If l die today, my epitaph should read,
“I should die here, every inch of me should perish, every inch but one, an inch that is more and it is the only thing in the world that’s worth having, we must never lose it or give it away, we must never let them take it away from us. I hope that whoever you are, you escape this place and l hope that the world turns, and then things get better, but what l hope for most of all is that you understand what l mean when l tell you that even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, or kiss you, l love you, with all my heart, I love you.”
– Alan Moore
My name is not Nakuya Bridget, I’m not 22 years and am not a writer. Last year on the 9th of December of 2018, my then Muslim boyfriend (my mother would totally kill me if she found this out, this woman really said that even if she was dead and heard that any of us, me and my other two siblings ever married a Muslim, she would come back and haunt us ) so me hanging out with a Muslim boy is top-notch on 1,000 Ways to Die.
Getting back to the point, on the 9th of December of 2018, my then Muslim boyfriend sent this text message via Instagram to my big sister.
A few days later, l found myself in a very white movie, except this movie was real, being acted in real-time, in our very own Uganda, by a certain 22-year-old University student called Nakuya Bridget. I had heard a hodgepodge of stories of how many kids go to University with the hard-earned cash from their parents, originating from places like Masaka or Ntungamo district, or Kabale, or even Kampala itself only to be misled by Kampala/ City boys or “enjaga,” yet, when the most handsome boy in the world sent me a text message via twitter telling me he liked my twitter feed and would like to meet up, l could not help but to forget all about my church girl persona or my geek girl behaviour that had convinced me that books, code, and music were my only love and that boys were a distraction, and l was a tomboy who would never have sex until Marriage.
This was around July, of 2017, Recess term of my second year into my Software Engineering Course, at Makerere University. After inspecting his twitter feed, ‘his philosophical lines,’ ‘his vegan trends,’ ‘his suicidal thoughts,’ my reply was “yes, yes, you seem cool, let’s meet up.” Had any other boy shown any interest in me before James Hill? Yes, Sidney was a very dark, tall bloke from Eastern Uganda, doing Business Mathematics, he was a boy meant for brown khaki pants, a boy meant for beautiful floral shirts, a boy meant for mathematics and when he started sending me flirting Facebook messages in my first year of University break, I was thrown off my feet, we got together when the second semester of the First-year started, we were together for most of my last part of the first year at University but nothing serious.
Me and James Hill met on Wednesday in the year 2017, Recess term of my second year of University, my GPA was 4.1 from 3.8 that l had got in my first year of University, so brain-wise, l was doing great, church-wise, l was doing great, social media-wise, l was doing great, and by that l mean that a handsome boy l met on the INTERNET claimed to love my feed and here he was knocking on room A-13, a room that l shared with a girl, whose name l do not remember, at Olympia hostel.
James Hill was not like anything l had ever seen anywhere along my 20 years of a ‘long life.’ James had stories to tell, James was made of golden skin, James had perfect white teeth, James was lean, James stood up and danced whenever he wanted to, James told me he hated society and he was going to make his way in the world, James’s mother was a doctor, James told me that his father was dying of the AIDS and it made him sick to the stomach. James Hill stepped out for a breath of fresh air on my A-13 room’s balcony and when l stepped out to find him because l could not help the magnets pulling me from his body even when we had just met on that shimmering blue Wednesday in 2017, James Hill had a dun hill switch, blue cigarette dangling from his precious dark brown lips, James Hill puffed on his cigarette like it was the most natural thing in the entire world. The last person l had seen smoking cigarettes was my stepfather back in 2003, my mother contented with him all the time, and he told her to shut up about it all the time, the contentions would get so intense, where mother would whirl the ashtray across the room and my stepfather who we referred to as ‘uncle’ would literally slap my mother so hard for whirling his ashtray across the room, and then a whole scene would unfold where mother would scream, “Joe, sagala kumanyila mu maka gange, genda ofuyile sigala wo mu makago Ekingo,” and then my stepfather who was a retired Lt. Colonel general, would roar, “Topi, tomanyi kyendi, simanyi lwaki toyiga,” and then the hard slaps and the constant fighting back from my mother would go on until me and my two elder siblings would go and hold mother and push away our stepfather from her in vain, and he would kind of feel ashamed and storm out of the house, never returning to the house for weeks, or even months, he never made a year, he always came back. This kind of scene went on forever until around 2009 when he came back this time, he never sent anyone to the shop for a packet of sportsman or safari cigarettes, nope, this time in 2009, he took his tea, took mother out for beer, and never touched another cig in his life or my mother in a violent way like he did back then in 2003.
