From The Straits Times    |

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“My downward spiral began when my businessman father threatened to suffocate himself with a plastic bag. It was late 2005, and I had recently returned to Singapore after graduating from an American university to discover that my parents’ marriage was falling apart.

My mother wanted a divorce but my father refused. I came home every night after work to loud quarrels, violent fights and incessant sobbing. They kept threatening to kill themselves. My mother would bang her head repeatedly on the wall, while my father would sometimes perch himself on a wobbly chair in front of an open window.

At first, I would try to intervene, but neither would listen to me. The suicide threats continued, and I gave up trying. After some time, I would retreat to my room and cry myself to sleep.

It was difficult readjusting to Singapore after three years abroad. I had a high-stress job at an MNC. I was also in a new relationship. My whole situation made me feel trapped and helpless. Deep inside, I was crumbling.

I can’t pinpoint when I had my first breakdown, but I remember finding it hard to breathe whenever my parents fought. Even a minor setback like a lover’s tiff or a stern word from my supervisor could make me sob the whole night.

Soon, I was breaking down in tears every other day as I couldn’t deal with what was happening around me. I was also losing weight rapidly because I couldn’t eat. My boyfriend of five months was at a loss as to how to console me and made me seek professional help.

HOOKED ON PILLS

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Psychiatrists at the Institute of Mental Health (IMH) diagnosed me as being reactively depressed, a minor form of clinical depression caused by negative life situations. I was put on the antidepressant Prozac and Ativan, an anti-anxiety pill with strong sedative effects.

While I stuck to the prescribed amount of Prozac – one a day – I went out of control with the Ativan. I was supposed to pop a pill whenever I felt an anxiety attack coming on. But as I felt anxious easily, I started popping them more and more.

I became desperately reliant on Ativan pills because I knew that they would knock me out when things became overwhelming. And as I was groggy most of the time, I would get MCs often and skip work. That way, I could hide my condition from my bosses and colleagues.

Things at home deteriorated. My parents argued almost every night.

If there was no quarrel, I’d go to bed early and everything would be fine. But if my parents fought, I’d pop a few more pills, leave home and wander around my estate in a drug-induced haze. Sometimes, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and find myself next to the rubbish dump, with cockroaches scuttling near me.

Most people assumed I was drunk but kind-hearted strangers stopped to ask if I needed medical help. I’d always mumble “no” before pretending to call someone so they’d leave me alone. As for my parents, my father didn’t care and my mother, while worried about me, had her own troubles.

These late-night wanderings wore my boyfriend out. He would drive around my estate to look for me if I didn’t pick up my phone. When he couldn’t find me, I’d wake up in some void deck hours later. When he did find me, he would pick me up off the floor, drive me home and tuck me into bed. It was amazing that he stuck by me but I couldn’t control myself.

One night in June 2006, I overdosed on about 10 Ativan pills. My parents were fighting furiously. I didn’t know what it was about. But the intensity, the noise, the threats got to me. I grabbed my bag and stormed out of the flat, slamming the front door. I was clutching a bottle of Ativan and trembling with anger, stress, everything.

I felt compelled to pop pills until I was unconscious. Yet, a little voice in my head told me I shouldn’t do such harm to myself. Suddenly, I thought of IMH. The psychiatrists there had told me to go back if I started having suicidal thoughts. Since I had nowhere else to go to, I stumbled into a cab and told the driver to take me to IMH’s A&E department.

By the time I reached there, I was delirious. I only remember vaguely what happened, such as my boyfriend’s worried look (he was listed as my emergency contact), being wheeled to a private ward and nurses poking my arm with needles. Then I passed out.

GIRL, INTERRUPTED

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When I woke up, I found myself in bed in a spacious women’s day ward. I looked at the wall clock and realised I had been sleeping for more than 24 hours. The rest of the patients were already up and about, talking in groups and walking around.

I felt incredibly lost and confused. I had grown up in a normal, comfortable middle-class family and had certainly not expected to be locked up – at my own request – in a psychiatric hospital one day. There were about 20 women in the ward, most of whom looked over 40.

One old, frail-looking lady was wailing and restrained to a chair. Another woman was hunched over in a catatonic state. Yet another middle-aged woman muttered to herself and later, took off her soiled underwear and flung it angrily on the floor.

As I wept in bed, another patient sat on my bed, stroked my hair gently and asked if I was okay. I felt grateful for her concern and apparent coherence. She comforted me and explained how things worked, like mealtimes and where we would sleep. I crawled out from under the blanket and listened to her lilting voice like a lamb.

Sometime after – I was so drugged out I don’t remember exact times – I gathered enough courage to get out of my bed – the only one in the day ward – and follow her to the sitting area. When I did, two patients jumped onto the bed and just sat on it, giggling.

