Canon's Diary

August 27, 2025, Wednesday.
I came home from work and finished dinner with some leftover keema curry I had prepared earlier. For some reason, I felt like drinking red wine tonight—something I hadn’t done in a while—so I bought a cheap bottle of Bordeaux at the convenience store. Now I’m enjoying it with a bit of cheese I found at home. The TV is off. There’s no music playing. Only the soft hum of the fan turning, and from outside, the occasional sound of cars or motorbikes passing by. A new ceiling light, installed through the hometown tax system, shines above me. Its warm, incandescent-like LED glow casts a gentler light than I’ve ever had in this room.

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From 1991, when I joined my first company after graduating from university and receiving a diagnosis of depression, until around 2000—and again from 2000 to about 2008, after I was diagnosed with schizophrenia—going to work felt unbearable.
My first job was at an audio equipment manufacturer, in a factory located between Ōmori and Kamata along the Keihin-Tōhoku Line. The neighborhood was crowded with small workshops and factories. I was assigned to design the chassis of projection TVs. It was an unfortunate beginning: a new graduate entering a company already weighed down by depression. Getting up in the morning was nearly impossible, so I was always late—running with my bag slung over my shoulder from Ōmori Station to the factory. My previous experience as a waiter in university had taught me the spirit of service, but such a mindset was useless in engineering design. I remember clearly the sense of despair that overcame me.

Symptoms of depression differ from person to person, but in my case, it felt as if my heart was gripped tightly by unseen hands. Nights were sleepless, mornings unbearable. I was often late, and my boss scolded me repeatedly. I panicked: How can I possibly survive decades of working life like this? Mental illness was poorly understood then; people looked at it with suspicion, so I kept silent about my condition. But the truth was, I was suffering deeply. Concentrating on work was impossible. I didn’t yet know how to manage my medication—taking too much sometimes sent me into an unnatural high, while other times I fell into crushing despair. I couldn’t control my own emotions. In that state, it was impossible to do my job properly. I made simple mistakes, failed to learn procedures, and was met with shouts from superiors and ridicule from colleagues. To cover up my incompetence, I would play the fool, trying to deflect their criticism. But inside, I was desperate—trying to catch up, trying not to burden others. Now I realize that may have been the problem. Mental illness is a real illness; it cannot be cured by sheer effort or a change in mindset. What I truly needed then was rest.

Some still believe that mental illness can be overcome by sheer willpower, but at that time such misunderstanding was even more common. Mental illness is not something cured by effort alone. Think of diabetes, a herniated disc, or leukemia—would you tell someone with those conditions to overcome them through willpower? Mental illness is no different. Once it progresses beyond a certain point, the person cannot manage it alone. They need medical treatment. Yet even some doctors and pharmacists lacked understanding. I remember once, when receiving a prescription for antidepressants, a pharmacist sneered: “This is all about willpower.” At home, I found little support either. My mother would tell me to “pray more,” while my father would only warn, “Don’t lose your mind.” I felt I could no longer bear living in that house in Naruse. Just then, a transfer to Shizuoka was decided.

In Shizuoka, I met a kind friend. For the first time, someone listened to my complaints without judgment, took me out for drinks, stayed by my side. How many times in life can one encounter such a friend? We were almost always together there. Perhaps that’s what friendship is meant to be. I was deeply grateful. To him, it may have been nothing more than kindness. But for me, it became dependence. And dependence, I feared, was not true friendship. Still, I could not help but rely on him. That life lasted just over a year, until 1998, when I was transferred again—this time to Yamanashi.

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Today, my wife called me, unusually. We spoke for nearly an hour. About changing her mobile phone, about my mother’s recent state, about whether we should get another dog someday, about her parents in Yamanashi. The topics were trivial, yet the conversation lingered. Everyone is trying to adapt to new circumstances—not just me. My wife, my mother, each of them in their own way. Perhaps we are all learning to adjust our use of time. And maybe that is why I, too, feel I can move forward again.

Like the lingering aftertaste of tonight’s red wine, I want to believe in the small steps ahead.