It was 2017, I was a fully grown girl now, but seeing James Hill standing there, leaning with his beautiful face looking at the shimmering blue swimming pool beyond the bars of my hostel room, pulling unto that Dun hill switch, really disarmed me, l admired him, this boy, same as my age, was doing something only my strong soldier stepfather had ever done, was it legal to smoke in hostel rooms at 20, 21 years of age, could l just stand there and do this thing that l had seen only my tough stepfather do?, this thing that made mama so mad back in my Kakebe days, Goddamn, I could not believe what l was looking at, l did not know what to do, so l moved close to James Hill, rested my arms unto the metal bars of my hostel room balcony and said: “oh, you smoke!” He said, “yeah, l do, and l hate how people try to make me feel bad because of what l do, what l like, and so l don’t usually hide it from people l want to be close to, that’s why l decided to smoke the first-day l saw you, so you can know upfront. Look, Bridget, if you hate it, tell me, and l won’t ever smoke again in your presence, and if you hate me too, tell me and l won’t ever show up here ever again.” l had heard stories of wolves in sheep’s clothing but l definitely loved this wolf. I had never smoked weed or anything in my life until l met James Hill on that shimmering blue Wednesday in 2017, but when we got back into the room, from the balcony, and James pulled out a bag of weed, l acted like l had been smoking all my life, and so he got out a 1.000 shilling note, and the white raw rizla rolling papers and rolled us a joint, my first joint. That Wednesday, we talked about how the earth was flat, we talked about his love for Manchester United and my differing love for Arsenal, l was never a talker but this particular Wednesday, l suddenly turned into Trevor Noah, we later went out unto the balcony and lay down on the floor, he played me his favorite songs, and l played him my favorite songs, time was moving faster than usual, l was in another world, l was laughing with James, James was laughing with me, we were happy, l was high for the first time in my life and l did not want him to ever leave my balcony, my side, my room, my space, l wanted to hold this boy hostage forever.
I never touched a cigarette for all the times me and James Hill hang out on my hostel room balcony at Olympia hostel, or even when he took me to see the sea at Botanical Gardens in Entebbe for the first time. Nope, l admired James for doing grown man things like smoking cigarettes but l had it in me that it was not a thing for ladies, ladies with a holistic background like mine, nope, l would stick to the weed, “I thought.”
I think recess term of my second year of university was the best time of my life honestly, l don’t know if l will ever recover the thrill and brilliance of that time, James Hill had asked me to be his girlfriend on a beautiful day in July, after a couple times since we had first met on that one shimmering blue Wednesday and never in my life had a boy thought me worthy of being his girl, so for James Hill to sit there, at the edge of my narrow hostel bed in July and say, “hey Bridget, l like the time l spend with you, l enjoy talking to you, listening to music with you, and if you don’t mind, l would like you to be my girl,” it threw me far away into other dimensions.
In childhood, back in 2003, seeing those scenes of my stepfather slapping my mother across the face, l turned into a boy, l made it a point to be a part of the boy’s only football team in Kyazanga village, my kind of dressing was shorts and shirts always, and am so glad that my breasts cooperated, l had a bare chest like until my primary seven class, so l played defense or even striker sometimes on the boy’s only team, shirtless in my purple khaki shorts, until l was sent off to Maryhill High School, Mbarara in 2009 for my next stage of life, for my O-levels.
To me, being like them, being their friend, “being a boy,” secured me a “slap less future,” a future where no boy or man would ever see me as another woman they claimed to love, only to prove their manhood on me through blows, slaps, and roars. And so for James to think l was ‘girl’ enough even when l never wore a dress or skirt until forever, l could not speak, l was drowning in an ocean of Joy of knowing that you were wanted, an ocean of someone figuring you out, looking beyond your shabby hair, and knowing there was a little girl in there who has been scared of men all her life, a girl who thought she was a boy, only good for academia and proving how smarter than the boys she could be, a little girl that never dreamed of hearing such words coming out of a boy’s mouth, a very handsome boy whose mother was a doctor.
