Crisis at Home and the Step into Respite
In early March 2022, I sent a message to Angel, a friend and former colleague whom I had known since I began working at USM in 2008. We had worked in the same office for over a decade until she transferred to another department two years prior. I was especially close to her during her time in my office because of her kind nature, and I always felt comfortable asking her for help. Whenever I lacked transportation, she would often drive me home after work, and for a period, she picked me up in the mornings as well. She used to share the gospel with me, though I was uninterested at the time. We also collaborated on several projects. However, after her transfer, I rarely reached out—one of my weaknesses is simply not knowing how to keep in touch casually.
In my message, I asked her how to pray for help; it was the first time I had ever asked her a question like that. I felt helpless and deeply distressed by my mother's persistent unusual beliefs. In her state of distress, she had developed a deep-seated unusual belief about the retired counselor who had been supporting me psychologically. He, together with another female retired counselor, had provided me with endless emotional support throughout my recovery from depression over several years. Moreover, I was still working from home despite being vaccinated, as my job was easily manageable online.
These unusual beliefs were deeply rooted in the decades of domestic violence environment that my mother had endured. Though deeply loving, protective, and devoted to me, her anxiety grew as she aged. She became increasingly worried and impatient with my unintentional awkward movements, especially when assisting me with walking. Moreover, my movement does get worse slowly over the years, and sometimes my tremors worsen until I struggle to feed myself or work on the computer. For years, I had vented about these caregiving challenges to both of my counselors through our supportive WhatsApp chat. But I didn't know how to tell them about my mother's unusual persistent beliefs that directly involved them. The narrative had gone on for over a year, and I had only confided in them a few months prior when I couldn't handle the strain alone anymore.
Suicidal thoughts were becoming much more frequent, accompanied by plans though I tried to remain silent about them. I attempted to pray to Jesus as Angel had taught me, praying off and on.
However, the situation worsened. On Saturday, March 5th, around noon, my mum experienced a severe state of confusion, believing I was having epileptic seizures—something I had been free from since Standard 6. In her frantic attempt to help and stop what she perceived as a seizure, she inadvertently caused significant tissue strain to my mouth and throat. Overwhelmed, I broke down crying at the private clinic and again at the emergency department of the general hospital, leading to a voluntary admission into the psychiatric ward.
I was discharged after four or five days. My mum brought a red t-shirt for me to change into before returning home, mentioning that my female counselor had suggested it, though I felt it was tied to traditional cultural beliefs about places like hospitals, old folks' homes, and funeral services. Unfortunately, I could not cope with the same home environment, especially since my mum's mental state seemed increasingly disorganized and fragile. I was not okay either and still felt an overwhelming level of stress.
For the very first time, I realized I needed to stay somewhere else for a while. However, it seemed impossible because I required assistance with my basic daily activities. Truthfully, I felt a much stronger urge to end my life than to move somewhere new. On the evening of Thursday, March 10th, I broke down crying again and returned to the emergency department. However, the doctor discouraged readmission, advising me instead to return home and use coping strategies, and rescheduled me for an earlier outpatient appointment.
Because I could no longer ask the male counselor for transportation assistance—as he had provided previously—and I was unwilling to risk exposing my friends to COVID-19, I began asking around for a personal assistant who could accompany my mother and me to hospital checkups. A contact was eventually shared with me for someone who coordinated caregiving support. On Saturday, March 12th, the female counselor and her husband took my mother and me for a morning walk to help ease our minds. During our walk, she gently hinted to my mother about my need to stay elsewhere temporarily, which deeply worried my mother.
As the coordinator failed to find a caregiver, on Tuesday, March 15th, he himself transported my mum and me to the hospital and stayed to accompany us. I had another emotional breakdown during the consultation. Hearing about my need for a temporary respite, the coordinator shared that he also ran a nursing home and offered me a place to stay. After a long discussion, I was permitted to stay away from home for just 5 days, and I reluctantly agreed to the short break, even though I knew it wouldn't be enough time.
I moved into the nursing home that evening, choosing an unoccupied twin-sharing room on the first floor right next to the bathroom. Two days later, I recognized that I didn't need to strictly follow the 5-day limit that had been initially agreed upon. While I worried about my mum and how my brother was coping, I realized I had to care for myself first before I could care for my mother—much like the standard safety instructions on an airplane. I informed the nursing home owner of my plan to extend my stay and negotiated the fees, as well as keeping the second bed vacant, since my lifestyle as a disabled working adult differed significantly from the other residents, who were mostly senior citizens or individuals in medical recovery.
