I wouldn't say I'm without a doubt a "person suffering from depression," but I was prescribed medication to treat it for a while. So, if you don't mind being bummed out for a few minutes, I'd like to tell you about my first battle with depression. Maybe my second as well, but that one's a doozy and I might wanna save it for my memoir someday. We'll see if I can get through the first one without getting upset.
My senior year of college, I took my second psychology course. I withdrew from my first, so this was 101. I already felt bad enough being in a class of freshmen, but I wasn't the only senior who waited to fulfill all of their core class requirements. For this course, we were allowed extra credit in the form of participating in studies conducted by graduate students. I found psychology interesting, but I wasn't going allow my inability to focus during studying to prohibit me from passing.
I signed up for a graduate student's mental health questionnaire. I was assured the results would remain private, so I answered honestly. I had being keeping plenty of things pent up after losing two best friends over squabbles. I admitted to possibly feeling depressed and having thoughts of suicide. At the time I thought, hey, who doesn't think of climbing to the roof of the student center and jumping off so they don't have to deal with the stress of what to do after college.
Two or three weeks went by as I continued my secret life of unworthiness. The second Thursday of November I was called into the Counseling Center. I didn't even know where it was. After realizing it was located under the Writing Major Lounge, I met with a woman who told me the grad student I met with reported me as a possible threat to myself. I was upset but not by much. It was kind of a relief to have my thoughts out in the open. The dread came when she suggested I leave to seek treatment at a mental ward. Ok, she probably called it a psychiatric hospital, but toddlers don't hear "nap," they hear "no more fun for you."
I'm not sure why, but after three minutes of talking, I agreed to go to [hospital name redacted] for a weekend. I called my mother; I could hear her trying to restrain her shock through supportive words. My roommate retrieved my laptop, ipod, and a change of clothes and I was off.
Of course, I wasn't allowed to use my laptop or ipod while in treatment. "No outside contact or stress allowed," they told me. I didn't have the energy to tell them writing and music are how I stay sane. Luckily, I wrote a log of my stay in a tiny notebook. That information is definitely for the memoir. However, I will tell you an overview of my experience:
- The food sucked.
- The other patients were varying levels of crazy.
- Not being able to be goofy, as I am prone to be, for fear of being labeled crazier made me more depressed.
- Everything seemed grayscale or sepia depending on the day.
- My parents came and made me feel better, even my father who had never been overtly emotionally available in the past.
- I met a kid who allowed me to forget about myself as I helped with what I assumed was an overdose, though I never bothered to ask.
- I stayed way longer than I planned because self-admitting yourself doesn't actually mean you leave whenever you want.
Apparently you had to submit a request 48 hours in advance and be deemed fit enough by the doctor(s). I didn't want to deal with the stress. Eventually, I was let out on Wednesday to discover I was missed by everyone. My roommate hadn't told anyone where I was. I don't remember if I told anyone either. I do remember I gave up drinking at the request of the school - much to my 21 year old dismay - and disguised it as a challenge I already set up for myself on this blog. ....it's right (here) if you want to read it.
I readjusted well enough for the first two months, though I refused to take my meds because I could already tell what feeling nothing - no high, no low - felt like, and I hated it. Then I started drinking again, because screw them I was finally 21. Then my second major depressive episode happened. This is the good one.
It was Spring Break. I stayed on campus to work because it was still technically winter and going home was my least favorite activity. One day on the job, I was asked to disassemble a desk we had to move, but I didn't know how to competently work a power tool. I tried for what couldn't have actually been ten minutes before my boss yelled at me and gave the task to someone else. Because I was depressed and alone, I drank way too much that night. I laid in bed the next morning not hungover but feeling utterly worthless. I had already shown up late earlier in the week and been warned that I was close to being fired. So I wrote a text to my supervisor requesting that he fire me because I was a piece of trash. I remained in bed until I heard a knock at the door. It was only then that I realized the school must have informed him back in November of my status.
I opened the door and already knew that were going to tell me to take time off from school. They recommended it after the first episode, but I told them all I was graduating on time. It turned out I was putting too much pressure on myself; I crumbled. I left the same day realizing that mental illness was real.
To this day, I have moments when getting out of bed is a struggle. As I've alluded to before, even writing - an activity that brings me joy and relief - became a chore I'd rather ignore. Luckily, I'm much more vocal, so my stress isn't as bad. But everyday is a new struggle. I get by. I'm fortunate enough to have supportive friends and family. I don't need coddling. That usually makes me feel worse, as if I'm really sick. Which I am, but I don't need to be reminded.
Mental Health isn't textbook. I believe everyone has something that works for them; it's important to recognize that. After keeping quiet about my illness for five years, I'm just doing my part to make life a little less taboo and a bit more manageable. Every little bit helps.
Word.
No comments:
Post a Comment