Opening my heart in 3, 2, 1...

Indifference. Indifference to life. It can be cold, snowing, all white, a beautiful winter's morning, or it can be hot, sunny, that summer breeze, everything can be in bloom, there's no difference. Everything is gray. Your heart is pressed down. Someone is squeezing your heart. You feel pain in your chest. For no apparent reason. You just feel sad. And you want to be alone. Some days this desire is more intense, others you feel a little better. Some days you feel tired, tired of talking, of listening, of thinking, of existing. Sometimes the best thing to think about is how best to end it all. Whatever. And you easily forget what was important.

Suddenly your pulse goes from 80 bpm to 110 bpm. Your heart starts pounding inside you. You start to sweat. You feel hot. People start to get further and further away and you don't hear them anymore. You're also shaking and very scared. You need to breathe. And you need help. Something is wrong.

These were my symptoms for a few years of my life. Depression and panic disorder. I remember not being able to stop crying and not knowing what I was feeling when I was 12.

My first panic attack was when I was about 9 years old, in the fourth grade. I felt very anxious and left the class with the inspector who took me to the school laundry. I didn't want to go to the bathroom because someone might hear me vomiting. Never I threw up.

Another time it was in the mall parking lot, I couldn't get out of the car because if I threw up in front of everyone, they'd all look at me. We returned home.

When I was 12, I went on a camping trip and the "aunt" who looked after our group made fun of me. She said I was spoiled and showed me the food in her mouth so I could see what was disgusting.

At 13, I started hurting myself. It got worse in my pre-teen years because I got pimples and the pimples became wounds and the wounds became my escape valve. How I used to take pleasure in opening up the wounds with nail pliers before showering, and then there would be the gigantic guilt of why I was doing it.

I've had wounds the size of a coin on my face. Today, I've never stopped to count, but I must have more than 500 (? I have no idea, a lot) little scars all over my body. People used to ask if it was chickenpox. It took a while to find out the name of what I had always said was not normal: skin picking disorder.

And the doctors. Ah... the doctors. Therapist, psychologist, psychiatrist, homeopath, dermatologist, cosmetics specialist, etc. I used to say I felt like a leper to them.

When I was 14, I needed medication, but not for long, because I knew it could be addictive. Then I was introduced to Buddhism. This philosophy has been and still is my foundation to this day. Never has anyone said so many things that have made so much the meaning for me. I chose to stop the medication.

I grew up and little by little the depression went away. I had more treatments, especially for my skin. This helped my self-esteem a lot. And the more I saw that my skin could be beautiful, the more I had the strength to control myself.

I could go to the beach. Wear shameless shorts and feel the breeze on my legs. And not wear crepe tape all over my body so I wouldn't see and feel the wounds and poke them.

Panic disorder has also improved. But that's not something people cure. People recover. I've had a few situations recently where I've come face to face with this feeling, but today I'm conscious and I can control myself more quickly.

I haven't had that gray day in over a year. I even remember the last time. It was sunny, a beautiful day, but I preferred to stay in bed. I've never gone so long without having one of those days uninterruptedly.

It's hard to understand if you've never had these things. I myself would say that if I never had them I would never understand. But I do understand. And I understand very well, because I've been to the edge of the precipice. I know what it's like to be on the brink.

Depression is taboo. Because it's hard to understand. How can you understand a depressed person when they have everything, right? Not even the purest, unconditional love of their children can save them sometimes. Such is the power of this disease of the soul.

That's why I say it from experience. There comes a certain moment when it's needed medicine. Your physiology is unable to produce serotonin, at least for a certain period of time.

When I learned about Buddhism, I became aware of the power of my thoughts. And how much meditation could put me back on track and only I myself could put an end to it. nightmare. And that I was the protagonist of the story I wanted to tell. And so I gradually found my strength.

Many people helped me, even though they had no idea.

I confess that writing about it is liberatingbecause it's never been on the agenda. And I know that there are a lot of people out there who sometimes feel the same way but don't seem to. You would never say that someone has depression. We don't talk about it. But it's important to ask: Are you OK? Can I help you? Shall we talk? Or just give them a hug because words don't always come easily.

This text is my tribute to our Yoga colleague, Frankie, who recently left two little children and her husband.

Peace in your hearts

With love,

Cha