of Life When Hope Fails to Arrive” essay.
PS: If the story stirred something in you, the essay that sparked it may take you even deeper:
