A Letter to my friend

In 2021, Jun, then 19, experienced a psychotic episode. He was interned several times, but eventually recovered and resumed his studies, which he is pursuing successfully. But he always carried within him the memory of a friend he lost at that time. And it is through a letter to this absent friend that he is freeing himself today from a burden he no longer wants to be haunted by.

Hi,
I never told you this, but it has always hurt.

In 2021, I was diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder. During a cyclone, I was admitted to SSRN Hospital after nearly losing my mind. I hadn’t slept for four days. I hadn’t eaten anything. Alone in the silence of the storm, I thought the world had ended.

In my confusion, I took a skillet and shattered the glass panes of the window and the door to escape. I wandered through the heavy rain, believing that every house I passed was a tomb sheltering the dead. I broke a neighbour’s window before heading toward the mosque to call the Azaan. My path took me toward the cemetery, and in my anger, I walked further, only to stop when the road turned to mud.

Before I could return home, two policemen assaulted me — the neighbours I had disturbed were officers. They didn’t understand that I was mentally unstable. I kept repeating to them:

“Mo’nn fini mor, mo’nn fini antere anba later…”

(“I am already dead, already buried beneath the earth.”)

They dragged me to the police station and then to SSRN Hospital.

There, they injected me with something. After four long days, I finally fell asleep. For three days I was kept in a hospital room, tied to a bed with needles in both hands. I was thirsty, calling for water day and night, but no one came. I lost track of time. Already paranoid, I felt abandoned, helpless. I wet the bed because I couldn’t move.

Do you know why I am telling you this now, after all these years?

Because in that hospital, I called your name — again and again, night after night:

“Imran, kot to été? Imran, to mo frer twa. Imran Khan. Imran, delo…”

(“Imran, where are you? Imran, you are my brother. Imran Khan. Imran, water…”)

I thought I saw you in another patient, but it wasn’t you. I never told this full story to anyone. But it breaks my heart that you never knew.

Maybe you won’t read until here. But I always wanted to share this with you, especially after I left university. It explains why I disappeared. I was admitted twice afterwards at the Brown Sequard Mental Hospital in Beau Bassin. That is why I stopped attending classes, both in my first year and after I left.

I considered you and Sarah as my friends. But Sarah only came to me when she needed help, and when she blocked me, it cut me deeply.

This letter, at last, is the truth I wanted you to know.

Farewell, my friend. I don’t know if you will ever read these words, but today I have set them free from my heart.

Before writing this, I cried a lot. I wanted to release the remorse I had carried for so long. Writing it all down has finally allowed me to move on — to cut off the past, to forget, and to let myself live in the present.

Jun, 23 years old