我的抑鬱症，我的爸爸媽媽--作者: Sandy
2018-08-08 21:45
“聽我心聲”徵文比賽
“你作業做完了嗎？”
“為什麼又在玩遊戲？”
“你的房間怎麼總是一團糟？”
親愛的父母們，您是不是像我一樣，同孩子的交流只是停留在這些話的層面上？
三年前，我痛失十八歲青春年少的愛子。在極度痛苦之中我反思自己同孩子十八年來相處的日子，追悔自己沒有花更多的時間和努力去同他建立更深的個人感情，去了解他內心深處的掙扎。
在北美的社會環境裡，父母對孩子的影響只有孩子成長的前十八年。孩子進入大學之後，父母便“鞭長莫及”了。在這十八年裡，您同孩子的情感關係深深地影響孩子將來的為人處事和對自己人生未來的遠景。我收到過許多華人的孩子給我的電子郵件，講敘他們同父母感情交流的缺乏，甚至有些孩子的人生目標就是不要成為像自己父母一樣的人。這些故事讓我心痛。
三年前我以孩子的名義成立了李佳信紀念基金，其使命之一就是要幫助彌合北美華人移民家庭中兩代人之間存在的情感鴻溝。我們華人父母很注重孩子身體和技能上的培養，卻常忽略了孩子在情感和情操上的需求和指導。孩子成功了，卻不快樂，因為情感上的缺乏不是金錢和成功能彌補的。
今年三月份期間，李佳信紀念基金聯合汎亞義務門診，馬里蘭蒙郡華裔家長聯合會，舉辦了“聽我心聲”有獎徵文比賽，鼓勵亞裔少年寫出他們想要對父母說的心裡話。我們收到三十多位年輕人的文章，許多文章讓人為之動容。在頒獎儀式上，我們組織了獲獎人的座談會，討論亞裔移民家庭存在的兩代人之間交流的諸多問題，讓許多父母收益匪淺。
經作者允許，我們將一些獲獎文章翻譯成中文，同大家分享，也希望聽到大家的反饋。
我的抑鬱症，我的爸爸媽媽
作者: Sandy
那是在2012年。我剛上高一。跟很多青春期的孩子一樣，我出去玩到深更半夜才回家。我做了一些冒失的事，根本沒有考慮我那樣做的後果。但是，與大多數人不同的是，我那樣做的原因是我自暴自棄了。我當時正在與抑鬱症抗爭。那時候對“抑鬱” 這個詞我還不太熟悉，僅限於從到處播放的“百憂解(Prozac)”藥物廣告上聽到。我試圖搞清楚為什麼我起不來床，為什麼沒有食慾，為什麼整天睡覺還是覺得疲倦不堪。沒在床上昏睡的時間， 我都花在跟不三不四的人混在一起，做一些出格的事情。慢慢地我開始經常逃學，學習成績嚴重下滑。隨著成績下降，來自父母的壓力越來越大了。
他們在氣頭上說的那些話，在我的腦海裡迴響讓我倍受煎熬。我越發害怕讓他們失望，因為失望之後他們會讓我加倍覺得我自己太壞。我開始跟他們隱瞞我心底的秘密，並任性地盡量少跟他們交流。我覺得自己特別差勁， 那種感覺無法描述。有時候我跟他們好幾天甚至幾個星期都不說一句話。我感到痛苦和麻木，氣憤、傷感、絕望和孤獨相互交織，每一種情緒都被擴大了。我記得我想不顧一切地停止這種折磨。終於有一天晚上我感覺好像天要塌下來，我不堪重負。我爸媽出門參加聚會去了，我找到一些藥，一口氣全呑到肚裡。我在衛生間的地上躺下來，心想我是否能知道什麼時候是我最後一次呼吸。大概過了二十幾分鐘的樣子，我爸媽回到家發現我趴在馬桶上嘔吐，吐出來藥片。
儘管在精神上我已經放棄了，可是我的身體卻在掙扎著想活命。剛開始他們並沒意識到發生了什麼，最後我因為極度害怕我可能真的要死了，就告訴了他們。我感覺到我不想死，但是恐怕已經來不及了。我的爸媽氣壞了。我求他們送我去醫院，他們不肯，而且覺得我那樣做太丟人了。他們充滿懷疑地問我， “你為什麼要這樣對付我們？”
接下來的七八個小時裡，從晚上十點一直到第二天早上六點，我處於昏迷和嘔吐之中。等到天亮他們看我並沒有好轉的跡象，不得不開車送我去看急診。第二天我被留在醫院，我不由自主地走進精神科。現在輪到我暴怒了。我不願相信我的父母把他們自己的臉面和名聲看得比我的生命更重要。可是我剛剛在我自己的房間裡度過最漫長的八個小時，掙扎著從藥物過量中恢復。之後的一周我住院接受治療，其間要召開一次家庭會議。
因為我跟父母交談太少， 造成了我跟他們之間的語言障礙，所以心理治療師安排了一名電話翻譯。我的第一語言是粵語，但我出生在美國，更多時候我講英文。到了我不再每天跟父母交流時，我就不會講粵語了。家庭會議進行得很折磨人。我父母那邊很明顯存在一些因文化差異造成的誤解。我父母一向表現得很堅忍，他們從不示愛，不管是他們之間還是對我。他們搞不懂我怎麼會抑鬱。在他們眼裡我有家有地方住，有吃有穿，他們覺得我不懂得感恩，那些生活條件不如我的人都沒有感到抑鬱。
按他們的邏輯，我沒有理由消沉。心理治療師提到我自殘把手臂和手腕弄傷了，我爸爸的回答竟然是，“她不過是為了要引起關注。” 我記得離開會議室的時候我是多麼沮喪和不安。在精神科遇到的所有人當中，我是少有的幾個在治療中沒有得到父母支持的病人之一。
時間到了2015年， 我讀高三了。我已經幾乎完成了大家認為最難讀的一年的學業。那一年對我來說確實艱難，但不是因為大學申請和標準化考試。我並沒有全身心投入在申請大學和計劃高中畢業以後做什麼這些事情上。我說服自己我不會畢業，因為我另有打算。
四月中旬我再次服藥過量。這次我爸媽沒有猶豫就送我去了醫院。他們從最初的氣憤變成了擔心和懼怕。我服了大量的藥，幾乎對我的肝臟造成永久損害。醫生強調說，是我父母的快速反應救了我，如果再晚幾分鐘我可能就沒命了。我被轉送到首都華盛頓的一家專門進行肝臟移植的醫院，在重症監護室待了一周，然後奇蹟般地，我的肝臟功能開始自主恢復了。爸媽每天都來探視我，在我疼痛到動都不敢動的時候他們會握住我的手。他們會抱著我，親吻我，跟我說他們有多愛我。我看出他們 的轉變和慚愧。他們深感內疚，認識到以前給我施加了太大的壓力，並一直貶低我。這些壓力和打擊成了家常便飯，終於讓我對自己產生了不切實際的期望，在我不能實現這種期望的時候，我就怪到我自己頭上。
他們意識到他們那種“強硬的愛”的方式深深傷害了我。我又在精神科待了一個星期。這次的家庭會議沒有把我弄哭，也不是以我的拂袖而去告終。爸爸沒有怪我說我那樣做是為了引起關注，他把他的心思都放在了我和我的治療上。
轉眼又到了2018年。我停學一段時間之後，開始在Montgomery College上大學。我開始在我的社區倡導提高心理健康意識。我生活的各個方面都發生了好轉，其中最重要的轉變就是我跟爸媽的關係。我的爸爸媽媽花了好幾年時間才達到能理解的水平，可是他們從未放棄過。他們到處尋找為家有精神疾病孩子的父母建立的支持小組。他們看書，聽訪談節目。他們與我的心理治療師和心理醫生共同努力。
從我第一次住院開始，我父母走過了一段漫長的歷程。幾年以前，我想像不到我爸媽和我會這麼親近。他們跟我，兩方面都做出巨大努力來消除分歧。耐心和交流彌合了我們之間的裂痕。我學會了接受這樣的事實，那就是他們需要一些時間才能改變，特別是學會理解他們自身文化中被看成是禁忌的東西，那有多麼難。
所以反過來，他們越來越接受我患有心理疾病這個事實，使我的康復過程更順暢。儘管其中有很多難以克服的困難，我沒有灰心。如果沒經歷過那些挑戰，我的父母不會相信真的有心理疾病這一說。他們把他們所謂的驕傲放在一邊，不再顧慮他們的親友會怎麼想。如果不明白怎麼回事，他們會問，然後我們一起討論。但最重要的是，每當我有話要說，他們都會認真地傾聽我的心聲。
作者：Sandy
翻譯：太陽雨
本文首發於“美國華人”公眾號(ChineseAmericans)
微信公眾號：ChineseAmericans
微博：@美國華人傳媒
網站：ChineseAmerican.org
投稿/轉載：editor@ChineseAmerican.org
Hear Me Out
By: Sandy
