I lived in a state of nothingness for years.

Nothingness is a state worse than sadness, because I felt nothing in the state of nothingness. 

Someone I loved very much had taken his own life. I did not know then that the head could break with the heart. 

Before the devastating loss, I had led a simple life of a 27-year-old.

I was happy being young, excited about a life of possibilities to be discovered, doing mundane things young people do, making mistakes young people make, celebrating little wins in life so important to the young, crying over regular things young people weep over.

Then one day, I noticed that laughter had ceased and the tears had dried up. All the sockets in my brain that connected my heart to joy and pain, to peace and dread, to satiation and hunger had been stopped up. 

It became increasingly difficult to get up and go. Then it became plain tiresome to leave my room. Then it became more and more tedious to get out of bed.

Then it became hard to just wake from my sleep although I battled many sleepless nights. And eventually each day became pointless. I no longer found joy in anything that used to give me joy, not even the McDonald’s chocolate sundae that reminded me of sunshine, sand and sea with my besties at East Coast Park. 

I was no longer alive although I was living.

Living but not alive

I dragged myself out of bed each day, went to work, made small talk, saw friends, had dinner, hit the sack and repeat. 

I was exhausted all the time. Pulling the covers over my head and finding the blessed relief of sleep became my only purpose.

People around me must have started to notice because I started hearing well-meaning advice like “think positive” – words that meant nothing to a person drifting without thought in a blank space.

I did not know I was ill, that I needed medical help just like a cancer patient needed medical treatment. I beat myself up a lot, thinking I was a self-entitled brat who did not know how to count her blessings.

A good friend said to me one day the most loving thing anyone has ever said to me, although it felt at that time like a death sentence on my identity: “You need help.”

“Do you think I’m crazy?” I broke down and cried then.

It was the first time in a long, long time I had felt anything other than exhaustion in a life that had become devoid of any purpose.

I hauled myself to a psychologist who ascertained I needed medical attention and directed me to a psychiatrist .

I told no one. I was so ashamed.

I did not want my family to worry; I had nothing left in me to deal with that.

The psychiatrist diagnosed me with clinical depression triggered by the trauma of loss. He put me on a course of Prozac and a series of counselling. I got better, life took on its old lustre and I became myself again. I was so grateful for the mental and medical care from the doctor that gave me back my life.

But there was a problem.

Living on Prozac

I secured a job in New York a year after, and got ready to move – away from the familiar, away from family and friends, and away from my psychiatrist and my supply of Prozac. I managed to find a doctor who wrote me a year-long prescription.

I packed the loot in with the rest of my life into the suitcase and I lived on that supply. Literally. I do not believe I would have survived that first year without the medication.

Life was rough – I had to start from scratch making friends, adapt to a new culture, cope with a new job and make ends meet with a meagre income in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

I also realised that year that winter blues was not a poetic metaphor. I was poor –  in soul, in spirit and in finances. When I look back on that year, it was a miracle I didn’t fall apart. 

I got more Prozac – I no longer remember how – and floated along until September 11.

My life crashed with the collapse of the Twin Towers and I slipped into a black hole even Prozac had no power to pull me out of.

Leaving Prozac 

Shortly after that day ravaged by a loss of even greater scale, I found refuge in a little Christian community where I discovered the power of the Word.

I pored over the Bible cover to cover and soaked myself in the Word of God. I was drawn to many accounts of Jesus miraculously healing the sick.

I was not only mentally ill but also sick, by then, of the dependent relationship with Prozac and the frequent pity parties.

I wanted out.

I turned to Jesus and said: “You said You are a God who heals so I’m going to take You at Your word. I am going off the Prozac*.”

I would have loved to say I waited in great faith and expectation. But no – I waited with great trepidation. I was terrified of the downward spiral that I was sure I was perched on.

Day One passed without drama – I didn’t fall and break into pieces. Day Two was uneventful as well  – the screws didn’t come loose. Day Three went well, as did Day Four, Day Five, and Day 7,000. It has been more than 19 years, and I have never popped another Prozac since that day. 

I still have bad days among the good days but they no longer have the power to drag me through the mud of my soul and suffocate me. 

Today, I live in a state of plenty – plenty of laughter, plenty of tears, plenty of mourning, plenty of dancing, plenty of disappointments, plenty of hope. 

I am alive.

*DISCLAIMER: This story is a personal reflection. Always seek the guidance of your pastor, doctor and/or other qualified health professional with any question you may have regarding your health or medical condition. 

RELATED STORIES:

“I asked my wife to give me permission to end my life”: One pastor’s battle to come out of anxiety and depression

Burnt out so many times he lost count, now he helps others build mental resilience

“How do I help a friend with depression?” And other questions we posed to psychiatrist Dr Leslie Lim

“How do I help a friend with depression?” And other questions we posed to psychiatrist Dr Leslie Lim