Written by Habibah Abass. 

Mental illness is a prevalent issue in Qatar. In fact, in 2013, mental health experts found that around one quarter of teenagers in the country suffered from depression. This story documents one student’s struggle with an issue common among many of Doha’s youth.

I woke up to unusually loud noises around me. These were not the noises my siblings usually made every morning. This was something different. Noises I had never heard before.

“Ms. Habibah, are you awake?”

Someone was calling my name, but it was an unfamiliar voice.

“Honey, you had an anxiety attack and you fainted. You’re at the hospital.”

My eyes shot open. I saw an IV and my parents hovering over me. Gone were the picture frames I usually see when I wake up in the morning.

This was not the first time this had happened; I don’t know why I was so shocked. These types of situations tend to happen when you suffer from anxiety and depression.

“It’s going to be okay, you’re okay now,” my doctor said. Little did she know that I wasn’t okay. I haven’t been for a long time.

I told myself that this was normal. Every college student goes through a phase when they’re sick of everything and everyone. I told myself that I would get over it eventually. But then months went by and the wave of depression that engulfed me didn’t disappear as I had convinced myself it would.

When exactly would I get over this? I’m still waiting.

I still remember the day I got accepted to Northwestern University in Qatar. I was sitting in my high school psychology class and my teacher was collecting our phones to make sure we would pay attention to Freud’s eccentric theories. Right before she confiscated my phone, I received an email from the university instructing me to check the status of my application. I excused myself to go to the bathroom, only instead of going there, I rushed outside to check if I would have the future I so desperately desired.

My heart was beating so fast I could feel my veins popping out the side of my forehead. My whole body was shaking like a fish out of water.

Suddenly, it all stopped. I read “Welcome to the Class of 2018,” and all my fears slipped away. I’d made it. I thought, “I’m going to become a foreign correspondent, and I’m going ‘to give a voice to the voiceless!’” I was so content, but that momentary ecstasy didn’t last very long.

Flash forward a couple of months and it’s my sophomore year in college. I’m sitting in front of my fourth psychiatrist trying to explain to her what’s been going on. At this point, I’ve been diagnosed with everything from depression to borderline personality disorder, but I had never been given any guidance on how to deal with any of it. I was hoping Dr. Madhu Pahwa, who ran her own private clinic, would help me find a solution.

She listened intently and, when I was finally done complaining, she gave me a look of sympathy and said, “Sweetie, I’m sorry to tell you this, but you have clear-cut bipolar disorder.”

As I sat there in her office decorated with fake plants, I thought sarcastically, “Great, just another disorder to add to my resume.” I sat up straight and tried to focus. For some reason, all I could think about was the deafening sound of the clock in her office that was ticking so loudly. When I finally collected my thoughts, I asked: “What do you mean? What’s wrong with me?”

She pulled out a blank sheet of paper and a pen and began drawing parabolas. I started getting flashbacks to my treacherous algebra class in high school and a shiver went down my spine. Then and now, math frightens me.

“Well, everyone has changes in their mood. Moods when they’re happy and moods when they’re sad,” she explained, pointing to the high and low points of the parabolas. She then began drawing another set, except they were much higher and lower than the other parabolas.

“People with bipolar disorder have changes in their moods too, but in extremes. They have really high highs and really low lows, and the moods last for long periods of time,” she said. “From what you’ve explained to me, you’ve been experiencing a low for a very long time now. That’s why you get panic attacks- your emotions begin having a negative effect on your body, which you can’t control.”

My heart sunk like a heavy anchor, heading deep into the ocean where it could no longer be seen. I got out of there as quickly as I could. How could I be bipolar? “There’s no way,” I thought, and yet, I could relate to everything she had described.

For months I tried to deny it. I buried myself in work, took on a part-time job, joined student government and a couple of student clubs. “I’m normal, what I’m going through is normal,” I kept telling myself.

But every time I was in a class, I couldn’t concentrate. I began to lose my passion for journalism. I couldn’t pay attention to the central limit theorem in my statistics class, and I had no more desire “to give a voice to the voiceless.” I barely had a voice of my own.

I began to realize that burying myself in work wouldn’t change anything, I would have to work through this illness whether I liked it or not. Like a disobedient teenager admitting she was wrong to her parents, I begrudgingly accepted the fact that I wasn’t normal. I realized that I would have to work extra hard to keep my grades up, to graduate and to become a successful journalist, even though I barely wanted to get out of bed every morning.

I began taking the pills my psychiatrist prescribed me, and I immediately noticed a change. I wasn’t feeling extremely emotional all the time. I wasn’t getting any sudden spurs of energy, making me feel like running a marathon, or any sudden waves of depression, making me want to stay in bed all day. In fact, I wasn’t feeling anything at all. The pills made me numb.

The one thing I learned was that I would have to push myself to do things, even if I didn’t feel like doing them. I pushed myself to study, to ignore the urge to skip my classes, and to convince myself to go out with my friends instead of ignoring all of their messages. “Life is for the living, so live it,” as the Passenger song goes.

Of course it’s easier said than done. At times I feel the need to see Patricia Collins, health and wellness counselor at NU-Q, and discuss my ever-changing emotional state. Talking to her reminds me that I can’t just be impulsive and do whatever my emotions tell me to do. But the panic attacks still manage to catch me off-guard, no matter what I do.

Months later, I’m getting ready to go to bed. I go through my mental checklist, just as I do every night: “Journalism? Just readings for tomorrow. Sociology? Finish self-reflection. Anthropology? Brainstorm ethnography ideas.” As I was struggling to recall what assignments I had to finish for my economics class, someone stabbed me in my abdomen. Or at least that’s what it felt like.

Suddenly, I felt like my bedroom was an inferno. The idea of menopause actually crossed my mind, but then I realized that I’m only 19 and that would be impossible. The pain in my head followed, a throbbing pang. It was as if someone were banging a thick rock against my skull.

It was happening again – I was having a panic attack. “Mama! I need to go to the hospital,” I yelled, having evidently woken up my entire family at midnight on a weekday.

“Okay, but you need to change. I won’t let you go out looking like that,” she replied.

Here I am, trying to stay calm while my body feels like it is slowly catching fire and my skull is cracking open, and my mother is worrying about the potential suitors I will encounter while I’m being wheeled around the hospital. Evidently, it’s the little things in life.

As I put on a tracksuit my mother approves of, I tell myself that it’s going to be okay. Then I feel my legs quiver, and my frail body slowly descends to the hard ground. I try to think of how I’m going to wake up in time for my morning class.

As my dad carries me to his car, I silently wonder how many more times I’ll have to endure this pain. As he turns on the engine, I wonder if I’m going to survive. I look out the car window and watch Doha’s skyline slowly disappear as we make our way towards a dimly lit road.

I close my eyes and try to go through my checklist again. “Econ? I can’t even remember.”

 As the hyperventilation begins, I ask myself again: “When exactly am I going to get over this?”

I’m still waiting.

If you’re a student and you think you are suffering from depression or another mental health condition, make an appointment with counseling services at NU-Q or at QF Primary Health Care Center located in the  HBKU Student Center.