Then and Now

In many ways I mark my life as a before and after. I was one mother, one wife, one friend, one daughter, one sister before December 19, 2015, and I am altogether a completely different person today. I still don’t fully know what brought me to that day and I have made peace with not knowing.

I had fallen down the deep, dark hole of depression and had finally hit rock bottom.  Depression and anxiety are tricky as there are no outward and visible signs. To the outsider, I appeared so “normal.” I had mastered the ability to hide it and wear a mask, even in front of close friends and family. But by December 2015, I was wearing the mask less and less because it was getting increasingly harder to do. Putting it on is exhausting, so I stopped doing it. I slowly began withdrawing from friends and family. I stopped going out in public. I lost interest in everything and everyone. My days became shorter and shorter as I retreated to my bed more and more. I wasn’t sleeping—I had stopped that months ago—but the thought of getting out of bed, let alone showering, brushing my teeth, and getting dressed overwhelmed me to the point that I was paralyzed by my own anxiety.  If I absolutely had to get up and get dressed I marked my day by how many hours were left before I could go back to bed. On the rare occasions that I went out, I hid it masterfully—so well, in fact, I could even fool myself into thinking I was getting better. But I wasn’t. Alone again in my car or my house or my own thoughts, I went back to that same despondent, hopeless, lonely, fragile girl. When I wasn’t despondent and hopeless I was crying inconsolably…and no one knew it. That behavior can’t go on forever without major fallout and cracks began to form. My husband was becoming increasingly worried. We talked about it some, but talking wasn’t helping so I finally stopped talking to him, too. My kids are pretty bright; they knew something was not right with mom, but they were afraid and eventually I think my behavior just became their norm.  

I am a person of faith. My faith has certainly gotten me through some difficult times and I lean heavily into my faith in good times and in bad. I foolishly thought if I prayed harder or read my bible more often I would begin to feel better. I read and I prayed like my life depended on it because I thought it did. It didn’t help…at least not in the way I hoped it would. 

December 18, 2015, was a Friday. My 4th grader had her Winter Party at school and had asked repeatedly if I would come. I did not want to go. I tried every way I could think of to rationalize and justify skipping it, but ultimately I couldn’t, so I went.  No one knew it, but I was unraveling at a rapid pace. All I wanted to do was go home and go back to bed. What I also really wanted was sleep. Exhaustion at that level is hard to explain. I hadn’t had more than a couple of hours of sleep in so, so long. I was so profoundly exhausted that I felt as if I were moving through life in a state of despondence, dissociation, and numbness. I wanted sleep so badly, but it just would not come. That night everyone was so excited to be out of school for winter break and wanted to celebrate with a family dinner. Again, I wanted to stay home and retreat but forced myself to go out to dinner with my family. I stared at my food. I remember wanting to sob and it was almost impossible to keep the tears at bay. We got home and I went straight to bed. I laid there again waiting for sleep to come. The room began to spin as panic set in. I cried out to God, I cried out to my husband, I cried out for relief of any kind. Then I stopped. A switch flipped and something happened. I retreated into the despondent state that had become so familiar. I felt so utterly hopeless and alone and knew I couldn’t do it for one more minute. In my mind, there was only one way for this extraordinary pain to stop.

Suicide is something I had allowed myself to contemplate more and more in recent weeks. I was even beginning to formulate a plan. I had sleeping pills that were definitely not doing the job they were prescribed to do and I began to wonder just how many it would take…and if I had enough. 

I laid in the middle of my bathroom floor squeezing the contents of the prescription bottle in my hand. I had 17 pills and I wanted desperately to swallow them. Of course, I thought about my children. Would they ever forgive me?  Did I even care? Wasn’t it so much worse living like this?  What about my husband? Would he hate me? Did I care about that? What if it didn’t work? Could I stand being a failure at suicide, too?  

These are the thoughts of depression and anxiety when they go unacknowledged and untreated.  

This was the scene my husband found at 3am on Saturday morning. He immediately  took matters into his own hands, scooped me up off the floor, put me in the car and drove me to the hospital. I’ll be honest, the ER was an unimaginable experience. It was horrible and left me feeling worse than when I had arrived, if you can imagine that. I wasn’t admitted. I was actually shamed and ridiculed by a very unqualified social worker and it’s literally a miracle that I made it through the next few hours. 

