I am a University lecturer; in actual fact, I graduated with first Class. I came to the hospital on a Monday, which felt pertinent at the time. I regarded this Monday, and I wanted the illness to know that it would not be given either a dramatic entrance or a comforting stay in my soul.
The mental health doctor approached me with some majestic footwork and then sat across from me to ask why I was there. I replied, “I’m not sleeping well.”
That was true, but incomplete—like calling a flood a leak.
What I did not say was that my thoughts had become crowded. That they argued with one another long after the lights were off. That silence frightened me more than noise, because in silence, my mind spoke the loudest.
I was functioning. That is what made it confusing.
I went to work. I answered questions. I laughed when appropriate. People described me as calm, which meant I had mastered the art of appearing unbroken. No one saw the internal negotiations—how much energy it took to perform normalcy, how often I rehearsed conversations before speaking, how frequently I checked myself for signs of collapse.
The symptoms did not feel like an illness. They felt like moral failure.
I believed I was lazy because I was tired. Weak because I cried alone. Ungrateful because joy came briefly and left without explanation. I did not consider the possibility that my mind, like any other organ, could falter without permission.
During the assessment, the doctor asked questions that felt too precise. How long has this been happening?
I tried to calculate, but time had blurred. Weeks folded into months. I answered, “A while.”
There was a moment—small, almost invisible—when I stopped editing myself. I admitted to the fear that I might never feel fully present again. That even on good days, I felt slightly absent, like someone watching life through glass.
The doctor nodded. Not in agreement—just recognition.
No one rushed to fix me. That unsettled me at first. I had expected either dismissal or alarm. Instead, there was patience. Space. The quiet acceptance that suffering does not require justification.
Leaving the clinic, I felt something unfamiliar: not relief, but legitimacy. My experience had been named, not as a flaw, but as a condition—one that could be understood, managed, lived with.
I am not cured.
I still monitor my sleep. I still have mornings when my chest feels heavy for no obvious reason. But now, I write these things down. I attend follow-ups. I ask for help before the edges become as sharp as razor ends
Most importantly, I no longer argue with the fact that I am ill.
And in that acceptance, something therapeutic began—not a dramatic recovery, but a quiet, ongoing return to myself. Yes, I took my medication as I was duly prescribed. I am thankful I can return to what I love doing, lecturing and building competent electrical engineers one classroom and field contact at a time. Someday I know love will find me, but until then…let me keep sane
Written by me, a direct account of my patient
Dr Owoeye Oluwatobi Ajibola
Mental Health Practitioner
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