Wednesday

Picture courtesy of milledgevillegeorgia.blogspot.com

(First of all, the land of good intentions has been visited over 1,000 times.  Thank you for coming and coming back to read my journey.  I hope that somehow, somewhere it helps someone feel not so alone.)

Yesterday was the first of a string of long, overfilled days for me.  Not the best idea for my emotional health, but since I live in the land of good intentions I shouldn't be too surprised.  I met a good friend for breakfast at one of those old restaurants that has been around forever, as evidenced by the age of the clientele.  I've been in a French mood lately, so I ordered the Blintz (crepes) with strawberries and whipped cream.  Or so I thought.  The crepes were stuffed with sour cream and topped with sour cream and sour cream and sour cream.... there must have been over 1 cup of sour cream in/on three crepes.  Fortunately, I was there for more than the food and my appetite is down thanks to one of my medications - so I got full on the sour cream-less ends.

After getting a hair cut, my sour cream overload was beginning to taper off.  It was past lunchtime, and I headed to another old restaurant, albeit with a younger clientele - Taco Bell.  I was picked to participate in a new product test, which meant I got a free lunch (including a delicious palate cleansing Saltine) and a gift card for my time.

The burrito was surprisingly good (with just the right amount of sour cream), but even more surprising was the connection I made with the surveyor.  She was beautiful on the outside, but it did not compare to what was inside.  As she chatted with me while waiting for the "test" burrito, we found we had a lot in common - starting with our wedding rings.  Our conversation flowed easily and quickly became more personal, and lasted long after I finished my lunch.  Before I knew it I was nearly in tears sharing my life story.  I was stunned as my tender feelings poured out, but she seemed to know exactly what I needed to hear, and buoyed my tired spirit up. I only hope I said something helpful in return.

After visiting through her lunch hour, she gave me her personal business card before I left so I would always have someone I could write to instead of putting my burdens on my already tired friends and family.  (See how she is full of love and kindness and beauty!)

I want to share her website with you! I believe in her passion and dream.  Besides her day job, she and her husband make and sell "Appreciation Boards" - nicely framed white boards, intended for families (or coworkers) to share their feelings of appreciation one to another. As the board fills up, someone photographs it before erasing the words for a fresh start, and the picture is added to a photo album.  Slowly, a family builds dozens and dozens of  kind and loving words toward one another - a healing balm in a crazy and negative world.  It's something I know will be a huge blessing to my family.

I encourage you to go check out her website and get one of these for your family. It will bless your life more than you realize.

End of week one

A collage of what I got done one day this week - taking pictures helps me to celebrate that I am getting things done again.

It's the end of my first full week back in 'regular' life since my hospitalization -- acutally since the end of July. That's the last time I was healthy. Then came the two week sinus infection, the cancelled trip, the time at the beach, then the breakdown, then the hospital, then four weeks of intensive therapy, then the discharge.

And onto my first full week on my own. It went pretty well, all things considered. My whole life has been rewritten for treating my depression. My routines have changed, and it's hard to let go of some things. I've always been a morning person and get my best work done then, but my mornings are now full of exercise, scripture study (while getting my light box therapy), and healthy habits.

I guess it's not much different than if I had any other disease that required life changes. All in all, it's gone well - especially on the days that I exercised. But after a couple of days of my new normal, the weight of what I'm battling hit. I'm monitoring my thoughts and rewriting my negative thought patterns. I have to consider my feelings throughout the day, and make adjustments as needed based on how I feel. That meant that one day was about doing things I enjoyed. After three hours in Joann's, however, I knew I wasn't in balance. So back to the drawing board to address my thoughts.

I will get through this. I hope that as I build new habits, life will get easier. In the meantime, I take things one day at a time. Good days are ahead. And today may just be one.

Why do I share?

(another lovely portrait from my hospital stay)

As I was wading through the mountain of paperwork on my desk on a cool September morning, I got to thinking about why I chose to be open about my fight with depression. Honestly, I've always been open about it, but as I left the hospital and went into intensive treatment, I didn't really want to talk about it.

