The Day of Shame

Part One: Depression, Möet and Chandon Bottles, and Self-Help

Lately, I had been crossing the days off my calendar before heading to sleep. It felt like the biggest accomplishment of my day. I was honest with myself. I am depressed. Clinically. I did not see why life was such a big deal.

But I was not the kind of person to commit suicide. While the psychologists charging $190 to $250 per hour might have improved the quality of my life, I could not afford them. Mental illness is a privilege of the wealthy. So, I popped every pill my psychiatrist prescribed. It was like the rainbow of pill colors.

I only socialized on the weekends with my two friends: Sarah and Caroline. During the winter months, we stayed at Sarah’s grandparents’ condo, who were snowbirds. They left Sarah their credit card. They preferred she partied at their condo safely with her friends. We all had the pleasure there of chugging Möet and Chandon bottles and eating those $25.00 chocolate bars. Sarah’s grandparents were jewellers before retiring. We all thought they were diamond smugglers, but no one said a word about it.

On one of those winter weekends, Caroline brought me a ticket to one of those self-help seminars as a gift. She was a student, still like us, although she was one year younger. So, the ticket was not for a day with Anthony or Mel Robbins. It was with a local self-help guru, Ray Sunshine. The ticket even had a color picture with his super white teeth blinging.

The self-help industry was not my thing. I had tried uttering positive affirmations, but they didn't work for me. Being depressed is an illness; it does not mean you are stuck in a rut.  Although I had to go because I knew Caroline had meant well. I would go, it was on Friday. At least, I would not be staring at the four walls of my bedroom with my parents interrupting me every few hours to make sure I was studying.

 

Part Two: The Pain of Waking Up and the Seminar

Waking up and taking a shower typically took me about an hour. Because of this, I had to set my alarm clock a couple of hours early to ensure I could make it to the seminar on time. Honestly, I just wanted to stay in bed that Friday.

The subway system was on strike again. It took me three buses to get to the event. And they were running sparsely. The event was run at a rundown 6-storey building, next to the old train station. Naturally, the elevator in the building was not working. After getting to the last floor, I was huffing and puffing. It did not take me long to find room 666.

It was one of those small rooms you’d see in a David Lynch movie. Red satin curtains, a few rows of chairs that were fake leather. Some of the chairs had cigarette holes. The floor tiles were black and white.

I saw an empty chair at the back of the room, next to an exit door. This would help with my claustrophobia, which I also have. I forced myself to smile at the few people who had already shown up. By the time I put on my winter puffer, tube scarf, earmuffs, and puffer gloves on the chair’s back, I barely had room to sit in it.

Then, unluckily, this middle-aged man sat next to me. He was one of those types who asked questions, but before you could answer him, he would reply to his own questions.

Suddenly, the room went dark. Rachel Platten’s “Fight Song” then came on.  Soon, a light turned on above Ray Sunshine, and he turned on his laptop. He projected his PowerPoint on the white wall behind him.

He started his seminar with a cliché, “You’re all here because you’ve been living in the dark. But after today, rays of sunshine will come back into your life.”

After his opening statement, I dozed off. At noon, the lights came back on, bringing back into this surreal reality that I had always called my life.

“I feel so much better, already,” the man sitting next to me said. “What about you?”

“I feel okay, hungry.”

“Would you like to have lunch? I brought extra food.”

“Thank you, but I think I need to walk and clear my head. Anyway, I’m a vegan.”

“Yes, you must have a lot to process. Ray’s words are going to be life-changing.”

 

Part Three: Oh No, The Explosion

I returned from our lunch break late. The lights were already turned off, forcing me to take a seat in the front row. I am sure I annoyed the people sitting behind me as I undressed again.

I ate at the café open in the old railway station. I had way too many carbs. So, I had to force myself to stay awake as Ray went through his PowerPoint slides. At times, I am sure I was inappropriately nodding in agreement with the words coming out of his mouth, which was the size of Steve Tyler’s, lead singer of the band Aerosmith. I also clapped when others did so. Apparently, his positivity was reprogramming our brains.

Then the unimaginable happened: I had this urge to pee. I looked at my watch, and we still had two hours to go. For some unexplainable reason, I was terrified of getting up and disturbing the audience even more. Even if I could get up, I would never go to the bathroom in this bacterial, decrepit building. I looked at my watch and thought I could endure the next two hours to get to a posh lavatory.

I kept fidgeting in my chair and criss-crossing my legs to hold it in. My breathing became shallow. I also kept telling my brain to think of something else. For some reason, I only had images of champagne floating through my head. Then, I took a candy cane out of my purse to suck on, which helped for a bit.

I could not take it anymore, I got up and as I was putting on my outerwear, the light turned on, and my bladder exploded. Pee slid down my left leg, mostly. I looked around at the faces staring at me. I did not know who was more horrified, them or me. At least, I felt the warm sunshine on my legs.

I then began to laugh hysterically. I could not stop myself.

Ray started to clap; surprisingly, so did the rest of the class.

“She is free of shame,” he yelled. “Eureka.”

The class then clapped and cheered, which I used as my moment to escape.

Walking down those stairs is when I realized that I had never felt shame for being depressed. It is society that stigmatizes people with mental health issues. They are just people with brains programmed differently from theirs. It is an ableist world.

I ordered a PickMe Up to take me back home. In the app’s notes, I put that I wet myself. And that I smelled like urine.

After a few minutes, the drive pulled up. He had his window open and had covered the seat with garbage bags. I could also smell his Vanilla air freshener, sitting down.

“Before I take you home, the deal is that you have to give me 5 stars and an amazing review. And you must give me a 20 per cent tip.”

“Deal,” I said. “Just get me home.”

On the drive home, I called Caroline. I told her that I wet myself at the seminar, but that I did feel lighter in body, mind, and spirit.”

“Cry it all out, let the tears flow out, my dear friend, there is no shame in that,” Caroline said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, “ I said quickly and hung up. I could not hold in the laughter any longer. The driver who overheard our conversation began laughing as well.

I wondered if I should tell her the real story later. Or if this is one story that I should keep to myself.”

“I haven’t laughed this much in a long time,” I told the driver.

“Me neither.”