We got home later that morning and my husband was in full panic mode about what to do next. He called one of my closest friends who is also a mental health professional.  She’s my friend first, so I never went to her for help. She knew very little of what the past several months had been like. Remember, I had become a master at hiding it. She walked into my house, into my bedroom and crawled into bed next to me. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for her to see someone she loves in that state.  What she thought and felt is her story to tell and she knows she’s welcome to tell it. I knew all pretense was gone; any mask I once wore was off. I was fully exposed and vulnerable and I didn’t care. I needed help and I knew it.  

It took several hours but my caretakers were persistent. They found a hospital that had room and it had my friend’s professional seal of approval. Now they had to convince me to go. Christmas was in 6 days and there were still presents to buy and wrap, baking, cooking, traveling. Who would do all of that? And what would we tell everyone?

I had so many questions and fears about going to a behavioral health hospital. Scenes from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Nurse Ratched kept coming to mind. I was assured it was nothing like that but I was still scared. I so wanted to be home for Christmas, but no one could promise me that. I also wondered if I could see or talk to my family while I was there. My husband had become my rock and I relied so heavily on him for almost everything. I had so many questions about what to expect and I have never felt so afraid about anything in my life. Ever.  

I don’t remember saying yes. I just remember getting out of bed, getting showered and dressed as my husband packed a bag. I also remember thinking that deep down, way deep down, I really was brave. I knew it would take every single ounce of courage I could possibly summon to do this. And I was right. My friend hugged me good-bye, told me she loved me and that she would be praying. Now I had to tell my kids what was happening and that was harder than I expected. Everyone cried. I knew they were so afraid but they were also relieved. They knew I needed help and I think they were hopeful that I was finally going to get it.

We got in the car and started the hour drive to the hospital. Because it was Saturday, I had to be admitted through the ER. It was a different hospital but I was still nervous because my ER experience 12 hours earlier had been so awful. That process took several more hours and it was well into the night before I was finally admitted. Once admitted, I couldn’t drive myself across the street to the behavioral health unit, I had to be taken by a security guard and my husband followed in our car. We walked in and the moment I had been dreading was finally here. There were two large, solid, heavy security doors at the end of the hallway that I can see as clearly today as I could on that day in December. It was time for us to say good-bye. I can barely type thinking about that moment. It. Was. So. Hard. We were both crying and I cannot imagine what it was like for my husband to watch me walk through those doors and leave me there. So much fear and so much uncertainty for both of us. The second the doors closed behind me I started to cry harder and kept repeating over and over that I had changed my mind and wanted to go home. But even as the tears and words came, my feet kept moving forward. One after the other.  Right. Left. Right. Left.  This was the answer to all of those prayers. God has only ever promised me His presence and as excruciating as that walk down the hallway was, I knew I was held. I knew without a doubt that God was both leading me and fully with me. God’s not some genie in a bottle. You can’t wish or even pray for something and voilà, make it come true. God just does not work like that. I can’t pray for good health and consume a diet of candy bars and soda and expect change. It requires work on my part, too. I bristle when people say ‘God is good’ and ‘I am blessed’ only when good things happen. What I know to be true is that God is good and I am blessed because God is present. In the good and the bad, He’s here, leading and holding. I had taken that first, brave, hard step to getting help and now He was literally guiding my every step.  Right. Left. Right. Left. 

I made that long slow walk to the intake room. Once there, I was asked a myriad of questions, more vitals were taken, and the tears kept coming. I spent the night of December 19th in a strange room, in a strange bed, in strange hospital-issued clothes.  There were strange noises and strange lights. Strange people were in and out of my room all night and I wasn’t allowed to keep any of my personal items with me.The chapstick and lotion I keep on my nightstand to use throughout the night were locked in a closet down the hallway.  No electronics of any kind were allowed and there was no clock to mark time.  Sleep was intermittent and fitful, but alas, that part was familiar.  

Breakfast the next morning wasn’t required but I was encouraged to get up and eat something. I can’t tell you where I sat for any other meal that week but I can take you to the exact table and chair I used that first morning. I can see my tray. I can see the plate, silverware, and coffee. I can see the unfamiliar faces of other patients and staff. That morning is seared in my memory. I sat in that chair, stared at my food and cried inconsolably as everyone in the room stared. Some with sympathy, some with annoyance (later in the week I would affectionately be known as the crier). I’m not sure what I expected but this wasn’t it. I did it. I walked in. I stayed. I didn’t feel better. But I kept going through the motions and showing up. Waiting.  

