Who stole my Mojo? The diagnosis.

She hands me a blue ballpoint pen, while sliding the questionnaire across the dull grey particle-board desk which blends in perfectly with the fully functional, yet bland, CBD Medical Centre. I’d promised her I’d go see a doctor, the lady who took my call over the weekend when I thought I was having a heart attack. I must have known at the time that the 24/7 free medical assistance would come in handy, having small children and all. So I’d kept the large green fridge magnet just in case.

I think I’m having a heart attack, I told her. It feels like a screwdriver’s being rammed through my heart. Yes, the pain’s quite acute. In only one area. Yeah, it really hurts… No, I’m not feeling any tingles. I’m home alone with my kids. They’re two and five. Of course you can. I just turned forty. Ok. I’ll try and rest. Yes, I’ll see a doctor on Monday. Promise. I’ll go to the hospital if it gets worse. Thank you for your help.

I read the first statement. I am optimistic about the future. Never. I find it hard to be excited about something. Always. I have a hard time sleeping. Always. I have had suicidal thoughts. Occasionally… And the list went on. 

I slide the paper back once I’ve ticked the last box, not too sure how I did. 

I feel so trapped, I offer even before she’s completed doing her maths. The sudden wave of sadness leaves small pools of tears as it retreats. The silence feels heavy while she finishes her sums. She finally puts down her pen and lifts her head to deliver the verdict: You have depression, Suzanne. Quite severely. And mild anxiety.

Depression. The diagnosis packs a punch. Is this the price to pay for earning a living? To be robbed of life in exchange for a regular paycheck? Is this what I signed up for? 

Where do I even begin? Do I tell this woman that once upon a time I was told I intimidated people just by the way I walked I had so much confidence? Would she believe me if I told her I have ‘contagious enthusiasm’ as one of my attributes on my CV? Would she have any idea what it’s like working in the boys’ club?

Do you have much support? she asks instead.

My husband stays home with the children, but that’s it. Both of our families are overseas.

She turns to her computer to type some notes and prints three pieces of paper which she slides to me one by one. Here’s a script for some anti-depressants. Make sure to take them as indicated. Here’s a referral for a psychologist. There’s one in our practice if you want to try him. And here’s a script to get some tests done on your heart, just in case. In my opinion, you were having a panic attack, but go have it checked out.

Sure. Thank you. I wipe my eyes and put the papers into my handbag as I stand to leave.

Come back and see me in six weeks to check in, she suggests.

Okay. Will do.

I seal our promise with a handshake before being ushered out the door. I go to the ladies’ room to recompose my appearance. A splash of water and some make-up should do the trick. I approach the slate grey bench where three square basins sit below a row of poorly lit mirrors.

What’s goin’ on, Sue? my reflection asks, as if she’d been waiting for this train wreck. I can see a hint of ‘I told you so’ in her raised eyebrows.

I don’t know, I admit, still in a daze. I really don’t know. I look at my reflection squarely on to beg for leniency and seek guidance. I don’t know, truly.

 Her regard softens with compassion as she speaks to revive the true Suzanne she knows so well. Come on, Sue! You can beat this! You’re someone who oozes charisma and energy. You’re the big fish that small fish latch onto. You make things happens, Sue!

The reminders hit the mark. You’re right, Goddamn it! What’s going on here? I splash some cold water onto my face to snap out of this paralysis. What’s happened to me? Who’s stolen my mojo and, more importantly, how am I going to get it back? 

I rest my hands on the basin and look at my reflection squarely on to show her my mustered determination. I can do this!

Once back in the streets, I sense I’m heading back to the scene of the crime and my pace slows. Walking becomes more arduous. I pause and lift my head to meet the sun where it has managed to cut through the steely office towers. 

You can do this! I remind myself as I enter the office tower, where larger-than-life digital photos silently, yet ostentatiously, promote their contributions to society: reconciliation plans, literacy programmes and staff who care. 

I cross through the turnstiles and my breathing becomes increasingly shallow as I wait for the lift. He was looking for you, my colleague tells me once I’m back up at my desk. Oh thanks, I reply simply to feign my indifference. I sit down and mechanically go to my email inbox. Should I go find him? Maybe it wasn’t that important? Maybe he’s found what he’s looking for? Sort by sender. Sort by time. The emails reorganise themselves instantaneously but the answer doesn’t appear. Instead more questions arise like little bubbles in a bottle of sparkling water once the seal on the cap has been broken. 

Would I have been glued to my chair in fear about talking with my boss two years ago when I joined? I’d never had this problem before. Hadn’t they sought me out through an international talent search to find the best person to take their business to the next level? What’s happening to me? The screen saver appears, and with it my mind turns blue.