Chapter 219 The Past
In this diary, Xu Que recorded how he cured his depression on his own.
The content is as follows: At first, he did not realize that he had depression. During that period, he often suffered from insomnia, would start crying in the morning regardless of what was happening, and would still cry while sitting at his desk at night. Every day, the trash can was full of tissues he had thrown away to wipe his tears and snot.
After a while, I don’t know when it happened, but my thinking ability began to weaken, and my brain became stiff and uncontrollable. Except for sitting or lying down and spacing out, my brain could not function normally, like a computer that had frozen, and no matter how much I typed it, it was useless.
It's like being trapped in an abyss, unable to get out and unable to move, letting time slip away inch by inch, stuck in the same place, unable to control yourself.
After some time, his dwindling senses reminded him that the afternoon was sunny and bustling with people and cars. At the hospital, a chief physician or something similar first inquired about his situation, asking if he wanted to undergo further testing or see a psychologist directly. He then began to feign composure, but from the very first word, he broke down in tears. The doctor handed him a box of tissues, and he stammered out his account.
He had no experience in deciding what to do next, and both the examination fees and the cost of psychological treatment were very high for him. He ran out to call a friend.
He clearly remembered that it was a sunny day, and he was crying his eyes out alone at the entrance of the mental health center. He didn't care what the security guard at the entrance thought of him; he only remembered his friend telling him on the phone, "Go talk to a psychologist. He's had tests done, but they're not really helpful. It's just filling out some forms and costing a few hundred yuan. Let's not waste that money."
For a while, his condition didn't seem to worsen, except for a dull, persistent pain in his left and right chest areas. Driven by a strong desire to save himself, he visited several hospitals and consulted with classmates in medical school, taking some medications they recommended.
During this period, brain function is not as normal as before. Although the number of times I cry loudly has decreased, my reaction ability to read and attend classes, my ability to process information, and my memory have all been greatly impaired.
He didn't finish many of the assignments given by his teachers, not because he was lazy, but because he genuinely couldn't. As the final exams approached, he spent almost half the semester either in the hospital or immersed in grief. Self-help had already taken a huge toll on him, leaving him no time to worry about anything else.
Then one day, a friend who cared about him messaged him on WeChat: "Put all your worries aside now, prioritize your own happiness and health, and do whatever you like." At that moment, his heavy mind felt lost. Why? Because his problem had become so severe that he was unable to process what he wanted to do. Aside from the necessities of daily life—eating, drinking, and using the toilet—everything else was incredibly difficult. For example, normally: a Happy Twist movie was released, and he was looking forward to seeing it. Street food looked delicious, and he wanted to try it. These ordinary thoughts for most normal people were luxuries for him at that time. His cognitive abilities had degenerated to the point that everything except the most basic instinctive actions was blocked.
To use a common description of someone with depression: he was completely broken. Day and night, numb, devoid of joy, sorrow, and vitality. On the surface, he appeared normal, but in reality, his inner self had been swallowed up and corroded, like an instinctive puppet, listless and dull. The main unit had burned out, leaving only an empty shell. At this point, he finally believed it was indeed the legendary, seemingly unattainable depression he had always thought he could only dream of. He dropped out of school, refusing to return, and went home to recuperate. He knew he had depression, and he also knew that depression came in countless forms and variations. He had even started writing a suicide note, but then abandoned it, dissatisfied with his writing. A suicide note is, after all, the last little essay you leave behind in this world, and his vanity compelled him to produce something satisfactory. Before the deadline for the suicide note was met, he postponed jumping off the building.
With no tasks to complete each day, he spends almost the entire time lying on the sofa watching TV series episode after episode. He's bad at everything else; even typing is a struggle. It often takes him a long time to piece together a single sentence. His head is also constantly foggy and throbbing. He's fine in the morning, but by the afternoon, his head feels heavy, tired, and has a pressing, aching pain. He doesn't know which nerve is damaged, but his brain feels trapped, unable to move forward or backward. A traditional Chinese medicine practitioner diagnosed him with insufficient blood supply, but he didn't believe it.
Later, he considered medication, but didn't go to the hospital. Why? At home, he was almost completely silent, had uninstalled WeChat, and cut off all contact with everyone. His language, expression, and reasoning abilities were severely impaired. Even with all his might, he could hardly explain to anyone the utter despair and helplessness he was in. Seeing a doctor requires describing one's symptoms, right? He couldn't express it. He hadn't lost the ability to speak, but he had lost the ability to speak.
His friend was worried about him and texted him, telling him to go out and resume socializing, not to stay cooped up at home, or it would get worse. He didn't even want to reply; he was exhausted. But she genuinely cared about him, and despite her awkwardness, she replied, "Be well, don't worry." Later, she insisted he reinstall WeChat, and he couldn't resist, so he did. He said, "You know what? I don't know why, but whenever I try to think hard about something, my left chest hurts—a real, tangible pain, not a hallucination. And my brain resists thinking; it's like a fixed boundary line has been drawn up, and if I cross it even slightly, my brain forces me to stop. It's like the feeling of a heavily guarded border between two countries, you understand?"
After that, he relied primarily on the internet for self-help, because communicating with other people was ineffective. It's like trying to vividly describe a penguin to someone who's never even seen one; it won't evoke any empathy, it will only make people think you're talking nonsense. They won't understand, and thankfully they don't. They'll try to advise you in their own way, like "So-and-so is much worse off than you," or "That's enough," creating a superficial back-and-forth conversation, but you'll never build any real connection—it's like talking to a brick wall, casting pearls before swine.
Depression is a state of utter darkness, a self-imposed prison, a solitary battle, a struggle where a weak, damaged, and incomplete you desperately fights against that big black dog. The cruelest part is twofold: first, your energy is weakened, your fighting power drastically reduced; second, despite your precarious state, you must still grit your teeth and fight alone. You walk this dark road alone, stumbling and struggling, and if you collapse, the stakes could be losing the rest of your life. It's no exaggeration to say that this is the most agonizing battle of his life.
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