Former TVNZ journalist Jehan Casinader’s new book on depression

As an award-winning television journalist, Jehan Casinader had a lot to celebrate. But his success masks a secret: a deep fight against depression. In this excerpt from his new book This Is Not How It Ends, Casinader explains how things got dark and how the power of storytelling helped him survive.

The hotel rooms are full of shadows. I’ve stayed in hundreds of them during my time as a reporter, and while life on the road sounds glamorous, it’s generally the opposite, especially when you’re down. At night, feeling tired and exhausted, I often found myself trapped inside a golden cage full of KitKats. In the silence, it was easy for self-destructive thoughts to take over. On a business trip to Wellington, that happened in a way that I had never experienced before.

I was staying at the Rydges Hotel. Room 1610 had a balcony with a stunning view of the CBD. From there, I could see the flashing lights on the Beehive. I was able to see the TVNZ newsroom, where I began my career as a journalist, a place that was special to me. I was able to see many of the landmarks, restaurants, and parks that I had fond memories of. The view was perfect. In fact, it seemed like the perfect place to end my life.

I was not surprised to find myself standing on the balcony, my hands gripping the railing. Depression had gnawed at me for over three years. I had written many stories about people who got over their suicidal thoughts and used to believe that I could do the same. But I also interviewed enough grieving family members to know that not all of them come out of depression alive. Maybe I was one of those people. Maybe he wasn’t strong enough to survive. But the funny thing about suicide is that you can always do it later. Perhaps depression is the only challenge in life that offers procrastinators an advantage.

I stepped away from the railing and called my best friend Tommy, who lived in Wellington. She came to the hotel and closed the curtains so I couldn’t see the balcony, and she made two cups of tea. I threw one of them on my bed. We sat in silence for a while. During the past year, we had had regular conversations, often many times a day, about my suicidal thoughts. I knew that the amount of time and energy that Tommy put into supporting me was taking its toll. But if our roles had been reversed, I too would have been fighting for his recovery. When Tommy left the hotel later that night, he knew I had calmed down enough to be safe.

Before I went to bed, he texted me: “Hey. I’m so glad to be there for you tonight. I miss being that person to you now that we live in different cities. I wanted to say what I said about brave. I hope you can sleep well. I’ll call you tomorrow. “

The next morning, I found myself hiding behind a pillar outside the Te Papa museum, along with our cameraman, Andrew, hoping to surprise and hunt down the Minister of Immigration, who had been avoiding me. We were doing a story about the government’s racist refugee policy, which discriminates against refugees from Africa and the Middle East. Five months later, that policy was removed, in part due to my reports. I was only able to produce that story because I survived the night before.

I believe that we set ourselves up for failure by trying to live without suffering. Western medicine tends to operate under the presumption that things must be “fixed” or “cured.” We hope someone will tell us that they can take away all of our pain. In fact, we believe that life can only “get better” if our pain disappears completely. That is so unrealistic. Not all physical pain can be erased; sometimes it can only be managed. The same goes for mental anguish. Sometimes we just have to find a way to live with it, giving ourselves the best possible quality of life. We have the ability to endure great amounts of pain, much more than we realize.

Before the depression, I had a childlike sense of wonder. Even as an adult, I was easily excited by simple pleasures like taking a hot cake from the oven, collecting pinecones in a forest, or watching a bird build its nest. I bought Christmas lights from The Warehouse and kept them hanging around my apartment living room all year long. For me, the world was a bright place and I chased every flash of light that caught my eye.

My curiosity also fueled my work life. It helped me build a powerful identity for myself as a journalist. I was a storyteller. I was a listener. I was a traveler. I was an investigator. I was able to solve problems and introduce people to new ideas.

When I was in my twenties, depression robbed me of that identity and presented me with a new costume, one that didn’t fit me. It was hot and heavy, and I could barely move with it, but I felt like I had to use it. I was not enjoying my job. I didn’t care so much about the stories he told. The lifestyle that once brought me satisfaction – traveling, talking, and tweeting – made no sense. I struggled to answer the phone. I felt distant from my friends and family. Little by little, the depression dismantled the framework that held me together. My mental anguish was not just part of my identity; became my only identity. This was the character that I thought I would have to play for the rest of my life.

“Depression” is the word our society has chosen to describe a particular type of human experience. However, the idea that I had a mental disorder did not help me. In fact, it left me defenseless. I believed that an illness controlled me, so I thought that my decisions did not matter (nor could they). That “disease” became a self-fulfilling prophecy. The more depressed he thought he was, the more depressed he was. The more I worried about becoming suicidal, the more the idea of ​​ending my own life attracted me.

Over time, it was astonishing to realize that my depression was largely the product of a story that he had written for me. He had built a plot about a broken character who would eventually end his life to escape his suffering. As the author of that story, he had the power to claim it. I could rewrite my past. I could reinvent my character. I could write a more hopeful plot. I could stop trying to control my ending. Through the process of storytelling, I was able to find meaning in my suffering, even if I couldn’t erase it.

Some people will be outraged at this idea. I can hear them yelling, “Are you telling me that my depression is not real? How do you know that my brain is not broken?” And that’s exactly my point. We do not know what is happening in our brain. Mental anguish takes many forms and affects each of us in unique ways. I believe that clinical depression exists and I know that for some people, a diagnosis and medication will save their lives. If you fit into that group, I’m happy. But for others, including myself, the medical approach to mental anguish has been an abject failure. To stay alive, we must think beyond diagnostic labels and explore the stories our lives are based on.

In the world of storytelling, suffering is vital to a character’s development. In fact, an author can only show us how strong a character really is by putting him through suffering. When placed in a dangerous situation, a protagonist is forced to make decisions based on his values. They must tap into their reserves of strength and courage, qualities they rarely display. Suffering forces them to take risks and develop resilience. After facing adversity, the character is more refined and generally more confident in who they are and what they represent.

I kept asking myself, “What would a good character do?” I tried to write a hopeful story and then live that story. On any given day, if my greatest achievement was taking a 15-minute walk, I could still tell a better story at the end of that day than if I had stayed in bed.

In the same way that we prescribe antidepressants, teach meditation, and encourage people to exercise, I think we can also help people rewrite their stories. If I sound evangelical, almost fanatical, about this process, well, that’s because I am. The power of storytelling could change your life, and maybe even save it. Chances are high he saved mine.

This is not how it ends
By Jehan Casinader
Posted by HarperCollins New Zealand
RRP: $ 35
Available October 21

Where to get help:

• Life line: 0800 543 354 (available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week)
• Suicide Crisis Helpline: 0508 828865 (0508 SUPPORT) (available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week)
• Youth Services: (06) 3555 906
• Youth line: 0800 376 633
• Kidsline: 0800 543 754 (available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week)
• What happens: 0800 942 8787 (1pm to 11pm)
• The word
• Helpline for depression: 0800111757 (available 24 hours a day, 7 days a week)
• Rainbow youth: (09) 376 4155
• CASPER suicide prevention
If it is an emergency and you feel that you or someone else is at risk, call 111.