Looking back, I realize God had prepared me to step into this new season long before I asked Jesus for help. My participation in an eight-month online training program on Gender-Disability Intersectionalities and Strategic Advocacy, along with Web Accessibility Auditing and Accessible Publishing (organized by ESCAP with the support of the National Council for the Blind, Malaysia, alongside a group of cross-disability peers and allies in 2021), had given me greater confidence to advocate for myself. Additionally, I had obtained the contact information for a former teacher’s brother—an uncle who provided private ride-hailing services and agreed to transport me to and from work for a reasonable fare. (The person who had driven me to work for the past few years had retired.) Though I hadn't contacted him earlier, he became my private driver throughout my year-and-a-half stay at the nursing home. He also drove my mum around during that period, though we unfortunately lost touch with him after I moved back home with my mum.
Steps Toward Independence and Autonomy
The COVID-19 Movement Control Order (MCO) had changed our lives tremendously, forcing most activities online, including shopping. I learned to buy essential items and household supplies through online platforms, especially Shopee. Because my mum fell into a high-risk group, I ordered most things online—from health, beauty, and clothing to groceries, home goods, and food. Previously, my mum and I would take a car to Lotus’s once a month for groceries, and she bought other daily necessities at the Jelutong market or local supermarkets, taking a morning bus to the market vendors and convenience shops.
By 2022, I knew specific Shopee storefronts for our essential items. Following the March 5th incident, I lost a significant amount of weight within a few weeks. When we returned to the office in April 2022 under a hybrid schedule (three days in office, two days working from home), my pants were far too loose. A colleague helped tighten the waistbands by hand-sewing them until I could buy replacements. Thankfully, I easily found suitable work pants on Shopee—my first time buying long pants online—and I remain a regular customer of that shop today. Additionally, a visually impaired friend I met during the 8-month training suggested using Pandamart via Foodpanda for urgent delivery needs, which became another vital tool for me.
Years earlier, I had considered the possibility of my mum and me moving into a suitable senior care facility in the future, for when she could no longer care for me, herself, or our home. Having that thought in mind eased my worries about how I would manage after her eventual passing. I used to wonder if we could ever find a facility that fit our budget and met my mum's meticulous standards. I never imagined God would pave the way in such an unexpected manner, allowing me to experience living in a care facility firsthand when I did.
Despite all the distress and chaos, my two counselor friends remained deeply supportive and understanding. On my third day at the nursing home, one of them took me to shop for essential supplies for my new living arrangement. We visited a nearby medical supply store to look for a rollator. I found a sturdy four-wheel rollator that supported my movement, folded easily, converted into a push-chair, and could be used both indoors and outdoors—something I had dreamed of owning for years. I purchased it for RM900 after a 10% discount and immediately began using it at Lotus’s. With the rollator, I could walk around independently.
On the following day, I was recommended to see a psychologist at a counseling ministry. I felt comfortable with her from our first session, as she respected me as an adult and addressed my need for self-protection. After our second session, I took my very first solo Grab ride to attend an office workshop at a hotel. Anxious about safety—since my mum had always warned me about the dangers of traveling alone as a disabled woman—I asked my psychologist to book the ride on her phone so she could track my location. Previously, my mum had never allowed me to take ride-hailing cars alone, even with our trusted driver; she would ride with me to my office, take a bus back home, and I would have to arrange for a colleague or friend to drive me home after work.
When the workshop ended the next day, I booked and took a Grabcar back to the nursing home entirely on my own. From that point forward, I traveled independently—going grocery shopping, attending medical checkups, and going to therapy whenever my driver was unavailable or when it wasn't practical for him to drive a short distance. Additionally, a friend who was my carpool partner from 2008 to 2015 happened to live near the nursing home, having moved into an apartment there two years prior. Once again, we began commuting to and from work together.
Shadows of Depression and the Search for Meaning
However, my depression did not immediately improve. It was rooted in multiple interconnected factors, including living with Cerebral Palsy, my internal expectations of the responsibilities adults should carry in life, family, career, and society, and my upbringing in a domestic violence environment. Furthermore, transitioning from relying heavily on my mum to living independently brought a massive shift. Even though I was staying at the nursing home with caregivers, I chose to hand-wash my own underwear and socks rather than mixing them into the communal laundry machine—a choice that benefited both myself and the other residents. Once dried by the caregivers, I folded or hung my clothes in the wardrobe myself. At home, my mum handled all the laundry, but living away pushed me to do every activity I was physically capable of doing.
