NEXUS
KUPU WHAKAATU / 特辑
A Difficult Pill to Swallow Eilidh Huggan I want to present you with three scenarios. So settle in, close your eyes (figuratively), and imagine the following. 1) It’s a cold morning, around mid June. You wake up to the sound of your flatmate coughing in the room next door. You sit up in bed, slightly shivering, treated to the sight of your own breath. You go to clear your throat, only to break out into your own fit of chesty coughs. Fuck. You’re sick. You knew it was only a matter of time before the late nights, poor diet, and shitty insulation caught up to you. You decide to take the day off, call in sick to work, take some Irish moss and blob out on the couch for the day. The next morning, you are woken up by your own coughing at 2am. You feel like arse, you can barely move, and you definitely can’t go back to sleep. You decide to call your GP as soon as they open and get an appointment to speed up your recovery. Success, they can see you at 2pm that day. You get to your appointment, and are diagnosed with a chest infection (probably bronchitis). You are prescribed a course of antibiotics. You rest up and take the antibiotics over the next 7 days. A week later your cough is gone, you feel almost normal again. Just don’t hīkoi up the library stairs any time soon! 2) It’s another cold morning, mid July. You wake up as you always do. Slowly, reluctantly, you don’t want to be awake. You barely slept last night. You had thoughts rushing through your head, and a constant urge to burst into tears. This has been happening for weeks, and you’re tired. So so tired. The day is no better than the night. You eat your breakfast out of habit, but you aren’t that hungry. You find yourself staring into the distance a lot, numb to any feelings. This is weird, you think. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so empty and sad? But that’s all you think. You don’t know what to do about how you’re feeling, you don’t know who to talk to, and you would be too ashamed even if you could talk about it. So you keep it quiet, dragging yourself through every day. Maybe one day it’ll be better. But you believe that this is your burden and there is nothing you can do about it. (You’re wrong about that btw, which becomes clear in scenario 3). 3) It’s another cold morning, mid July. You wake up as you always do. Slowly, reluctantly, you don’t want to be awake. You barely slept last night. You had thoughts rushing through your head, and a constant urge to burst into tears. This has been happening for weeks, and you’re tired. So so tired. The day is no better than the night. You eat your breakfast out of habit, but you aren’t that hungry. You find yourself staring into the distance a lot, numb to any feelings. This is weird, you think. What’s wrong with me? Why am I so empty and sad? Your flatmate walks into the kitchen, they ask how you’re doing, you look sad. You pull a smile, you go to say what you always say, “I’m fine,” but you catch yourself. “I’ve actually been struggling the past two weeks and I don’t know why.” Your flatmate stops making their coffee to sit next to you. They listen. They suggest making an appointment to see your GP, and they’ll go with you if you need the support. You agree, and you make the appointment together. They can see you tomorrow. Tomorrow comes and you’re nervous. You don’t want your doctor to judge you. But you are also ready to feel better. You go with your flatmate at 11am that morning. You sit and explain how you’ve been feeling to your GP. They listen. They understand. They suggest making an appointment with a psychologist, and offer you a prescription for an SSRI, an antidepressant. You leave your appointment, fill your prescription, and wait for the call from your doctor confirming your psychologist 10 N.08 / V. 55