Up to this point, I have managed my mental illness on my own -- plus meds and counseling. I have had very low points before. I have had suicidal ideation before. Somehow, I always turned the corner and fought my way out of the darkness.

This time was a little different. For the first time, I started to try to hurt myself. It was minor and hardly left a mark, but I was trying to hurt myself. I had to seek treatment.

In my mind, that was a huge sign of failure. I have depression, it's hard, but I had never been hospitalized and I wanted to keep it that way. However, being at a new level of low made emergency treatment necessary. And suddenly, I felt the "stigma" of being hospitalized for mental illness. Time to break out "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."

As I began to heal, I felt the need to be open about my story and to share. I did not choose to do this for sympathy or concern. I did it because I know that I am just one of way too many women who fight mental illness. Depression. Anxiety. Borderline Personality Disorder. Bipolar disorder. Addictions - on top of mental illness. Many times, there is serious sadness and trauma behind the brain illness as well.

I know that as I come out into the light with my story, there are countless women who suffer in the shadows. Who fear being judged a lesser person for having a condition that is every bit as real as diabetes or cancer.

Attitudes toward mental illness have come a long way since the 30's and 40's when my paternal grandfather drank himself to death -- self-medicating for his own mental suffering. But there is still so far to go.

If you do not have mental illness, be grateful. Be compassionate for those who do. The hardest part of these brain illnesses is that instead of physical symptoms, the symptoms can come out as anger, sadness, or withdrawing from life. It's hard to separate that from the person and say, "I know he/she is acting this way, but it's just a sign of mental illness and they need constant support and love on the path to healing."

If you think you have a mental illness, have the courage to seek help. There are resources out there - counselors, therapists, medications, lifestyle changes - that can take away the pain. It is often a long and windy road, but you will find relief and healing. If you ever need to talk, let me know. I am happy to listen.

It is my prayer that through sharing the ups and downs of my journey with depression, that someone will find hope, courage, strength or support. It is not a road to walk alone.

And that is why I share.

The Most (Dis)Organized Girl in the World

Once upon a time, my doctor ordered some blood work. Since it had been a while since I got depressing things (like my cholesterol) checked, I figured I might as well. My fast started around 6:30 pm, and I planned on going to the lab in the morning.

I ended up sleeping in until 10:00 am. Normally, that would be a great thing, but I now had an unnecessarily long 16 hour fast. After I got ready, it was 11:00 am. 16.5 hours and counting, I grabbed my keys and was ready to head out the door...except that I had forgotten where I’d placed the lab orders sheet.

Several frantic minutes later, I found the folder they were in, but they weren’t there. Aaah! Light bulb then clicks on in my head, and I remember I put them on the fridge so that I WOULDN’T lose track of them!

Then I couldn’t find my wallet. Repeat frantic search. During the hunt, I thought about the irony that I am known for being super organized, yet here I was wasting time because I wasn't. FAIL.

I finally found it. Since I had been using a combination of wallets the past few weeks, I took a minute to combine them back into a single wallet.

I’m ready to head out the door. Wait – where are my keys???

Now I’m retracing my frantic steps to find my keys. Keys? Check. Wallet (with lab orders inside)? Check. Finally on my way!

I made it to the lab around 11:30 am. I got out of the car, pulled out my wallet, and headed towards the lab. Guess what. The lab orders WEREN’T inside my wallet. FAIL.

I'm at 17 hours of fasting, people! And I usually refrain from fasting because it's important to keep my blood sugar stable. For a split second, I thought about taking the message from the cosmos – but there is NO way I wanted to do this twice. So I climbed in my car and headed back home.

At home, the orders sat waiting for me on my bed – where I had put them while combining wallets.

Fast forward back to the lab parking lot. After a 17.5 hour fast and subsequent blood draw, I could finally eat again. SUCCESS.

