Edmonton Journal
Saturday, May 8, 2004
Page: D7
Section: Ed
Byline: Olivia Cheng
Source: Freelance; The Edmonton Journal

On Feb. 19, 2003, my facade of normalcy was stripped away after months of hiding an illness I'd masked out of fear and ignorance. At the age of 23, I was denying the demons of depression because I was too proud to admit they'd sunk their claws into my mind.

I remember forcing myself out of bed that morning after another night of depression-induced insomnia. I insisted on going to work even though I could barely walk in a straight line. My parents tried to take my car keys away but in a stubborn daze, I swore at them and drove off.

I pulled up to the Global Television studio just before my nine o'clock shift as a news reporter, dreading the thought that, in mere minutes, I'd have to paste a smile on my face and assume the role of cheerful go-getter. Exhausted and light-headed, I stepped out of my car and then watched the snow-covered ground rush towards me as I passed out.

About an hour later, a co-worker spotted me lying between two cars, frozen to the ground. The wail of ambulance sirens and the panicked voices of my co-workers pulled me back into semi-consciousness.

"Did she fall?"

"Has she been eating lately?"

"Liv? Livvy? Wake up!"

Everything sounded far away as though I was listening to the world with my head underwater. By the time paramedics loaded me onto a stretcher, I wanted them to dump me back on the ground where they'd found me. I was humiliated. I couldn't believe everything had come to this.

INSOMNIA, INDECISION AND FORGETFULNESS

I can't pinpoint the exact moment when the walls in my mind started to crack.

Looking back, I'd exhibited classic signs of the illness for months but never realized what it all meant. The big tip-off should have been my insomnia. I know now that a drastic change in sleep pattern is a symptom of depression.

In my case, it started in November 2002, when I started waking up hours before my alarm clock was set to go off, unable to fall asleep again. Gradually, I started staying awake through entire nights.

Oddly enough, my body felt completely wired -- like I could jump out of bed at any minute to jog for hours. But as I lay there awake, I'd often find myself short of breath. I'd sit up or pace about, clutching my chest and gasping for air.

By day, I became increasingly indecisive and forgetful. I'd lock my keys in my running car, wonder where my wallet was as I held it in my hand and leave merchandise in stores after paying for it.

Reading and writing became difficult as my concentration skills suffered. Words swam around in my head, adrift with no anchor of comprehension. It became a regular occurrence for me to run into my producer's office long past deadline with poorly written, half-finished stories.

Reporting live on location terrified me because my mind would blank out mid-sentence. I'd stare into the camera and fight the rising panic as I struggled to remember what the hell I'd been trying to say to thousands of viewers. Struggling to keep it together at work, I became convinced I was unworthy of any professional success I'd achieved.

I beat myself up over every little mistake and was convinced my veteran co-workers wondered what an idiot like me was doing among them.

'My hair started turning white and falling out'

I started staying away from my friends. Even though it made no sense, I felt isolated and disconnected from people I'd known for years. Plus, the slightest thing would trigger uncontrollable crying fits, or worse, frightening rages. My mood swings caused me to withdraw further.

I hated myself for not being able to "snap out of it." And I didn't want my friends to see how screwed up and neurotic I was becoming. The one person I didn't hide anything from was my boyfriend who, like me, puzzled over what was happening.

Home offered no escape from pressure either.

Tensions ran high as my family struggled with major illnesses, loss of employment and other hardships. I felt under pressure to "fix things" for loved ones whose problems seemed so much bigger than mine. Trapped in the role of unwilling social worker and referee, my hair started turning white and falling out, while my neck and shoulders stiffened painfully with hard knots of tense muscles.

At this point, since I thought all my problems stemmed from lack of sleep, I walked into a medicentre to score some sleeping pills. When I made my request, the doctor drilled me with questions until he gently told me I was likely depressed.

My reaction was indignant. "No, Doctor, I'm not crazy. If I seem like I have depression, it's only because I haven't slept in days. Just give me some sleeping pills and I'll be OK."

The doctor urged me to go on anti-depressants, but I refused. I didn't understand what depression was and I was insulted to be categorized with unstable people. I insisted on sleeping pills and left.

But the pills didn't work. Nor did any of the different sleeping aids, tranquillizers or muscle relaxants I was given over the next few weeks. The drugs only left me in a zombie-like stupor. Or maybe I was just becoming a zombie from the mental drain of pretending everything was OK.

Two days before I passed out at work, I returned to the medicentre in a frantic state. I hadn't slept for at least five days straight and I was desperate for a drug to knock me out. Unfortunately, there was a three-hour wait to see a doctor and I was in no state of mind to wait around.

I stumbled out of the medicentre and hid behind a dumpster as tears of anguish poured out of me. I stayed there until my boyfriend came to get me. The next day, I was devastated again to find out that it was my doctor's day off. I crawled into bed that night hoping for sleep. I was helpless when it did not come.

You know what happens next.

CRISIS HOTLINE WAS A LIFELINE

Later that awful morning of Feb. 19, doctors in the hospital ran numerous tests to check for heart conditions or other physical problems to explain my fainting.

Twisted as it sounds, I secretly hoped something was wrong with my body, not my mind. When I was able to get out of bed, I dragged my IV into the bathroom and was disgusted by my appearance in the mirror. A pair of bloodshot eyes ringed by dark circles stared back at me. My skin looked grey against the green hospital gown.

Worst of all was my expression. I looked lifeless.

After hours of tests, the doctor eventually told me what I already knew. Nothing was wrong with me in the physical sense. I was simply exhausted and had mixed too many sleeping pills. The hospital physician agreed with her counterpart at the medicentre: I was depressed.

Close to tears, I asked, "Now what?" but she had no advice to offer. I was given another prescription for sleeping pills and urged to go on anti-depressants.

