Hidden Demons

It was only going to be a few sips of champagne while waiting for my London flight in the Business Lounge in Hong Kong airportthat’s what I told myself. I would dilute it with some sparkling water. I had been to the doctor’s clinic at my local subway station for something to calm my anxiety and let me sleep. He had referred me to a Central doctor who specialized in mental health. I remember the first visit well. The lady doctor was reassuring, asking about my symptoms and writing notes on a pad in front of her. “What would you say are the symptoms of your anxiety?” “I can’t get to sleep and I start waking very early, even when I take an over-the-counter sleeping pill. I can’t focus on my work. I get bad-tempered quickly, sometimes in public.” “And how long have you had these symptoms?” “About two months now. I don’t know what’s wrong. I feel anxious about everything, my finances, my apartment, my other half.” “You have a partner?’ she moved her head to one side. “Yes, he’s living in our place in London. He has a job there.” “AhI see, and you have a job here.” She wrote something else down and then reached over to her prescription pad. I read her writing upside down on her notepaper: Manic depressive. “I am going to prescribe you an SSRI anti-depressant. You will need to start off with a very small dosage. One table cut in half twice a day, rising to two tablets a day after a week. We’ll keep you on that dosage for a month and see how it goes.” I was somehow comforted by this, but also alarmed that she had written down Manic depressive. Was that who I was? I had never thought about it before, since I had been productive and well balanced for a number of years. How would I be able to get off the tablets once I started on them? How long would it take before I returned to “normal”? She answered these questions in the same reassuring tone, and told me that it was quite possible to taper off the dosage in four to six weeks. I just had to be careful and check in with her by phone or appointment to report my progress. “However,” she added. “Some people have difficulty coming off. A few remain on the tablets for life.” I was still shocked and scared when I came out of her clinic, but also somehow comforted. I had something that would calm the symptoms. I wouldn’t be on them for life. Everyone reacts differently to alterations of the brain’s chemistry. In my case the prevention of serotonin reuptake caused me to become strangely subdued, lacking in my usual energy and engagement with the world. I hardly felt anything except a flatness that I could almost taste on my tongue. Contrary to what the doctor said, I found it difficult to taper the dosage down. I kept on going back to the same doctor to extend the period and get a new prescription. She then recommended a much slower tapering, lasting for several weeks, during which I felt that odd sense of listlessness return. The tablets made me feel safe, I slept better, but I also felt numb. That’s how I found myself standing in the Business Lounge at Hong Kong Airport contemplating that one glass of champagne to tackle the flight. It was easy and sensible to dilute it with a glass of sparkling water afterwards. I tried it a sip at a time; it gave me just the slightest buzz. After I drank the sparkling water, the buzz almost disappeared. I tried it again, and then again on the flight. Somehow I was still sober by the time we arrived in LondonSimon couldn’t possibly know, I told myself. Many addicts experience this “secrecy syndrome”. I was very cautious in London, buying only small bottles of champagne and hiding them in various drawers in my study, or in the car boot, or even outside on the balcony. I went back to Hong Kong and sipped a few more champagnes on the flight, sometimes even forgetting the glass of sparkling water to accompany them. Back in Hong Kong, I didn’t have any reason to hide. No one knew what I was up to. So the syndrome continued as I flew back and forth from East to West. Sometimes I was euphoric; sometimes I was just numb. But I told myself I was definitely not manic depressive. However, there were a number of tell tale signs. I went out on strange rambling benders to bars in the Lan Kwai Fong area, talking to anyone who would listen, getting into arguments in taxis, and on one occasion falling down the escalator at the airport. I phoned my mother and sisters, telling them I was fine. I called Simon at odd hours with strange requests, protesting I was not to blame for something or other. Eventually, one sleepless night in my small flat high up in a Kowloon housing block, I contemplated jumping off the balcony. The feeling must have crept up on me insidiouslyjust like all the lies I told myself that I was okay now, the period of recovery had been successful, I could manage my “medicine”. Something inside kept drawing me back to the window and the little balcony high over the container ships in Victoria Harbour and the Airport Expressway. I could see tiny cars and taxis speeding along below me. I half-opened the glass door. I could feel the pull downwardsjust one small step, sleep at last. At that moment Simon must have come to me: an overwhelming horror of the hurt and destruction I would cause him. I started to back away from the balcony. Somehow I found the number for the Good Samaritans. I was luckysomeone answered even at this ungodly hour and got me to close the balcony door, told me the next steps I could take in the morning, tried to reassure me. Almost crawling back to the sofa I lay out prone, gripping the leather tight in my hands. I can get back from this,” I whispered to myself. “I will get back from this.”