I was skipping toward the exit when I noticed one of my friends from the therapy program. I could have just snuck by, but I figured it would be nice to say hello. I waited for her to talk (and talk and talk) with the pharmacist. Finally, she turned around and I said, “Hi!”

A blank look crossed her face. (I am extending my fast for a lady who doesn’t even remember me?!!!)

I told her my name.

Blank look.

I said I was part of the outpatient program. Blank loo—wait…lights coming back on…”Oh! We went to Burger King together, right?” Jackpot.

She talked (and talked and talked) with me. Eventually, I had a chance to mention I needed to go eat and so she let me go – after she asked why I hadn’t eaten, what I was having tested, why, etc.

At long last, I made it to breakfast lunch. I had survived an 18 hour fast. My cholesterol had better be picture perfect!

Epilogue: In case you were wondering, I went home and got organized. I had a reputation to restore.

I thought I had it figured out!

I am approaching the one month mark since my stay at the hospital Shangri-La, and since those tough days I've been feeling a lot better about life. The day after I was released, I returned to a program run by the hospital in a building across the street which was called the intensive outpatient therapy program. Basically, I show up by 9 or 9:30, depending on the day, spend 4-5 hours in group therapy/classes, and finish up around 3:15. It's been an amazingly positive experience and I felt major mood improvement after a single day. Since day 2, I have rated my mood between 8-10 out of 10 every day. I finally saw the home stretch after three weeks in the program, and was preparing to discharge from it today.

Pause for real life.

I didn't discharge today.

I still am not sure exactly what happened. I've had an extended stretch of days off from the program (five, to be exact), and my husband has been out of town. After the initial panic when he told me he'd be gone this past weekend, I have not worried about being on my own. I'm feeling great, and was ready to take on life.

Maybe not.

Saturday ended up being more challenging than I thought. Apparently, when you start to transition into "real" life from the program, it is very easy to slip back into your old behavior patterns -- the ones that got you in the program in the first place. The challenge is to be aware of that and work to change your habits.

Sunday was fine. Monday was also known as a train wreck. The suicidal thoughts came back and I felt discouraged. So much to do, so little time. One of my daughters decided to sink into her own "depression" about the new dynamics in the home. I found it difficult to be around her, and ended up walling myself emotionally from her - which didn't help the situation. The highlight of the day was sobbing in my car outside the Dollar Tree. I feel so scared about ending up where I was before. When my emotions dip, it feels easier to end the fight instead of hanging on. It's like I've been hanging on to the high bar for months, and my grip is growing tired. But letting go isn't a good option.

Today, which was going to be my last day, my mood was a 4 out of 10. I'm still struggling with discouragement and suicidal thoughts. However, it was great being back in the program. I realized that the thoughts I have are only thoughts, and I don't have to label them as "my" thoughts. I can recognize it's the depression talking, and let those thoughts go away. I want to live. I want to heal. I want to laugh and smile and play.

I've heard it said that battling cancer is easier than depression. With cancer, you still have your spirits. With depression, the very organ that can bring healing is full of distorted thoughts. The brain makes you feel like there is no hope.

However, there is hope. There is ALWAYS hope. There is another day - which may be a magical day instead of a hard one. There are different medications to try. There are other therapy and coping skills to use. And above all, the Savior of the world has borne my burden and carried my sorrows. He knows me, and the healing power of His infinite Atonement brings ultimate healing. On the other side of this, I imagine I'll feel grateful for my struggles. In the meantime, I'll trust Him and hang on. He suffered deeper pains than I suffer and triumphed. Guess what? With Him on my side, I can triumph, too.

The Safety Dance at the Circus

After almost an entire day in the ER, I finally had my own room - with a trash can! I now also had a television, and I had a sink, mirror, paper towels and soap. My luxury accomodations also included a table, a bed, a chair, and a large empty room. Hallelujah!

The level of safety was impressive - everything was still bolted shut. I had windows into the hallway with blinds controls only on the outside of my room (more on that later). My bed was adjustable, thanks to the arm strength of the nurses who came to raise and lower it for me every time I requested it.