Later that night, I lay curled up on the floor of my room feeling paralysed and overwhelmed. I had to go back to work tomorrow, didn't I? What would I say?

Even as I returned phone calls to concerned co-workers, I lied through my teeth about what was wrong. I was adamant they couldn't find out I was losing it.

After I hung up the phone for what I thought would be the last time that night, I spotted it -- a card stuffed behind some books with the phone number for Global's confidential distress line. I called the number and was connected to a lifeline.

A kind counsellor explained what depression was, talked about how common an affliction it is and insisted on setting me up with emergency counselling.

Looking back, the day's series of awful events turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

I was finally forced to make a crucial choice: accept the depression and deal with it or go on fooling myself and never get better.

I started taking anti-depressants the next day and was prescribed a two-month medical leave.

Two months. That's how long it takes for anti-depressants to become fully effective.

SUPPORT OF FRIENDS A BLESSING

The medication was awful at first. The initial dosage was too strong and I numbly watched the world float by. It took a couple of weeks to figure out what I could handle.

I also started going to counselling. I hated it. Talking to a stranger about my problems went against every Chinese cultural value I'd ever learned about saving face and staying stoic in the face of hardship.

Because my pride still proved to be the greatest obstacle to my recovery, my counsellor, Marie, spent the first few sessions simply reinforcing that depression is a medical illness, not a product of a weak and damaged personality. When I stopped resisting her, Marie slowly helped me understand that I was no good to anyone if I didn't admit that I needed help, too.

I also learned how people with my anally perfectionist, type-A personality are more prone to depression because of the impossible expectations we set for ourselves.

Sleep-wise, I was finally on a blue pill that offered me the rest that had eluded me for months.

However, as my mind cleared, being in Edmonton felt like a constant guilt trip. Reminders of my failure both at home and at work plagued me. It didn't help when strangers recognized me and asked why I hadn't been on TV for the last while.

On a whim to get out of a city that symbolized so much misery, I bought a one-way ticket to Seattle to visit a girlfriend. I only meant to stay a few days and ended up staying a month.

Gradually, the panic attacks, neck pain and headaches stopped. I found my sense of humour again and was taken aback when I laughed for the first time in a long time.

I started telling my friends in Edmonton about my depression. Their steadfast support was a huge relief. Many of them couldn't believe I'd been too ashamed to tell them sooner.

Meanwhile, through the inevitable bad days, my wonderful boyfriend wouldn't let me give up on myself. It meant the world to know he still loved me at my worst.

THE SLOW, PAINFUL JOURNEY BACK

Once my two-month medical leave was up, I faced the frightening step of going back to the real world.

The thought of re-entering the fast-paced, high-stress world of news made me want to hide under my bed. How would I keep up? How would my co-workers treat me after all this time away? I had no scars, bandages or other tangible evidence to prove I'd really been sick. I dreaded their judgment.

However, to my genuine amazement, my Global family was extremely supportive and protective.

Many of my workmates guessed I'd been depressed and went out of their way to help me get back on my feet. My wonderful boss, Tim Spelliscy, scheduled me to come in a few hours a day, a few days a week to let me ease back into things. He even brought in reporters from Red Deer to cover my shifts. That eliminated the pressure to "hurry up and get better."

Left to recover at my own pace, I stayed behind the scenes and filed small stories.

It took another two months for me to venture in front of the camera again.

TALK CAN END THE TABOO

I know how lucky I am. I've survived an illness that evokes shame, stigma and silence in too many of its sufferers. I don't know if I can ever say I'm fully recovered because the fear of relapse always lurks in the shadows of my mind.

In researching depression, I've come across others who've permanently lost their livelihood, relationships and self-worth because they never received the help they needed. Sadly, there's a sore lack of awareness when it comes to the "Black Dog," as Winston Churchill named his own haunting depression. Maybe that's why the mentally ill are so misunderstood.

But take a closer look at all the "normal people" around you. At least one of them has battled, or is still battling, mental illness. They just don't like to admit it, and can you blame them? A physical ailment produces stacks of get-well-soon cards. Mental agonies are eclipsed by hushed whispers of "What's wrong with them?"

I'm not trying to crack a bitter whip of holier-than-thou proportions here. I'm just trying to sound the alarms of a wake-up call, because the only way to tear down the taboo surrounding depression is to encourage people to talk about it. Otherwise, the deafening silence will continue to drown out the cries of those chained in depression's dark dungeon.

And if you really think you don't know of someone who's been to that hell hole ... you do now.

Me.

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Need to talk? Try these agencies.

• Support Network: 482-4636
• Online: www.youthone.com offers peer support forums on issues ranging from relationship troubles to thoughts of suicide
• Distress/Suicide Line (24 hours): 482-HELP (4357)
• U of A Student Distress Line: 492-HELP (4357)
• Alberta Mental Health Board Help Line: 1-877-303-2642. (24-hour provincewide service)
• Mental Health Crisis Response Team, 482-0222. (24-hour service)
• Alberta Mental Health Self-Help Network, 1-866-452-1933

Conversely, a patient with a family history of chest pain might think he's having a heart attack when really he's seeing the physical symptoms of depression and anxiety.

Abusing drugs and alcohol can mask some of the indicators.

People in Alberta and B.C., 46 per cent each, are most likely to have experienced personal depression or anxiety while people in Quebec, at 24 per cent, are least likely.

-- from emha.ca

There are some periods in life when we may be more vulnerable to depression, such as when family or work pressures are high or the three-month period following childbirth.

For others, it may be the death of a loved one, divorce, retirement or loss of job for which many are not prepared psychologically or financially. Others have an inherited tendency toward depression.

By Chris Zdeb
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