Meanwhile, family dynamics became complex. My mum deeply missed me, and my brother stepped in to support her, occasionally bringing her to stay at his house for a few days or weeks. In the midst of our shared stress, miscommunication arose. I felt hurt being excluded from conversations when he took her to see a private psychiatrist, especially since I had lived with her daily and understood her ongoing conditions best. My brother was trying to address her severe insomnia and distress in his own way, but based on what my mum shared, I worried her full history of mental health struggles was not completely understood by the doctor. When I attempted to offer input or seek additional guidance for her, our differing approaches created tension.
Financially, I managed well—covering the nursing home fees, my housing loan, utility bills, and personal expenses. I continued ensuring my mother had meals, ordering food for her via GrabFood or Foodpanda when she was at my apartment. I spoke with her daily via WhatsApp calls, usually in the mornings before work. She shared her daily life with me, though her recurring unusual beliefs still caused me emotional distress at times. Occasionally, I felt lonely, even though I got along well with the caregivers and several residents.
I began to realize that my spiritual life was practically nonexistent. For four decades, I had focused exclusively on my studies and my career. Consequently, I struggled to find a deeper purpose to keep living, a struggle that had intensified ever since I bought my apartment in 2008 at age 26—a decision driven largely by the intense pressure to step away from a difficult home environment.
When I first moved into the nursing home, Angel and her newly married husband took me to their church, KingdomCity, once or twice. My mum was pleased when they picked me up, hoping Angel might encourage me to return home. My female counselor and her husband also brought me to their church once. However, I felt disengaged during the services. I couldn't understand why believers stood for 15 to 30 minutes singing joyfully and then listening to sermons. At KingdomCity, people even danced and jumped during worship. I was shocked by their form of worship; burdened by heavy stress, my mind was clouded, and I could not feel peace or joy. Additionally, due to my processing speed and auditory challenges with English, I needed extra time to analyze the lyrics word for word to understand the songs.
I considered joining structured weekend Buddhist activities for adults, such as Dharma classes, and looked for temples offering them. Yet, I was hesitant to go. I worried about how I would navigate the space and participate without knowing anyone there. Even if I knew someone, I felt I shouldn't burden them to assist me every weekend, and I questioned whether I could integrate into the community.
After all, based on the Dharma, it is extremely hard for anyone to break the repeated cycle of life—which is full of endless suffering—in order to attain nirvana. We remain in the cycle of birth, old age, illness, and death, followed by rebirth. The cycle goes round and round until all karma, both good and bad, is exhausted. I felt that one lifetime was hard enough. I couldn't see any real lasting pleasure, even when imagining a life with all the money, anything we could want, and days full of leisure and fun. Perhaps my thoughts were clouded by depression. In any case, I didn't want to be reborn after my death. I was struggling enough just to continue living from one day to the next. I hoped to attain nirvana, but it seemed nearly impossible.
My stay at the nursing home did not interrupt my vegetarian diet. On the 1st and 15th days of each lunar month, I gave the caregiver a tin of garden peas or baked beans in tomato sauce to prepare for me, or bought green vegetables to be stir-fried without garlic or onion, eating them with rice for lunch and dinner. For breakfast, I drank red date tea with a bowl of oatmeal instead of milk.
As the 9th Lunar Month approached, I went to Lotus’s to buy new personal items—including a toothbrush, toothpaste, cleaning cloths, a pair of utensils, dish soap, and a storage container. I asked my regular driver to purchase a box of 24 bottled waters, and he brought me brunch and dinner for all 10 days of the strict vegetarian observance. I felt satisfied knowing I could uphold this strict 10-day diet independently without my mother's assistance, proving to her that I could live on my own without compromising my religious dietary commitments.
However, once the excitement and busyness of preparing for and concluding the vegetarian period passed, my depression worsened. One Sunday in October 2022, I remained trapped in bed, covered from head to toe with a zipped bedsheet liner, alternating covering and uncovering myself due to the heat. I had only changed out of my nightgown into a simple t-shirt and shorts to go downstairs briefly for breakfast and a quick lunch. I hadn't showered. Beside me on the bed sat a plastic prescription bottle containing roughly 30 to 50 of my previous antidepressant pills. I held the bottle, wrestling internally over whether to swallow all the pills at once or put the bottle down.