In addition, I had a large, shared bathroom which allowed me to get to know the staff very well, since I had to ask them to open it up with their special key every time I had to use it.

I was living a life of luxury, where literally I was not expected to lift a finger (unless I wanted to change the TV channel, in which case I had to almost literally stand up in bed to get the TV to see the remote signal).

I was finally allowed to have some personal items, which improved things somewhat. I was allowed to have my own pillow, and a blanket from home (but not my fringed crocheted afghan). I could have my cell phone (but no charger). I was amazed they allowed my scriptures with ribbon bookmarks.

(A rare safety pen - yes, it is a plastic ink/tip insert in a flexible tube - imagine if Shakespeare had used that marvel!)

I could have books and even journal with their specially issued pen. (I wonder what they would have done if they knew I ended up with TWO safety pens!)

Meals on paper pulp trays were very exciting - highly formal topped with the white scalloped paper placemat.

My night's respite in the psych unit began. The area was very quiet, and surprisingly relaxing with every single stress of life removed. Jr. and I enjoyed a Psych marathon on the Ion channel until I fell asleep - then he finally headed home for some much needed rest. I slept like a baby until my anxiety pill wore off - but that gave me a chance to see my handkerchief-headed nurse peering through the blinds at me after the 2:00 am shift change. (Frighteningly weird.)

Once she figured out I was awake, she came in to say hi. I asked for a snack, and she brought me some graham crackers and peanut butter - with a plastic knife. I couldn't believe my luck! (If only it hadn't been thrown away before breakfast came!)

After my early morning snack, I fell asleep again until around 6:30 am. I took advantage of my early waking and got to the bathroom before the morning rush -- and I even scored a shower a little later. I did not know what a blessing that was!

After I'd been up a little while, there was a knock at my door - the way the nurses always came in. I had to tell the person to come in twice, and when she did I was greeted by a large-statured psych patient who asked if she could come talk to me. I'm such a nice person (especially when in total shock) and told her she could. She turned to shut the door when I had the presence of mind to ask her not to. She looked at my hospital issued blue slipper socks and asked where I had got them. Hers were brown, but she was missing one and she liked my blue ones, she explained. Then she asked me what they called me - 58, 1058, .... ? I was quickly realizing I probably should not have let her in, when a nurse popped his head in to check in on things. As he determined this was not so comfortable for me, he guided the woman out of my room while I mouthed a huge "Thank you!" to him.

I spent the next hour or so listening to him try to lure her back into her room. I decided I wasn't doing things right when I heard him tell her, "I'll give you a cookie if you go back to your room."

Next up was the "Sergeant*." I never heard him addressed any other way. He was sitting at the table right outside my room. I heard him explain to a security officer (who had been called in to restrain my earlier friend) he had served in the military during the Korean War. He was a very sociable fellow, and happily completed his lunch order sheet for the nurse. Of course, then came the conversation about how he had ordered three turkey sandwiches (Can you really eat three turkey sandwiches, Sergeant?), and the explanation of how he was only supposed to order one menu item per category (at which point he had to be walked through the entire sheet by the nurse).

Shortly thereafter, the nurse came to pick up my lunch sheet and when I commented on all the activity, he sighed, "It's been a looooong morning."

On and off there were patients leaving their rooms to wander who had to be shepherded back to their rooms. I was starting to wonder where I had landed when I saw a half-naked woman (hospital gown on top, hospital blanket wrapped around the lower part, sort of) walking down the hall towards my room and gesture toward me saying, "I want to go to her room!" The nurse hurried over and shut my door. I texted Jr. and asked him to hurry to the hospital - I was now in need of a body guard.

It was obvious to me that I was feeling well enough to go home given the circus outside. It was so busy that I could hardly find someone to let me into the bathroom, because they were all stationed at strategic points to keep the patients from creating complete bedlam.