James was my first boyfriend, James loved me like it was the movies. He made me mixtapes, he read me his favorite lines from books that he would currently be reading, he brought me shorts for gifts, he showed me the ocean, he showed me his tears, places far away from the small world l knew, he showed me the alchemist, he taught me everything about sex, he switched off his phone whenever l was with him so l could get his full attention, he taught me how to talk deeply with another human being, he taught me how to lie down on balcony floors and watch the stars, he taught me how to be naked to the soul, how to put my Armour down, he made me forget the boy l thought l was, he loved me enough to reveal the girl in me, he laughed with me enough to bring out the woman in me. And he did all this to me, while in my trousers, while with my hair messed up, while l was in my T-shirts, with no make-up on, while l was a tomboy. James was the first boy to ever love me.
Recess ended, my second year of University was almost ending, I was sure James Hill had my heart in the photograph in his pocket. James Hill never ever kissed me without first asking if he could kiss me, James Hill was my first real relationship, but for James, the city boy, I think he had already broken a few hearts in his short life of 21, and he knew that kissing and touching each other’s privates parts was not all that made a 20-year-old girl and a 21-year-old boy stay together forever. To me, every time James slipped his short nailed brown fingers into my sex, nibbling at my ear, whispering “my lady, my baby,” the sky seemed to be falling on to us, the time passed quickly, through his fingers l had entered another world, l felt dreamy, yet wide awake, peaceful, and contented. There was no better heaven, l wanted James Hill to do this to me until Armageddon, but James Hill began speaking about sex, James Hill began saying things like ‘for two people to really have a connection, they must have sex, l was confused, why couldn’t he just be contended fingering me, ‘l loved it,’ sex before marriage was for sinning girls who forgot what their mothers told them about the fast-moving AIDS killer that kills Makerere University graduates like flies and however much James asked for it, l would not fall for his trap, l loved James so much l did not understand how he could not wait for me until ‘our wedding night.’
James got more busy with school, his phone usually away from him every time l called him, l was beginning to like the way Kevin’s Rwandan shaped nose looked on his well-shaped face, l was thinking less and less of James Hill, hating how of all the boys, he asked for sex, ‘how could he? l thought he loved me.’ I always knew that things fall apart but this was different, we had our first breakup and James Hill said via text, ‘No wonder, l met you on the INTERNET, what did l expect.’ I read more than ever that semester, l smoked so much weed l do not know how l didn’t lose my mind then, but l remember feeling the weed was not enough, Kevin was fingering every night but not deep enough to cover the hole James Hill had left on my heart, so l went downstairs to the hostel canteen and bought a Dun hill switch, l wanted to feel exactly how it felt watching him leaning over the balcony bars, looking into the blue shimmering swimming pool, my first time puffing on a cigarette, so l smoked that Dun Hill switch in hope of being near to a lost first love that loved to smoke cigarettes. First, it was one, next two, next three, l got smoking buddies, every time a sea of emotions of his golden skin next to my pale freckled skin on my narrow bed in July would engulf me, l shut down with another cigarette.
Suddenly, l was a part of the cool kids that knew the drug dealers around Kikoni, the cool kids that smoked cigarettes in their hostel rooms, the cool kids that cut Calculus 1 class. I was becoming everything l used to criticize in the so-called ‘name of love,’ in the pretext of missing him, and that smoking took the pain away. 2017 ended and it was 2018 now, my grades were still as good but for the first time in my education career, l got a retake in my Calculus 1 module, it wasn’t because l was not smart, but because of the increased missing of classes and the increased smoking that l was engaging in, but l just laughed it off with my new crew of ‘cool friends,’ who smoked all day and cared less for school. Out of nowhere, James Hill texts me in 2018, telling me that he was sorry how we ended and he needed to talk to me, James Hill is my chaos and he knew that at the back of his mind, l always knew that l should stop and not go in too deep but l didn’t, l said yes to meeting up with him, and on seeing him, James Hill was a broken vessel, broken pieces that were destined to cut into me too eventually.
The day l met with him after the breakup in 2018, he sat across the room, indicating that he would never touch me or suggest anything like that unless l gave him permission to do so, this made me admire this devil of a boy even more, while he sat there, he told me of how he has been working in the family hospital since his father was very ill with the AIDS, he said it with such sad eyes that l forgave him forever leaving, forever coercing me into sex, I did not know what else to say except to move slowly beside him, kissing him passionately, calling him baby, turning him blue, making him do all the dirty things men do to women, so he could feel better, and yet still no sex… After this reunion, breaking up and getting back together with James Hill became a norm, it’s like we were scared of being with each other because there was so much fire between us, yet we couldn’t be away from each other for so long either, and every time he would leave me or every time l left him, l would smoke more and more packets of cigarettes with more marijuana cigarettes that l purchased from Downtown Kamwokya, l would smoke until l felt numb to my bones with dizziness, it made me feel closer to him in a way, basically, l could keep my pride by never picking up the phone to call him and telling him how much l missed him, my ego kept intact while my sanctity got menaced by addiction. My life continued down this road for the rest of 2018, l stopped going to church, l stopped communing with anyone from home and they let me be because of the autonomous nature l had always displayed hence buying their trust that l would never go down any rabbit hole like the one l was currently going down under, everyone at home really trusted me to be such a good girl, my mother used even to brag to her friends back in Kyazanga that her youngest daughter was going to be a nun.