The year is 2012. I am a freshman in high school. Like most teenagers, I went out and came home past curfew. I engaged in reckless activities and I didn’t think about the consequences of my decisions. However, unlike most of them, I did these things because I had given up on life. I was struggling with depression and it was something I rarely heard about. Depression was just a word I would hear during those Prozac commercials that played every now and then. I tried to make sense of why I couldn’t get out of bed anymore, why I never had an appetite, or why I slept all the time but still felt exhausted. The days I could get out of bed were spent hanging around the wrong people, doing the wrong things. I started going to school less and less, and my grades began to drop dramatically. As they dropped, the pressure from my parents increased. The words they said in the heat of the moment burned in the back of my mind. I feared disappointing my parents more than anything just because of how horrible they made me feel after. I started to hide secrets from them, and I went out of my way to communicate as little as possible. There would be periods where we didn’t talk for days, even weeks. I felt lower than I ever had before, and it’s almost impossible to fully describe that feeling. I felt pain, but I also felt numb. There was anger, sadness, hopelessness and loneliness all mixed together, and each separate emotion amplified the others. I remembered thinking that I would do anything to make it all stop. Then one night, it all came crashing down on me. My parents were at a party, so I found some pills and I took them. I laid on the bathroom floor and wondered if I would know when I was taking my last breath. About twenty minutes later, my parents came home and found me in the bathroom hovering over the toilet and puking up the pills I took. My body was still fighting for my life even though mentally I had given up. At first, they had no idea what happened. I finally told them because I was scared that I was actually dying. I realized that I didn’t want to die but I was afraid it was too late. My parents were furious. I begged them to take me to the hospital, but they refused because they were ashamed of what I had done. “How could you do this to us?” they asked in disbelief. For the next eight hours, from 10 at night to 6 in the morning, I was either unconscious or throwing up. In the morning, my parents realized that I wasn’t getting any better so they drove me to the nearest emergency room. I spend the following day in the hospital, and I voluntarily checked myself in to the psychiatric unit. Now it was my turn to be furious. I didn’t want to believe that my parents put their pride and self image over my life. But I had just spent the longest eight hours of my life in my room, trying to recover on my own from an overdose. I spent the next week in the impatient program, and there was a mandatory family meeting. The therapist had a translator on the phone because the lack of communication between my parents
and I had created a language barrier. Cantonese was my first language but since I was born in the United States, I spoke English more frequently. Once I stopped talking to my parents every day, I began to forget our language. The family meeting was brutal. There was a clear misunderstanding on my parents’ side and a large part of it is due to the cultural difference. My parents were always very stoic. They never showed affection, not towards each other or towards me. They couldn’t understand what was the cause of my depression. I had a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and food in my stomach. They would tell me that I was being ungrateful because there were lots of people in the world who had it worse, and they weren’t depressed.
