I'm married with 3 young kids aged 8 and under, and come from an Asian
background. Now a full-time stay-at-home mum after being made redundant, I'm a college graduate with an
Honours degree in Teaching English as a Second Language.
My husband is a fellow countryman and although we've both lived in the UK for more than half our lives, he retains much of our cultural values that include 'the place of the wife'. Hence talking to him is almost impossible, let alone seeking support for clinical depression. Being a full-time mother after working in an office environment for ten years proved to be overwhelming to say the least, but to admit I had difficulty coping was even harder. My husband to this day doesn't fully comprehend mental illness and how I'm affected by it. I couldn't tell my parents as I didn't want to burden them with worry. My sister's reaction to it was: "How did that happen?" I wasn't surprised by her reaction but I didn't know what to say then. Depression isn't an illness that is acknowledged in our culture, in fact it's almost non-existent. It's never talked about; if you say someone is mentally ill then you most likely mean that that person is 'crazy', a commonly loosely-used term, and is a permanent resident of an asylum.
When I tried to talk to a friend about suicide and depression, all she said was how could I even think of suicide and that I should think about the children. All I ever do is think about the children and not about me. I was physically and mentally exhausted, tired of being pulled in all directions all the time. And the only way out I could see was to take my own life. I just wanted to be left in peace, not be called on every minute of the day. I didn't have new clothes, trips to the hairdresser had stopped for years and I was totally unkept. Every night I just crashed into bed but hardly slept even though I was so tired. I avoided sex like the plague. And that of course didn't help matters. Arguments were commonplace and they didn't go unnoticed by our eldest child.
By the time I took myself to my GP, I was in such bad shape I could barely speak to her. I was sobbing uncontrollably and could only nod or shake my head. She rang my husband to collect me from her surgery and instructed him to watch me closely in case I committed suicide. Now, you would have thought I'd be admitted to hospital and be kept on suicide watch, which was exactly what my GP suggested. But my dear husband decided it wasn't necessary. Besides, he added, who would look after the children? Even at that critical moment I wasn't allowed to take time out for myself.
And that was just my recent episode of postnatal depression. I was diagnosed clinically depressed ten years before that, when I contemplated suicide after years of suffering from endometreosis and infertility. Treatment after treatment, surgery after surgery. One night I was groaning in pain and my husband shouted: "Oh for God's sake, it can't be that bad!" Two hours later I stood in the kitchen, knife in hand and tears streaming down my face. If my own husband couldn't understand me, then who would? For the first time in my life I felt completely alone, and I wanted it to stay that way forever.
And yet I'm still here, alive and kicking. My faith in God and my voice of sanity stopped me from taking my own life every time. I'm smart enough to recognise my own symptoms and seek medical help. But it's an ongoing battle. I thought I'd become strong enough to stop taking antidepressants, only to find myself back on it months later with an even higher prescription. When will it ever end? Who knows. One thing is for sure, I have to live life one day at a time. One day at a time. One day at a time..
My husband is a fellow countryman and although we've both lived in the UK for more than half our lives, he retains much of our cultural values that include 'the place of the wife'. Hence talking to him is almost impossible, let alone seeking support for clinical depression. Being a full-time mother after working in an office environment for ten years proved to be overwhelming to say the least, but to admit I had difficulty coping was even harder. My husband to this day doesn't fully comprehend mental illness and how I'm affected by it. I couldn't tell my parents as I didn't want to burden them with worry. My sister's reaction to it was: "How did that happen?" I wasn't surprised by her reaction but I didn't know what to say then. Depression isn't an illness that is acknowledged in our culture, in fact it's almost non-existent. It's never talked about; if you say someone is mentally ill then you most likely mean that that person is 'crazy', a commonly loosely-used term, and is a permanent resident of an asylum.
When I tried to talk to a friend about suicide and depression, all she said was how could I even think of suicide and that I should think about the children. All I ever do is think about the children and not about me. I was physically and mentally exhausted, tired of being pulled in all directions all the time. And the only way out I could see was to take my own life. I just wanted to be left in peace, not be called on every minute of the day. I didn't have new clothes, trips to the hairdresser had stopped for years and I was totally unkept. Every night I just crashed into bed but hardly slept even though I was so tired. I avoided sex like the plague. And that of course didn't help matters. Arguments were commonplace and they didn't go unnoticed by our eldest child.
By the time I took myself to my GP, I was in such bad shape I could barely speak to her. I was sobbing uncontrollably and could only nod or shake my head. She rang my husband to collect me from her surgery and instructed him to watch me closely in case I committed suicide. Now, you would have thought I'd be admitted to hospital and be kept on suicide watch, which was exactly what my GP suggested. But my dear husband decided it wasn't necessary. Besides, he added, who would look after the children? Even at that critical moment I wasn't allowed to take time out for myself.
And that was just my recent episode of postnatal depression. I was diagnosed clinically depressed ten years before that, when I contemplated suicide after years of suffering from endometreosis and infertility. Treatment after treatment, surgery after surgery. One night I was groaning in pain and my husband shouted: "Oh for God's sake, it can't be that bad!" Two hours later I stood in the kitchen, knife in hand and tears streaming down my face. If my own husband couldn't understand me, then who would? For the first time in my life I felt completely alone, and I wanted it to stay that way forever.
And yet I'm still here, alive and kicking. My faith in God and my voice of sanity stopped me from taking my own life every time. I'm smart enough to recognise my own symptoms and seek medical help. But it's an ongoing battle. I thought I'd become strong enough to stop taking antidepressants, only to find myself back on it months later with an even higher prescription. When will it ever end? Who knows. One thing is for sure, I have to live life one day at a time. One day at a time. One day at a time..
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