l moved away from Olympia Hostel after my roommate complained to the hostel’s custodian that l had become unbearable, smoking weed all the time, strange people knocking at our door as early as 4 am in the morning every other day asking me if l had a joint or cigarette they could use, that she was scared for her life. Mr. Reuben, an old man who had a reputation for being interested in all the girls that stayed at Olympia hostel, had a huge stomach, a funny accent and quick hands with girl’s booty’s, he was the hostel’s custodian and l remember how all the stories l had heard about his philandering came to be true in my situation. My roommate had taken pictures of my un rolled bag of weed and packet of Dun hill cigarettes and taken them to the custodians office while l was away at Campus, on arriving back to hostel in the hostel’s shuttle, the administrator’s and custodian’s office is right at the entrance of the hostel, and so as soon as l came in on this fateful cold day in August, Mr. Reuben called me to his office, he had been waiting for me, he showed me the pictures and in such a serene way that chilled me to the bone said, “Bridget, l thought we were friends, l thought you were a good girl, is this what you have been doing behind my back,” l had never thought about my smoking habit ever being talked about by an adult and this confrontation made me see a picture of my mother saying, “Bridget, l thought we were friends…” l said nothing to Mr. Reuben and in an uninvited lucid dream, l heard Mr. Reuben say that my kind of behaviour definitely resulted into immediate expulsion from the hostel and that they were going to call my parents to solve my hostel fee issues since the semester had just started and they had paid the entire 950, 000 shillings, l suddenly woke up from the lucid dream when l heard the word ‘parents’ and as if possessed by demons started talking, “Mr. Reuben, please, NO, No, no, l will do anything, l will quit smoking, l won’t ever smoke again, as long as you don’t call my parents, please sir.” Mr. Reuben said. “Bridge, don’t worry, you know we are friends,” and while saying this, his bulging hands were stretching towards my waist, “you know l have always loved your figure.”
I moved away from Olympia hostel into a hostel that was known as the hostel where drug dealers stayed and basically started circulating weed to the cool kids that l had left at Olympia hostel who were dead scared of stepping foot at ‘West land hostel,’ where the source of the weed was, and l could not get enough of it, kids were giving me 10, 000 shillings for joints l had purchased directly from the drug dealers at 2, 000 shillings, l would lie to those who l knew were rookies to smoking weed that what l had was high grade and it would even rise to 15, 000 shillings whenever l said such bull shit. I was at it, school was becoming my first wife on top of a new chick every passing day, l was in this movie scene that l was sure was going to end in some characters shot down, dead on the ground, yet, l never paused for a moment, posing for picture after picture, acting scene after scene until there was no more film to waste.
So late last year, December 2018 at the end of my first semester of my final year of University as a Software Engineering student, when Razak sent this text message via Instagram to my big sister, it was no surprise of a life lived so fast, full of folly and the endless forfeitures of a heartbreak hotel of a broken girl, full of broken dreams with her dun hills rusting away in her white blood-stained ashtray.
My mother, a single mother of three, with the help of my stepfather, struggled to send me to University and l can only imagine the throes she felt when she received this call, “Your daughter has run mad from Marijuana smoking, she has been admitted to Mulago Psychiatric ward.” I had massively disappointed her, am sure it hurt her to her lair and l expected to be reprimanded, to be cast away from her love. Therapy is gold in Uganda and so my Mother and my big sister could not afford a regular therapist to help me through my deathly hollows, what l had left was either my friends who l used to smoke with and laugh with and share my time with or my mother and my big sister who l had assiduously ignored in pretext of being so busy doing school projects. After knowing that they could not afford to take me to therapy, they joined forces and without any squalls or contentions, helped me setup exercising schedules, helped me wake up and go to school for my final year classes even when l loathed myself to the bone, and hated University even more because l did not want to ever see my old friends who had become inconspicuous the moment they heard about my adversity. And as time went by and l was getting better and better, l kept asking myself “do l need to give my mother and big sister anything in return for what they have done for me?” “what can l do to repay them for what they are doing for me?,” but all these questions sublimed as l watched my mother smile more and more when l began going to school on my own will, my mother and sister went to church and thanked God, it was like it was them winning every time my life became better, it’s like they were saying “you don’t need to give us anything in return for our kindness sweetie, just become better!” Can you imagine that! they had given me so much, yet they were most happy when l got better, my heart really broke into myriad pieces of love, it felt like l was being kissed a very sweet kiss and the kisser was not demanding a kiss-back. “It was a kiss that demanded no kiss-back,” and to me, this was the best lesson on Kindness that I ever got from my Mother.
