Self-diagnosis by Shiksha Dheda

             ​  Matthias Ripp CC



​Self-diagnosis

​I didn’t get a formal diagnosis.

All I know is that my arms gradually grew tired 
from brushing out the knots in my hair. 
I watched mutely
-a bystander-
as clumps of my black tresses
plummeted to the ground after being yanked 
from my head.
Every time
I finally remembered to 
brush my hair. 
Which wasn't very often.
At all. 

I don't know if I was depressed or not.

I know that I became too tired to go 
to the toilet more than twice
- sometimes once a day-
even when my lower back had a dull pain,
even when I woke up with a puffy face 
(because of protein deposits
linked to urine retention). 

I don't know if I was as depressed 
as the characters they depict in movies and books.
I didn’t feel as sadly pretty as they were. 

All I know was that I suddenly 
became constipated frequently.
Being too physically weak to push.

I don't remember if I was depressed or not. 

I do remember glancing at my teeth 
every other day.
Seeing them slowly turn an ugly yellow
(mimicking the dying yellow chrysanthemums 
in my flower pot),
feeling them move slightly out of place
-wobbling when my tongue pushed against them. 
I didn’t have the will to brush them
more than once a week maybe.

I don't think I am depressed. 

Sometimes I am unable to 
get into the shower at all. 
Every day I make the resolve
and then forget for another week or so.
The shower-head looming frighteningly
-its encased cascading waterfalls threatening 
to submerge me entirely-
not long enough to strangle me,
but long enough to weaken me further.

I don't think I was depressed. 

I sometimes didn't eat
more than once a day.
I was brutally forcing 
the morsels down my throat
-sometimes for hours on end-
 as though my body was 
rejecting nourishment. 

I don't think I am depressed. 

But sometimes,
sometimes my throat is parched 
from hours without hydration.
I cough and wheeze
and choke on air.
I still don't drink anything
(for a few more hours at least). 

I don't think I am that depressed.

I feel like a child.
One that must learn to walk.
All over again.
Almost as though I have 
forgotten how to. 

Where do I begin?

How I do start to learn how to live?

​

Shiksha Dheda is a South African of Indian descent. She uses poetry(mostly) to express her internal and external struggles and journeys, inclusive of her OCD and depression roller-coaster ventures. Mostly, however, she writes in the hopes that someday, someone will see her as she is; an incomplete poem. 

Her work has been featured (on/forthcoming) in Mixed Mag,  The Daily Drunk, Visual Verse, The Kalahari Review, Brave Voices, Glitchwords,  Versification, and elsewhere. Twitter: @ShikshaWrites

​

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