Strength comes from knowing your weakness.

Experiencing psychosis was a seismic event; I had to rebuild my life from ground zero in its disastrous aftermath. I was twenty-five years old, living frugally in Switzerland as a graduate student, when I experienced my first psychotic breakdown. I did not have a lot, but I managed to rent a cute studio apartment on my own in the livelier part of town of Basel. I had enough income to get by while working toward a doctoral degree in neurobiology. Things seemed to be on an upward trajectory for me. After graduation, I had plans to work in the research and development unit of one of Basel’s pharmaceutical companies. In these lofty, unmaterialised plans of mine, I imagined myself eventually going back to Singapore, with accomplished academic credentials from one of Europe’s oldest universities plus work experience from top pharmaceutical companies. 

But because of the psychotic episode, I had to take a break from school and move back to my mother’s place in Singapore. I lost my source of income temporarily when I had to take a mental health break.

I was at one of the lowest points in my life when I had to move back to my old room, filled with memories and baggage from my early years that I was not ready to confront.

My parents were supportive in their own ways—my mother made sure that I had physical comfort at home, and my father assured me that he would support me financially for as long as I needed. But having to live in my mother’s home and to depend on my father for financial support after my first taste of freedom and independence was a truly humbling experience. 

One of the first lessons I learnt from my experience with psychosis was that I could always ask my family of origin for help in times of need. Despite having our own independent lives in different countries and our individual differences, family will always be family. My family provided a stability and safety net in which I could rebuild my life. My relationships with my family members deepened, because the crisis brought out a sense of unity which was otherwise dormant in better times. I was lucky enough to have experienced this before the Covid-19 pandemic. 

My experience with psychosis, and the depression that ensued, also made me realise that I have an inner strength that I had not known about before. Amid my struggles with paranoia to anxiety to avolition, I somehow managed to pull something from deep within me to try again one more time, hold on for one more hour, and get through one more day. There were days (or daze) when waking up was a struggle. When I finally dragged myself out of bed to wash up, I felt so tired that I had to go right back to bed. Well, at least my breath didn’t stink now. 

A friend once told me that after she gave birth to her son at age 30, she grew a very thick skin. We were catching up casually over coffee when she said that she didn’t care so much about what others thought about her as much as she did in her twenties. She knew that she was now a mother and was responsible for a fragile life entrusted to her hands. As I listened to her reflections about life as a young mother, I saw her in a different light. Beneath my friend’s sense of humour and vivacious appearance was a grit that I had not noticed before. Motherhood had not changed my friend’s physical appearance much, but her inner strength and tenacity grew from the rigours of having to care for her son. She knew there were more important things, like her child’s wellbeing, than her own fears about other people’s opinions of her. While I don’t have the privilege of being a mother yet, my encounter with psychosis has also thickened my skin. I care less about what others think about me now, and I have a responsibility to care for my mental health.

A benefit of having literally lost my mind was that I have, in many ways, exited polite society. I can joke about my unsound mind. I don’t have to take part in the rat race of the “Singaporean Dream”: elite education, career progression, marriage and children, constantly upgrading my property and car.

With the benefit of hindsight, I realise that the fact I couldn’t fulfil my dream of working in Basel’s pharmaceutical companies was a blessing in disguise. That was a plan that many of my peers went along with after graduation with a doctoral degree. It was a plan by default, not by design. My brush with psychosis had awakened in me a sense of calling to become who I am, doing what I do today. Never in my wildest dreams that I think I would be practicing as a counsellor and doing pioneering work helming a non-profit organisation. Yet, my skin has grown thick enough that I can handle the weight of my calling lightly. Everything that I manage to achieve after losing my mental faculty is a bonus. There is something liberating about living outside societal expectations, even if it means that I sometimes experience societal stigma because of my mental health condition.

I was told by some people that I am “lucky”, that my condition is “not as serious” as those of others. There is nothing lucky and not-as-serious about living with schizophrenia. Only 1% of the population strikes this mental health “lottery”. Life expectancy for people with schizophrenia is some 20 years shorter compared to healthy people. I will say, though, that despite the cards that I was dealt with, I have chosen to make the most of them. While I cannot change many things in my life, I can choose how I look at them. 

My outlook on life determines my future, not my past.      

Florence identifies as someone with a lived experience of psychosis and depression. Her doctors diagnosed her with schizophrenia 12 years ago. Today, Florence is working as a counsellor and building a fledging non-profit organisation. She is the proud owner of a cozy 3-room HDB flat.

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Image Credit: Nan Zhou on Unsplash