When I asked a nurse when I could be discharged, she explained that I was admitted on a Friday evening and had to wait till Monday to be assessed by a panel of psychiatrists. Only then could they make a proper diagnosis. There was nothing I could do but stay there till then.

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DAY TWO… AND THREE

Each day, we would wake up at 9.30am, taking turns to use the common toilet, brush our teeth (my toothbrush had my name scrawled on it in marker-pen ink) and shower. The nurses had to bathe some of the sicker patients in the open because they couldn’t do it themselves.

Then, we would have breakfast, like biscuits and a cup of hot Milo, before lining up to take our pills in front of a nurse. The routine reminded me of the opening scene from the 1975 movie, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, about a sane man who winds up in a mental institution.

I tried to cope as best I could. Being locked up with nothing to do really stretched the hours. By the second day, it felt like I had been inside forever – I kept looking at the wall clock. I wanted to call my mother so she wouldn’t worry about my disappearance. I didn’t know if my boyfriend had told her. But when I tried to explain to the nurses, they told me sternly that patients were not allowed phone calls.

Later, I met other patients who also suffered from depression. A middle-aged auntie showed me her arms, with raised scars running from her wrists to her elbows. She spoke about her many suicide attempts because she had two ex-husbands in jail and an autistic son she did not know how to care for. Then there was a 20something who just stared into space.

Sometimes, two of the women would just come up to me and hug me. I didn’t know why. Other times, when I shared my story with a couple of other depressed patients, we would hug each other for comfort and encouragement.

My boyfriend visited me every day. His visits were my daily highlight. We even laughed about how incredible the whole situation was. He assured me that no one knew I was in IMH. He told everyone, including my then-employer, that I was really ill and recuperating at his place. I was so relieved. I didn’t want to be a victim of the stigma surrounding mental illnesses. And my mother would have been heartbroken if she’d known.

FACING THE WORLD

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By Monday morning, I had calmed down a lot. I was less teary and felt more positive. Perhaps being away from my parents helped. When my turn came to see the panel of psychiatrists, I knew I had to convince them I would not attempt suicide if they discharged me.

I explained that I behaved the way I did because I couldn’t cope with my parents’ outbursts and other stresses. When they asked what I would do if I was discharged, I said firmly that I was looking forward to eating Ben & Jerry’s ice cream with my boyfriend. Fortunately, they believed me.

When I knew I could be discharged, I exchanged contact details with some of the patients I had made friends with. We promised to keep in touch so we could support one another. I was allowed to call a close friend, who worked from home, to pick me up. She brought clean clothes, even a new bra. My boyfriend was at work. He had used up his leave looking out for me.

When she arrived, I felt ashamed of how I looked – my hair was messy and I didn’t have any makeup on – but she gently guided me to her car and drove me back to my boyfriend’s home, where I recuperated for the next six months. He had told my mother to give me time and space away from home to get better. I quit my job as I couldn’t focus on it.

Staying with my boyfriend, I began to be more secure about his love for me. He also helped regulate my medicines so I took only the prescribed amount. Fortunately, my depression was mild. With his support, I slowly weaned myself off pills and even have a memo from IMH stating that I have fully recovered. He also got me out of the house to watch movies, go shopping, take part in water sports and so on. I also started to enjoy the little things in life again, like reading.

When I felt fit enough, I worked briefly for a small firm, handling smaller accounts so work would not be stressful for me. A year or so after my stay in IMH, I got my old job at the MNC back.

Being away from my parents has helped me stay sane. They are divorced now and lead separate lives, although they still share the same home. I’m renting a flat and live on my own now. As I’m closer to my mother, I meet her for dinner twice a week. But I find it hard to talk to my father when I visit them. My boyfriend is now my fiance.

Today, I don’t take my healthy mind for granted. It has been a long, hard climb out of depression and I refuse to let it dictate my life. When I’m in a difficult situation, I no longer think of escapist methods to cope, like popping pills. 

Instead, I tell myself that if the situation is out of my control, like my parents’ manic behaviour, I just have to let things be. As long as I know I’ve done my best.”

*Names and recognisable details have been changed

Think you could be depressed? Here’s who to call

Health Promotion Board HealthLine: 1800-223-1313

Institute of Mental Health Helpline: 6389-2000

6389-2222 (24-hour emergency helpline)

Samaritans of Singapore Helpline: 1800-221-4444

Singapore Association for Mental Health Helpline: 1800-283-7019

 

This story was originally published in the November 2011 issue of Her World.

READ MORE: TRUE STORY: “The pain was so bad it felt like I was being stabbed” and TRUE STORY: “My parents haven’t spoken to me in 5 years because they hate the man I’m with”.