As l write this, it’s August of 2019, l just finished my final year examinations in July, and they were great, l passed all my test examinations with A’s because of my mother and big sister pushing me around even when l had no vitality left in me. As l write this, it has been a monumental eight months since l stopped smoking and life feels really grand. Perfect 23 year old? Not even close. I’m a recovering weed and cigarettes addict, schizophrenia and food addict and I’m not afraid to admit it.
Since last year December until this month of August, l feel like l have gone through all the emotions, like I’ve seen both sides now, that you can’t believe there is a time l decided to end it all, that there were moments in my journey when l questioned myself, if stopping to smoke was the worst choice l ever made, l remember the months like January, February, March, earlier this year, how I would pace the house, thinking that if l did not get a cigarette puff, l would really die the next moment, l remember all the amount of spit l was producing in my sleep because of the side effects of the anti-depressants like Citalopram, Risperidone and the benzhexol that my irregular therapist from Mulago psychiatric ward prescribed for my diagnosed severe anxiety and depression that had become my new home as a result of quitting the drugs, l remember the days my Mother told everyone that l was sick with Ulcers in April, so that when l started opening up about my Journey on my blog and most of my social media platforms in May, talking about how l had experienced a schizophrenic episode back in 2018 that had left me a mad woman for a whole three days, l remember the stinging words of my mother when she found out what l had started doing, “Do you know what that will do to our family?” “Do you know what associating yourself with such a thing at your age could do to your future!” “You ungrateful fool, we protected you and ourselves the entire time you were healing, telling everyone who asked about you that you were sick with ulcers, and now you are there opening your big mouth, mbu social media social media, kale mwana gwe sifunyemu, what do you know about life, huh, blogging about how you used to smoke weed and how you ran mad, am really disappointed in you Bridget, you will never get a job in future if you keep spoiling your name…”
l respect my Mother so much that l said not a single word while she erupted about the posts l was making on the INTERNET about my journey through recovery. I remember how after my Mother was done cutting me with her words, how I simply blurted out, “But mum, all these things that am talking about are my truth and l have recovered from that which controlled my life for the past four years, and l can’t erase my history, l do not care for a job or anyone’s reputation, am so sorry Mother but am going, to tell the truth about my journey, so no other kid ever feels like they are alone or not worthy of help, matter of fact, l never want to work for anybody else my entire life, l want to be a writer.”
A few days before this incident of me starting to write about my journey of how l had beat Schizophrenia, of how l had thrown away my drug addiction, of how l had gotten through my depression and anxiety, of how l was ready to say my truth without holding back anything, l had watched the movie V FOR VENDETTA. V for Vendetta is a 2005 dystopian political thriller film directed by James McTeigue and written by the Wachowskis (the same writers of one of my favorite films: The Matrix) based on the 1998 DC/ Vertigo Comics limited series of the same name by Alan Moore and David Lloyd. The film is set in an alternative future where a Nordic supremacist and neo-fascist totalitarian regime has subjugated the United Kingdom. Hugo Weaving portrays V, an anarchist freedom fighter who attempts to ignite a revolution through elaborate terrorist acts, and Natalie Portman plays Evey, a young, working-class woman caught up in V’s mission, while Stephen Rea portrays the detective leading a desperate quest to stop V.
V for Vendetta has been seen by many political groups as an allegory of oppression by government; libertarians and anarchists have used it to promote their beliefs. David Lloyd stated: “The Guy Fawkes mask has now become a common brand and a convenient placard to use in protest against tyranny – and I’m happy with people using it, it seems quite unique, an icon of popular culture being used this way.”