According to them, I had no reason to feel the way I did. The therapist brought up that I had several cuts on my arms and wrists, and my dad’s response was, “She’s doing it for attention.” I remember leaving the room because I was so frustrated and upset. Of all the people I was in the psychiatric unit with, I was one of the very few patients whose parents weren’t considered a part of their support system.
The year is 2015. I am a junior in high school. I am almost done with what many people regard as the hardest year of high school. It truly was the toughest year, but not because of college applications or standardized tests. Part of me didn’t bother with applying to college or planning out my life after high school. I convinced myself I was not going to graduate because I had other plans in mind. It was mid- April when I overdosed again. This time, my parents didn't hesitate on taking me to the hospital. Their initial reaction of anger had been replaced with worry and fear. I had taken so many pills that I almost permanently damaged my liver. The doctors stressed how my parents’ quick thinking saved my life because if it had been a couple minutes later, I wouldn’t have made it. I was transferred to a hospital in D.C, one that specialized in liver transplants. I stayed in the intensive care unit for a week, and miraculously, my liver began to heal on its own.
My parents visited me every day, and held my hand when I was in too much pain to even move. They hugged me and kissed me and told me how much they loved me. I could see they were changing and they carried a lot of guilt with them. Guilt from putting so much pressure on me,
and talking down on me for years. It happened so often that eventually I began to have unrealistic expectations for myself, and when I couldn’t reach them I would take it out on myself. They realized how their method of “tough love” had taken its toll on me. I spent the following week in the psychiatric unit. The family meeting this time did not bring me to tears. It did not end in me leaving the room. My dad did not accuse me of looking for attention; he devoted all of his attention to me and my treatment.
The year is 2018. I started my first semester at Montgomery College after taking some time off from school. I began to advocate for mental health awareness in my community. Many aspects of my life have changed for the better; one of the most important being my relationship with my parents. It took years for my parents to reach the level of understanding they have, but they never gave up. They sought out support groups for parents who had kids that struggled with a mental illness. They read books and listened to interviews. They worked with my therapists and psychiatrists. My parents have come a long way since my first hospitalization. Years ago, I would have never imagined that my parents and I would be as close as we are now. It took a lot of effort on both sides for us to overcome our differences. Patience and communication helped mend our broken relationship. I had to accept that it would take some time for them to come around, and how it is especially hard to understand something that was considered taboo in their culture. In turn, their growing acceptance of my mental illness made my recovery a lot smoother. Although there were a lot of hardships that had to be overcome, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Without those challenges, my parents would still believe that a mental illness isn’t real. They put their pride aside and stopped worrying about what their relatives or friends would think. If they don’t understand what’s going on, they ask questions and we talk about it. But most importantly, whenever I have something to say, they hear me out.