Later that morning was my first visit with the psychiatrist. We spent a long time together and he had about a zillion questions. I knew I had to be honest. Honest about every doubt, every fear, every thought, everything. And I was. He put me on medication immediately. Some just to be taken at the hospital, some for a short time and some indefinitely. I would eventually be diagnosed with major depressive disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, and suicidal ideation.  

There is A LOT of group therapy in an in-patient facility. We cooked, we gardened, we played games, and did arts and crafts. Every type of group play therapy you can imagine. We were looking for a connection and I found I particularly loved crafts and cooking. Gardening was not for me. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed play therapy. You really only think about play therapy in regard to children but I am here to tell you adults need to play. It’s now part of my self-care and self-care was nonexistent to me then. It’s a critical part of my on-going recovery. The definition of play is simple, it’s time spent without purpose. I just have to pay close attention that play doesn’t cross the line into isolation and withdrawal.  

Group therapy is also when and where you begin to learn more about yourself and the people who are with you. I can walk the hall and still tell you who was in every room and a little of each of their stories. They saw and heard things from me that no one ever has.  We have a shared experience at a very integral part of our lives. I am no longer in contact with any of them, but I think of and pray for them often.  

The fog and fear slowly…ever so slowly…began to lift. I was beginning to become a little more comfortable in my new surroundings. Visiting hours were everyday from 6-8pm. Every evening while I was there, my husband was the first to arrive and the last to leave. Using a community phone, I could call him whenever I liked and I did!  Every day I asked for a reminder of home. My grandmother’s quilt, his t-shirt to sleep in, my favorite leggings, a picture of our children. He brings them all to me. We talk about my life in the hospital, he tells me about his life outside. We cry a lot. We hold hands the entire time. We are still scared.  

I worked really hard and committed myself in every way to my recovery so that I could be home for Christmas. I was released the afternoon of December 24th and the day after Christmas I began a six week intensive outpatient program. 

There is so much I want to say about those transformative five days. I learned so much about myself and my relationships. What I didn't realize at the time was that this moment marked only the beginning of my recovery. However, for the first time in a long while, I felt hopeful, and I clung to that hope for dear life.

Every stereotype I had about mental illness was completely obliterated during my hospital stay. I often found myself thinking that under different circumstances I might be friends with many of the people I met in the hospital. There were other moms who I discussed all things parenting with and a grandmother who looked just like Aunt Bee. There was a college athlete who reminded me of my own sons, an Ivy League grad student, a Fortune 500 executive and a young newlywed teacher, among others. Our circumstances were all very different but we shared a profound connection. We were sick and we wanted to get better. 

Mental illness is a disease. It requires medication and treatment just like any other disease. Until December 19, I didn’t see mental illness as a disease, I saw it as a weakness. I didn’t have a good ‘reason’ for feeling the way I did. I kept searching for a cause. There isn’t always a cause and that’s what makes this illness so hard. Being able to pinpoint a cause would make it easier. I wouldn’t need treatment; I’d just address the cause, but it doesn’t work that way. I would never allow diseases like diabetes or cancer to go unchecked or untreated; why was I so reluctant to seek treatment for this?  Because the stigma surrounding mental illness is still so pervasive and it’s the sole reason I speak so openly about my own story.  Stigma is also what prevents people from talking about it and not talking about it is a barrier to getting help. There are a myriad of resources available that don’t include an in-patient facility. Start by talking with your doctor. Find a therapist. Someone I respect and admire very much often says that everyone needs a good therapist and a good spiritual director. I agree and I have both.

So many people continue to reach out and trust me with their stories. Many of them are well on the road to recovery and some are just beginning their journey. It’s a long road and there are many bumps and sharp turns along the way. I have great tools for all of it now. Tools to manage my depression and anxiety. Tools to manage insomnia. Tools when I experience hard emotions. They are hard learned and they continue to change and evolve as I do. What I am learning is that there is no final destination, just a road I will always travel…and that’s okay.

*I’ve spent years curating a list of trusted mental health resources that you can find here.