After a brief consultation with the ward psychiatrist (who was over two hours late getting to me -- see above chaos), we all decided it was a good idea for me to go home for the day and return for the intensive outpatient program in the morning. With a sigh of relief, and a prayer of gratitude for getting clothes (and underwear!) back, we headed home. I have never been so grateful to just walk into a bathroom as I was when we got home.

As I settled back home, I looked at Jr. and said, "If I EVER get to this point again, just grab those work scrubs in my closet and tell me to change out of ALL my clothes into them, and make me ask permission to use the bathroom every single time. I think it will cure me!" (*name changed)

A day in the life of a psych patient

(I'm thinking of having this picture framed. My half wet hair, lack of makeup, reclining pose, and the clashing scrubs and pillow scream to be blown up on a canvas - hahaha!)

On a Friday night in August, I felt the oppressive waves of sadness and grief - from my clinical depression - weighing in on me. (If you have never experienced those feelings, just imagine feeling like your heart is literally about to rip in two and heaven seems impossibly far away.) It's no wonder that suicidal thoughts are often part of depression. The pain seems to never end, and in my case, the knowledge that it would pass was not much comfort because I knew it would come again days, weeks, or months later. In my brain, normal thoughts were twisted into hopeless feelings - "It is better that my family live without me, because all depression does is cause them pain," "I will never feel well again," etc.

A friend came by late Friday night and cheered me up. I felt happy after her visit, and the storms in my brain had calmed. However, when I awoke Saturday morning, they were back. I would sit in a room and wonder how I could use objects to end my life. At that point, I realized that I needed serious help. I called a mental health center and described my situation, and they scheduled me to come in at 2 that afternoon. But in the meantime, my thoughts were focused on "suicidal ideation," as they call it, and I recognized I needed help sooner.

My husband got me into the car and we headed off to the ER. Once at the hospital, I was sent through triage pretty quickly, and not long after that given a room in the ER. This wasn't any ordinary room, though. It had glass doors for complete visibility from the outside. There was a bed, and a chair. Every door and cabinet was locked. I didn't even have a trash can.

The nurse who took me back instructed me to change into the lovely green scrubs - JUST green scrubs. I couldn't wear ANYTHING else. She also explained that the color of the scrubs indicated I was in for mental health reasons and that if I tried to get away, large men would restrain me in handcuffs and return me to the room. That alone caused me to question my choice to go to the hospital!

Then I got to sit in that room - the most boring room possible - while a nurse, doctor, and social worker popped in occasionally for assessments. I was fortunate enough to be given a blanket, and I rested most of the day. If I had to use the restroom, I had to walk down a hall in the ER, and I felt every set of staff eyes on me when I headed there. I felt like the guy in the commercial with the flashing arrow over his head. "See me? I'm in because I'm a nut case!"

After I was assessed by the social worker, she recommended that I be admitted to the hospital to stay until I was feeling better. The one problem was that there were no rooms in the regular psych ward, the ER psych ward, or even the other mental health center. There wasn't anything available. So they left me in the barren room with my husband, until something opened up - which could be hours or days later.

I had not felt like eating that morning, but the nurse finally got me to order a lunch. She even ordered it "stat" - which meant that I gave it to her at 11:30 am and my lunch wandered in around 2:15 pm. Because of my diagnosis, my meals came on a "secure tray" - a paper pulp tray. I half expected to have to eat with my fingers, but I was lucky enough to get a fork.

Then came the waiting game. The phlebotomist came in to get a blood sample, and let me know with his awkward humor that he would "keep his eyes open this time." I slept. Once in a while the social worker would come back to update us. Eventually we got some playing cards and started a game of gin rummy.

As the afternoon wore on, I was running out of patience. Being in the main ER was no fun. I was mostly out of my suicidal fog, and decided that if there wasn't a room for me that night, I'd rather go home. Amazingly, after I explained my feelings to the social worker, a room opened up within ten or fifteen minutes. A while later - because I'm on hospital time - I finally got moved into the "red pod." I was now an officially half-admitted hospital patient.

Part two continues soon...