I recall the night l watched this film so clearly, l was so tired and confused with life, l was going through the emotions of having survived and how much l wanted to be an advocate for others to know that it’s possible to recover, that sometimes when you’re in the thick of the pain, it’s hard to believe that it will ever change. Yet it does, and it does not take forever, that there is hope for us all. And this scene comes on, Evey the young, working-class woman caught up in V’s mission, how V trapped her in an imaginary cell/ prison, Evey was kept here being tortured by her captors, asking her to tell them secrets and there is this woman character Valerie who sent her letters, whose ending was
“I should die here, every inch of me should perish, every inch but one, an inch that is more and it is the only thing in the world that’s worth having, we must never lose it or give it away, we must never let them take it away from us. I hope that whoever you are, you escape this place and l hope that the world turns, and then things get better, but what l hope for most of all is that you understand what l mean when l tell you that even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, or kiss you, l love you, with all my heart, I love you.”
After Evey read this, she cried and she was so touched by the love and courage of this woman far away from her cell, yet she still felt her presence, she cried and the next time her captors came to torture her looking for answers, she was ready for death, her hair had been cut off, she had lost everything, but now, she had the only thing in the world that’s worth having. According to V, her Apocryphal captor, Evey the one she had chosen to assist him on his mission, had passed the test, she had killed all the fear in her entire being and then Evey could not believe that it had all been a hoax, that since day one of her capture, she could have walked out of the cell. She cried at the thought of being free, stood under the rain and let herself go, embracing her new self that had no fear left in her. This scene me made cry profusely, it washed away all the doubt that l had in my heart about how l was going to use my voice to raise mental health awareness, it made me want to use my imagination more, it made me realize that l did not need to stay where l was, it made me know that sometimes we have bigger missions than our parents, friends, or sisters can see. “Use your imagination, do you have to stay there?”
The credits were rolling, tears in my eyes and it hit me that maybe the battles of life are best fought without Armour and without weapons. That maybe life gets really good and interesting when we remove the defenses and walk out unto the battlefield stark naked. The next day after watching V for Vendetta, l cut my hair off just like Evey’s / ‘Natalie Portman’ hair had been cut off, bald, and l felt this wave of all the years that drugs had stolen from me start to happen all over again, l had crooned unto my big sister for all the six/ seven months since December, 2018, l was sure none of my friends would love me anymore after knowing how l had run mad and walked Kampala streets almost naked, how I ate myself into another addiction as a way of desperately finding something to replace my craving for cigarettes and marijuana cigarettes, how I turned from 58kgs to 65kgs in just a period of 3 months because the nature of anti-depressants is that they make you bloated and my food disorder was not making any matters better, but it was May now, a whole six months of going through all these dark emotions, wanting to end my own breathing, l had just seen this beautiful image of fighting for one’s freedom even when no one believes you can do it, and l had just cut all my hair off, so l purchased a V for Vendetta T- shirt, woke up in the morning, put it on and went over to the only girl l knew would be happy to see me with no judgment.
l was 65kgs now, hated my body, hated myself, l feared that if any of my friends would see me now, they would say, “she is no longer pretty, she is fat and ugly.” But l had a new energy now, so l copied this movie ( V for Vendetta ) unto a CD, wrote a letter and put a favorite book l had been reading back in March in a brown parcel and when l reached Delia’s hostel room, room 90 at the topmost floor of Miriam Hostel, my V for Vendetta T-shirt did nothing to fuel my confidence, l felt more fat than l had ever felt, but l was at her door, it was 7:30 am in the morning, my heart was giving up on me, and l simply dropped the brown parcel outside her door, l did not have a phone at the time, thanks to Kampala thieves around Pioneer Mall, so l simply laid my heart out there, and said, “here is me being honest with you about what has been happening to me in the past six months, this is why l have been hiding away from you, hold my heart for a while, blah blah.”
I had shut down all my social media platforms back in December of 2018 in a heretic schizophrenic episode where l could see every text saying, “people who smoke are definitely going to hell,” I could see all texts, tweets, Instagram posts calling me out for all the bad things l had done in the past, that l deserved death, l could often feel like everyone was going to see that l was hearing voices, that l was mad, that l was ‘bewitched’ if l ever posted anything up on my twitter or my Instagram or blog, l was scared to death of it all, the INTERNET, so l shut it down, with a little more push and advise from the therapist l was seeing at the time, but it had been six months now, and suddenly this felt ridiculous. Sure l was sober and out of hiding, and I’d been lucky enough to end up with a mother and big sister who did not cast me away when they found out l had been hooked unto drugs for almost all my life as Software Engineering student at Makerere University, who helped me recover, who helped me when l would start screaming out of nowhere that there were ghosts under my bed at night.
