“Good morning 5 Memorial! Please wash your hands and make your way to the dining room, it’s time for breakfast!”
I really do not miss that wake-up call at exactly 7:45am every day.
Sometimes we think our life could never get any worse, any lower, until it does. Tuesday the 10th of October is a day that will forever live in infamy in my head. I woke up, checked a few things on my phone, saw that my first student loan payment would be almost double what I originally expected, and that one little thing started a terrible spiral in my head. It was a combination of that, miscellaneous medical bills, paying down credit card debt so slowly because there seemed to be one thing after another, and the fear I’d never be able to actually start saving towards a future move out west with my partners. That turned into feelings of being a poor partner, a failure, and my self-esteem became non-existent as all I felt was despair. Despair to the point that I no longer wanted to exist anymore; and that’s when the intrusive thoughts started, giving me plans on how to make that happen.
I still managed to go to work that day, and almost burst into tears multiple times as work stresses did little to alleviate the ever-growing despair inside me (of course that was the day our interventional scanner crashed while I was in the middle of a procedure). When I got home, Sarah could tell it was bad. I’ve had many depressive episodes before, but never ones where my head spiraled that low with no sign of getting better. I should’ve known that trying to manage my poor mental state without any intervention for about 15yrs would eventually catch up to me. I knew I was a danger to myself, so I made one of the hardest decisions of my life. Sarah called our girlfriends, Cassy and Laura, and when they arrived, I packed my things and the four of us drove to the emergency room.
Going to the hospital for a mental health crisis was definitely one of the scariest and most humiliating experiences of my life. When you work in a hospital, it can make it all the more uncomfortable to have the roles switched and not be the one in control. As soon as I was checked in, I was immediately taken into triage, where I broke down as I explained why I was there and what was going on inside my head. After triage, security came and escorted me to the secure holding area where I handed over all my belongings and was changed into paper scrubs two sizes too big. I got to wait there until Crisis Team came over from one of the larger hospitals to evaluate me and find an inpatient bed. My time in that room is a bit fuzzy, probably because of the Ativan they gave to calm me down, but I remember waiting for a while in my paper scrubs on a bed bolted to the floor, the only piece of furniture in the room, watching Halloween on a TV recessed into the wall behind plexiglass, sobbing whenever I thought about the constant intrusive thoughts or just where I was and why, and counting the number of holes in the air vent above me (it was 143). I do remember the brief happier moments when my partners came in one by one to visit me. What I would’ve done without those three, I honestly don’t know. After they came through, and the Crisis Team case manager, and a psychiatrist, I finally slept.
In the morning I was transferred to the psychiatric hospital, and went through intake there. I broke down again explaining to the nurse what was going on, although it was a little easier every time I talked about it. For once in my life, I was wholly open about my depression because I did not have the energy to care anymore, and it was cathartic to get it all off my chest. My orthostatic blood pressure fluctuations earned me a nice yellow “FALL RISK” bracelet for my stay. After intake I was shown to my room, still in my paper scrubs because they had to go through my clothes first. I remember just sitting on my bed and sobbing. All the emotions I kept dammed up for over a decade pouring out in one chaotic torrent.
The broken, hopeless girl who went into the hospital and the joyful, bright girl who left honestly feel like two entirely different people in my head. Over the 6 days I spent voluntarily committed to the hospital, I changed dramatically. I started journaling and reading in my free time. I went to groups. I opened up to therapists and peer counselors, bringing some to tears talking about the abuse during my childhood or the love and care of my partners. I called Sarah everyday, and she heard the changes in my voice as my mood improved and I became more hopeful. The psychiatrists started me on a medication and upped it after just two days. The initial side effects were miserable, but at least I could just go lay down and rest whenever I wanted. I even made friends among my floormates, and two of us finished a 1,000-piece puzzle of exotic birds the day before we both got discharged.
My stay in the hospital was the most intense and profound period of self-reflection, healing, and transformation of my life. The simultaneous journeys of emotional, psychological, and spiritual growth changed me, permanently and for the better. I had never written down everything that contributed to my depression, and honestly I did not give myself enough credit for all the shit I’ve gone through. It felt so validating to talk to several licensed mental healthcare professionals who told me that yes, what I went through over the course of my childhood was in fact abuse. They concurred with me that my mom is an emotionally abusive/manipulative narcissist, as well as just honestly being religious to the point of mild fanaticism. It made me feel vindicated about the gaslighting I experienced 6 years ago when I tried confronting my mom about her being abusive and she entirely blew me off. Specifically, when she broke down crying, complaining about being made the family’s “whipping post” despite the hard life she’s had.
Those conversations, combined with the spiritual journey I went through thanks to a book I brought that was coincidentally about building a connection to your patron through a “dark night of the soul”, helped me move out of the mindset of being a victim and accepting that I am a survivor. Yes, I am a victim of long term physical and emotional abuse, loss and grief, and lifelong religious indoctrination. Being stuck in letting myself feel like a victim however, wasn’t allowing me to heal. It feels now like all the open, festering wounds in my heart and mind have finally closed. To me, all the scars, both psychological and physical, I now wear with pride, as they are proof of everything that happened to me. Even the dozen or so scars on my legs and various elsewhere from self harm that I used to hide. This world tried to beat me down and break me, but I survived and came out on the other side. My mother may be a bitch, and I hate everything that she put me through, but at the same time that abuse made me into the fierce, strong, and compassionate person I am today. The cycles of abuse, resentment, and unfaithfulness in my family, will end with me. I made the conscious decision years ago to never become a hateful person like my mother. I love and care for others because of their humanity and the empathy in my heart, and will never hate others simply because a 2-millenia-old book about a fake, dead god tells me to.
Despite falling lower than I ever have in my life, during that period I discovered even more what unconditional love truly means. My partners and my best friend had no hesitation about visiting me in a psych unit, and between all of them I had more visitors than anyone else on the floor. Being in the hospital also meant I had to rely on the staff for everything, going to them for help was therapeutic in its own way because it meant I had to get very used to asking for help and then enjoy the comfort of my needs being happily met. I’ve never been so low and received so much care and sympathy.
An inpatient psychiatric stay is an experience I hope to never have to repeat, but my time in the hospital helped me heal and grow. I came out more stable, happier, stronger, and fiercer. Having such a low point can give you perspective; I’ve been in a fucking psych hospital because I wanted to take my own life, what do I have left to fear? Now, the future feels bright and amazing. Even though there is still much uncertainty in my life, I feel so much more capable to handle it. Between my new meds, better understanding and working through my trauma and mind, and the amazing people who have joined me in life, I can face anything that comes my way. I was born again in a way that Christianity was never able to show me. The last vestiges of Thomas died in that hospital, and the birth of Amity was completed.