I eject the DVD from the player and carefully place it back in its sleeve. For the briefest of moments I wonder whether I should stop my Friends binge and make something of my day. But what would I do? I take out the next DVD from the box set and place it on the player’s tray.
A light knock on the door and mom pops her head in. “Want mangoes?”
“Yes please,” my face lights up. I love mangoes.
“I’ll bring them up for you.”
The door closes and I turn my attention back to the DVD player. I press “Play” and the well-worn machine groans noisily as it swallows the disc and gets to work.
I flop back onto my red beanbag and reach for the remote just as the familiar theme tune begins to play. So no one told you life was going to be this way. Your job's a joke, you're broke, your love life's DOA. The large flat screen now displays the main menu. I select the right audio track, English subtitles, then “Play,” and settle in for another episode.
It’s March 2015. For the next eleven months, all my days would consist of Friends and mangoes, and I’d make the most important decision of my life.
The person I was
I don’t remember much of my childhood and teenage years. But I do remember close friends remarking how “robotlike” I could be and how I reminded them of a “bull charging at a target” whenever I had my heart set on something—be it an A on a history essay or a cute boy at school. I remember being surprised by these observations and taking them as compliments. Good, I’m a determined and hardworking person.
I never saw anything wrong with this picture those who knew me best had painted of me. Not when I fell depressed in my first year of university, then again in my second—not when I had to take time off my fourth and final year because I was incapable of attending classes and writing assignments. University is more challenging than I expected and I’m lonely, I told myself, then—convinced behavior change would cure my depression—self-prescribed to-do lists, long walks, coffee with friends, and journaling.
For a while, those remedies seemed to work. Each time I found myself at the bottom of the by-now familiar pit, I’d claw my way back up and—exhausted yet exhilarated—unfailingly emerge into the light. I’ve solved depression, I’d tell myself. No, “life.” I’ve solved life.
And then, a first-class degree in hand and working a first job with an enviable salary, feeling very much on top of the world, I lost touch with reality. Mania took hold of me with a vice-like grip and at the age of 25, I was committed to a mental institute, where I’d remain for the next month and a half until my release in March 2015.
The person I wanted to be
After my release, I fell into a depression—not as severe as the ones I’d battled previously, but it lingered. I was taking medication for Bipolar Disorder Type I, which we now knew I had. But the pills did little to lift the fog. For eleven months I stayed home and binged on Friends and mangoes, scared to show my face to the world now that I was—I felt—disgraced and worthless.
But, depressed, disgraced, and worthless though I was, I did have one life-altering realisation while growing roots on that red beanbag: now is when I choose who to be for the rest of my life. Three depressions and one manic episode later, my eyes were finally open to the fact that something was wrong with the picture my friends had painted of me—the robot-bull always heading inexorably towards a target.
My life had been unbalanced. For two and a half decades, I had prioritised being a good student, then a good worker, above all else. I was driven by relentless ambition and a ceaseless desire to be productive at all times, at the expense of everything else that made life worth living—family, friends, leisurely walks, gazing at the sky, small moments of joy.
So I resolved, as I was about to rebuild my life from the ground up, to become a different person. Behavioral change, I saw now, would not suffice as a solution to my mental-health troubles—I also needed an identity reboot so I could live a more balanced life. I needed to be more than a “good student/worker.” I needed to value more things than productivity. But what.
Perhaps on account of all the Friends I was watching, I decided on relationships—friends especially—as the new cornerstone of my life. I’d still value work and productivity—they’re integral parts of me even now. But those values would no longer take centre stage. In their place would be forming and maintaining meaningful relationships. All the time and effort I used to unthinkingly pour, robotlike, into being a good student/worker, I’d now intentionally dedicate to being a good friend/daughter/partner.
And so, when I got my (second) first job as service personnel at an English language school, I prioritised being a good colleague over being the best employee, initiating coffees and meals to get to know the people I spent my days with. And though talking to teenagers petrified me, I forced myself to approach the students and practice making small talk. It was always awkward—none of it came naturally after two and a half decades of zero awareness or development of my social skills—but deciding relationships were my salvation, I stubbornly soldiered on.
It’s almost ten years later, and I’m a far happier person than I ever was. I feel I’m living a more balanced, wholesome life—a life peopled with those I care for and those who care for me. My new identity—valuing relationships above all else—is not without its downsides—I’ve come to perhaps care a little too much what others think of me. But I’ve been self-aware enough to counter that potential imbalance by also directing attention to the beautiful things in life that are in my control: making morning coffee, hitting the gym, going on long walks, meditating, and the like. On the whole, my reimagined identity has served me well.
And without that decision I made almost a decade ago, none of this would have happened. I’d still be a robot-bull charging at one target after another, blind to all the joys of life.
Choosing who I wanted to be was—and always will be—the most important decision of my life. What’s yours?
What do you think?
Eleven months and an overdose of Friends was what I needed to make the most important decision of my life. Have you made yours?
What’s the most important decision of your life?
Was it a job you didn’t take? The course you insisted on studying? Proposing to your lifelong companion? Or is it a decision you’re about to make? Are you grappling with it even now? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this with an important person in your life.
Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,
Val
Photo by Ilse Orsel on Unsplash