But by denying my past, I’d isolated myself. I was still lonely, and a bit bored. So l shed my armor and waved my white flag and hoped Delia would do the same. I heard myself writing out my first Instagram post on the 22nd of May of 2019, since the 10th of December, 2018 saying in the caption, “My guns for spreading the word bout mental health are not ready but done waiting. Am cocking that shit the way it is.” Literally, l was cracking this shell of hypocrisy that society has built around us, the shell of your own Mother helping you through recovery and when it’s your turn to tell your truth, your story, she erupts, “we help your drug-addicted head ass, and this is how you repay us, you kids are going to kill me, what will people think when they hear that you ran mad because of enjaga.” l was cracking this shell and l was saying, “Listen, l want you to know that I’m a recovering cigarettes, weed, schizophrenia, and food addict. I’ve been arrested because of those struggles but l survived, l want to tell you this because when you are in the thick of the pain, it’s hard to believe that it will ever change. Yet it does. And it does not take forever.”
I had not got any reply from Delia yet and l was dying with anxiety to know if she had got the brown parcel or not, my first post on Instagram since my breakdown in December 2018 got quite good feedback, all my friends who l had been hiding away from commenting on the post saying things like;-
And that’s how l pulled out my old dirty computer that l had thrown away in a heavy sense of an old self, in a fleeting moment of sadness and a heavy heart full of hatred, after my schizophrenic episode back in December, l had literally lost my job at the tech startup, l had forgotten how to code too. Experts don’t really understand why it happens, but the cognitive decline is apart of the schizophrenia disease. I could not do things that l used to love doing anymore, like watching TV because it always appeared like the people in the TV were pointing fingers at me, so l could not watch movies, l could not read any books and the first l watched was V for Vendetta in those dark six months, and after l cut my hair off, it felt like l was Natalie Portman/Evey, like all my fear of what people would think or say about my past, had gone through the rain, l was caught up in V’s mission, an anarchist freedom fighter, who attempts to ignite a revolution through elaborate true speech about what l had been through, how it had almost broken me in half, how it made me throw myself off the second floor of my sister’s apartment in desire of death in place of the horrible cruel life that the hallucinations and voices in my schizophrenic mind were feeding me, how I had survived it all, l wrote down my story, or rather, l started writing down my story, tweet by tweet, post by post, blog post by blog post.
I made/make Instagram posts of this kind;-
I began sharing this kind of message on my medium blogging platform, in form of posts on my Instagram account, l tweeted about it on twitter, shocking many of my followers, but lots more wanted to cry with me and tell me their stories. I started getting messages from some of my friends l had even known for years but had never opened up to me.
For example, look at this conversation l had with a friend l had attended my A-levels with, but had gone off to do her Law Degree at Strathmore University in Kenya. It had been over a year since we last talked and so after l started writing about my journey, she texted and this is what we talked about, and guys, this is one of the reasons we need to raise our voices on mental health, this is why we need to tell our stories without fear, this is why we need to talk to our friends, to our children, our neighbors, our family members more, this is why we need to speak up.
Delia finally got back to me and she understood, she has been of immense help that l do not regret putting on that V for Vendetta T-shirt in May, going with all my bones shaking up to her hostel room and dropping off that brown parcel. I was sick and tired of all the crammed little captions l usually send out on my social media, an almost University graduate, having experienced this huge harsh reality, l had found myself in a situation where all l needed was a hand of love, a hand of kindness, someone to come out and say that yes, it’s possible to quit smoking without going down the grave, someone to tell me that it’s okay not to be okay, someone to tell me that it’s okay to change your mind at 22, that you are not your University degree, that you are not your family’s reputation, that you are not your friends, that are not your past, that Mental illness is not a disease for ‘rich kids,’ for ‘spoilt rich kids,’ that mental health is ‘not a white people thing,’ that it’s okay have no more energy left in you to go to school anymore, that Africa is a continent whose best language is silence, but the truth is many African countries are struggling with high suicide rates, for which there are no simple explanations. However, one thing is evident: There is a lack of professional help and comprehensive research into the causes. According to the World Health Organization (WHO), however, Uganda is not the only African country struggling with high rates of suicide. In Nigeria or Ivory Coast, the figures are even higher than in most European countries, the US or China, with more than 15 suicides per 100,000 inhabitants per year.