Surrender, Faith, and New Beginnings
In that exact moment, my phone rang. It was Angel, asking if I wanted to join her and her husband, Mark, for the 5:00 PM service at Kingdomcity. We hadn't spoken or messaged in months. After pausing for a minute or two, I agreed. I quickly got out of bed, hid the pill bottle back inside a locked drawer, showered, and prepared before Mark and Angel arrived.
After the service, while we were waiting for the lift, a pastor approached and asked if I wanted to accept Jesus into my life. I shook my head and said no. I believed religion was too fundamental a commitment to change impulsively. I am not easily persuaded in such matters—recalling how my former therapist at the Cerebral Palsy Association of Penang had once worried I might convert to Islam during my university years, and also how I had refrained from joining Soka Gakkai during my final year of study despite initial interest.
On the drive back to the nursing home, I opened up and poured out my pain to Angel. Mark sat quietly at the wheel while I cried and shared my struggles. After I finished, Angel gently asked: "Why not try giving Jesus an opportunity to help you, since you haven't found another way to ease your suffering?" She encouraged me to take my time and consider it.
After two days of reflection, I called Angel and told her I wanted to place my trust in Jesus, asking what I needed to do next. She was overjoyed, having prayed for my salvation for many years. She guided me through a simple prayer of faith over the phone—no elaborate rituals, just a few clear sentences. Two months before my 40th birthday, I became a Christian. Honestly, my initial decision was driven partly by a desire not to disappoint Angel, who had supported me so faithfully. Secretly, I also wondered if God might take me home shortly after I accepted Him, having heard stories of elderly individuals passing away peacefully soon after conversion. I quietly hoped for a similar quick departure from my pain.
The next day, I cut off the protective religious string I had worn on my right wrist for years and discarded it. I removed the small yellow Buddhist amulet from my wallet and eventually threw it away as well. During our daily phone call, I informed my mother of my decision; surprisingly, she accepted it with grace and understanding.
Within a few days, I began worrying about stopping the vegetarian diet I had observed on the 1st and 15th of every lunar month—a practice I had vowed 16 years earlier for my mother's health. I feared that breaking the vow might bring harm to her. Angel reassured me that my mother was safe in God's hands. I set aside the dietary obligation, and my mother remained well—continuing to manage her mild age-related health needs and mental confusion while remaining capable of assisting me with daily activities.
The following Sunday, I began attending services regularly at Kingdomcity. Initially, Mark and Angel picked me up and dropped me off. After a few weeks, I began taking Grab cars independently, pushing my rollator walker from the drop-off point to the church which was previously located at the Level 4. I should not trouble Mark and Angel to come pick me up every Sunday as they served at the church and commuted from the mainland. They would send me back after the services and sometimes they took me for lunch or dinner before dropping me off. Sometimes other church members living near my nursing home would offer me a ride. Over time, I grew to truly enjoy the services—worshipping, listening to sermons, praying, and building friendships within the community, even if remembering names remained a challenge.
Accepting Jesus did not bring an instant, effortless transformation. Life continues to have its share of hardship, ups, and downs, and I continue to navigate living with depression. There have been seasons when I felt disconnected and slowly drifted away from faith, but within a few weeks, I found myself turning back. Each time I return, my relationship with God grows stronger and deeper. My spiritual life has matured significantly, giving me a clear understanding of what a relationship with Christ means. I have no regrets—only gratitude for coming to know God after ignoring Him for nearly 40 years.
A month ago, while Angel was waiting with me for a Grab car after the 5:00 PM service, I asked her how I could share my journey of coming to know Jesus and accepting Him as my Lord and Savior. I used to tell my psychologist that my life felt like a disaster—a continuous nightmare starting in March 2022 and lasting throughout my time at the nursing home. With some encouragement, I finally decided to write down my story to share with all of you.
While I once viewed everything I went through as purely tragic, looking at it through a different lens has changed my perspective. I realize I had the chance to experience many new things during my period of independent living—things I previously thought were impossible or had never even considered. As Isaiah 55:9 reminds us, God’s ways are higher than our ways, and His thoughts are higher than our thoughts. And as expressed in Genesis 50:20, what was intended for harm, God can turn around for His ultimate glory.