By Pablito, a 66-year-old Chinese native of Boston now residing in Honolulu, HI

This is his response to the author behind our second story:

Dear 33-year-old Chinese woman,

How brave of you to express and reveal yourself, particularly in an Asian newspaper.

I, too, am a mentally challenged Eurasian man. My diagnosis seems to change quarterly or yearly, and my present psychiatrist doesn’t quite know what to “label” me as. Frankly, I’m not too worried about that. I think I lean more towards being schizoaffective. None of my medical staff ever administered shots to me since I was officially diagnosed in 1993. I’ve been taking my meds in pill form.

As I think about it, my Chinese side of the family never spoke about mental illness.

That even includes some of the other Chinese people I had lived with. Now in my 60s, about ten years ago, I acquired, by chance, documentation from Boston City Hospital that my maternal mother was schizophrenic. My Chinese half-sister, who was 20 years my senior, knew of my mother’s background. That’s probably one reason why she adamantly refused to discuss her with me. When I mentioned to her that I was locating my “lost” mother, she nearly threw a fit. I went ahead anyway.

I think my illness started in my early 20s. I had an episode one morning, walked at least 10 miles along a stretch of highway to the airport in Kauai, Hawaii. All I wore were a tank top, shorts and flip flops. Somehow, I knew to tuck into my pockets my airplane ticket and wallet, landed in San Francisco and luckily, a friend met me at the arrival gate. My best friend in Kauai tipped my San Francisco friend off. If it hadn’t been for him, I would’ve continued onto Boston. It was around Thanksgiving. Good planning huh?

Since then, I’ve worked mainly temporary jobs, as I couldn’t tolerate being in the same seat, the same office, and performing the same task day in and day out. Yes, I “committed” myself to a few “permanent” jobs, but the same irritating issues arose. I always hated when someone asked me about my family.

Throughout the ensuing years, my mental problems persisted, but I didn’t know a thing about seeking mental help. I had no one to mentor me.

One of my landlords, whom I cooked suppers for after my 9-to-5 job, thought I was eccentric. The thought of my seeing a shrink for the first time exasperated me. To think, for so many years, I had joked about mental illness. A co-worker warned me that, if I misbehaved, she’ll send me to a state hospital. But, when I quit my civil service job in Boston and moved back to San Francisco, I was unable to find suitable work. My deportment deteriorated. I found myself talking to myself out loud everyday.

After six months, when my apartment lease expired, I went to San Diego and stayed at a pension hotel. My roommate dragged me to a mental health clinic where a psychologist interviewed me. “Get this prescription filled and see you next month,” he said. What was I to do in the meantime? To make this story short, a taxi driver, who listened to my “problems,” recommended me to return to Honolulu, as one of my best and trustworthy friend lives. There, I managed to qualify for a grant to attend a business college. What a waste. I flunked accounting, but my best friend’s boss hired me anyway. Within six months, the firm “eliminated my position”. That was the first time I collected unemployment. I was physically a wreck (I dressed like a bum) and I had cut my hair with a pair of rusted scissors while standing over a waste barrel.

Out of sheer desperation, I voluntarily went to another mental health clinic. I saw their ad posted on a university bulletin board. I thought, what the heck, I’ve got nothing to lose, I’m nearly 40. First they screened me over the phone. I guess I passed as they gave me an appointment to see a psychologist. That interview lasted 2-3 hours. Was I drained? I saw the psychiatrist that same week. Though I had no health insurance and limited funds, the clinic provided all my meds until I qualified for Medicaid. The clinic saved my life. When I returned later, the doctor made a remark,

“How did you ever make it all those years?”

Therapy, whether one-on-one or in groups, did not work for me. Particularly the ones that pitch the religious talk. I’ve been in and out of Club Houses. They’re safe places for mentally ill people to go and socialize. There are Club Houses throughout the states. I believe most are operated by the state government. However, when the Club Houses got wind of sending their members to work, I checked out. None of the jobs, janitorial, return merchandise clerk, interested me. Instead, I began to read and write, took a few classes at a community college, and volunteered here and there.

How am I going to end this “book”? I’m so tired writing all the above. It’s late at night. Time for bed. Don’t think I’ll finish this, but you should get the drift.

I’m doing better these days. Meds need to be adjusted time to time, but nothing major. I’ll say one thing, many people are so paranoid when they are dealing with a mentally ill person.

As long as the individual is under the care of a professional health worker (usually a psychiatrist who can legally prescribe meds) and takes his/her meds as prescribed, things should be fine. Treat us as an adult, not a child. I can’t stand it when someone uses child talk.

I’m currently working on my memoir. So far, I have written two books. There might be book three, which would summarize the first two. Unsure which route I should take, publishing house or self-publishing. Anyone have ideas?

To read this article in Chinese (Traditional), please click here.