It’s like a dam from deep down had broken, l had been awakened by my deep-rest in that came to me in form of depression, and l was looking into the system that had been given me and l had something to say, l wrote essay per essay, each post was longer than the one before. I finished my final year exams in June of 2019 and l went straight to FEMRITE ( Uganda Women Writer’s Association ) signed up to be a member, took my essays that had l had been writing about my journey with drugs, the recovery from hearing voices, hallucinations, the depression and the anxiety, the suicide attempts back at my sister’s apartment, the food addictions, l wrote it all down, it’s like l was pulling thorns out of my entire being with every story l shared on my social media, l felt a new wave of hope for someone who may be out there crumbling down thinking they were alone in this big wave of social media where everyone is ‘talking’ but no one is communicating, we barely knew each other, but we saw instantly that we were in this together. The first few times of me starting to write about my journey were tough, first off dealing with my family saying what a disgrace l was to put out myself like that, but these girls and boys were sending me direct messages telling me how freeing it felt having someone be so truthful about something that leaves me in a position to be loved or to be loathed, to be disgusting even, at that point in my life l was desperate to do something meaningful outside of my home and family, my University studies, my old self, but no one would have it in my family.
But guess what, l had my V for Vendetta spirit, l had my passion, l had my God, l had Anne Lammot, and l quote, “WE WRITE TO EXPOSE THE UNEXPOSED.”- Anne Lammot.
Next l joined the Lantern Meet of Poets, this is now the end of July of 2019, everyone at home is yelling at me to get a job, ‘that me spending all my time in my room reading all those silly books and watching all those silly movies and exposing myself on social media, about how l used to do drugs and how l ran mad was not going to take anywhere.’
But l was kind of tired of trying to figure out machines, l was tired of trying to code, l needed a human connection, l needed to be around poets, so every Monday evening at 5:30 pm, l was at FEMRITE for readers writers club, every fortnight, l was at the Uganda Museum for the Lantern Meet of Poets, l was a different girl around home, l was not no longer locked up in my room now, no, l was bathing, getting dressed up to go for important writer’s club meetings, l was not asking for ‘their’ money, l was eating my writing, every time anyone said a word to me about what l was doing with my life while everyone of my peers was out starting at a job after their final year exams, l told them l was writing a memoir about my University experience and my experience with Mental Health, every time everyone asked me ‘what l do,’ I told them l was a writer, and just like that, l found myself writing beautiful poem after beautiful poem, l did not ‘fear’ my computer anymore, the Lantern Meet of Poets editorial assistant sent me an en email on the 7th of August of 2019, asking me to write an article for their August issue, how could this true, is this writing thing giving me my life back, is this writing thing starting to take shape?
Writing this article makes want to cry, reading it makes me think of how losing that job at the tech startup made me have nightmares for days, hallucinating that if l did not have a job, l was really ruined, but writing out my story every day, and feeling a sense of connection to even one reader makes me think, ‘take that programming job, l didn’t want to be another cog plugged in the machine world anyway. Does one get standing ovations for empathy programming a computer?’ I think not.
I found my calling. The more l opened my heart, the more convinced l became that life is equal parts brutal and beautiful. Both are woven together so tightly they can’t be separated. Life is brutiful. Sharing that truth is what makes us feel less alone and afraid, it took a long time, but l finally realized that my acceptance of myself, my past, my truth, my community and my faith, my family, my friends, and my dreams, are the only protection l need. They are my life and l am its center: naked and honest and sober and broken and imperfectly perfect. A work in constant progress. My name is Nakuya Bridget, it’s the year 2019, l turned 23 years on the 27th of July, am a WRITER.
I went through so much pain with my mental health last year and the past few months, that if l did not have the selfless kindness of my mother and my sister, l could have finally acted on the thought that l had so many times, “no one cares for me, no one cares if am okay, maybe l should just kill myself!” and since therapy is gold in my country, l have decided to start a mental health campaign on all my social media platforms which include:-
Twitter: https://twitter.com/tinybitomadness
Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/
Medium: https://medium.com/@tinybitsofmadness
all under the brand name “TINYBITSOFMADNESS” with a motto: “Imagine if everyone was cared for, even the mentally ill.” The goal of this campaign is to reach as large a community of those who suffer from mental health issues in silence to help share experiences and stories so that digitally and faster, we are able to help each other as a community.
I don’t know how big or how small this campaign will solve any of the mental health issues that l intend to tackle but my mother and my big sister have taught me a lesson for life about kindness, it is a kiss that does not demand a kiss-back and as a society, let’s all hold each other’s hands in the most little, most priceless ways and do the best we can to be kind to each other.