February 18, 2015 is the day that I checked into the hospital. I was partway through a fellowship in Washington, D.C. and when I went to work that day, the fellowship director (let’s call her AM) could tell something was wrong. It was a Wednesday, but it was the first day of work that week because Monday had been a holiday and Tuesday was a snow day. By that point, I hadn’t slept more than a few hours in 3 or 4 days and was in the midst of a full on breakdown.
As soon as I got to work that day I sought out AM and told her I was worried I was going to hurt myself. I wasn’t suicidal in the way you see in the movies or on TV – I didn’t have a plan or anything like that. I didn’t even want to be dead. But by that point I had convinced myself I didn’t deserve to be alive. Most alarmingly, I had started to “feel” things – a knife blade piercing the skin on my neck; the cold metal of a gun barrel against my temple.
I had no idea that I was suicidal though. When AM suggested we go to the hospital I didn’t know what to make of it. In between bouts of feeling awful, I felt okay (or at least what I thought was ok). But I could tell she knew something I didn’t and agreed to go.
Even once we got to the hospital, I felt stupid. Not because I was suicidal, but because I didn’t think I actually was. I worried that I was wasting their time, and that they would wonder why I went all the way there. What if I was just being silly and wasting AM’s time as well? After all, she had dropped everything at work that day to accompany me (what an amazing woman!). I thought I was probably fine. I thought that when the nurses and doctors talked to me they’d think I was just being overly dramatic.
Of course, I wasn’t. When the medical professionals recommended that I check myself into inpatient care, they said it would probably be for a few days. It ended up being 10. I clearly did need to be there.
A different sort of anniversary
All that was just a preamble to what I really want to write about.
I’ve been meaning to write an “anniversary” post for a couple weeks but keep finding excuses not to do it. Unsurprisingly, I’ve kept myself very busy lately – the perfect excuse. How can I write something thoughtful and reflective if I don’t have the time to do it properly? I better just wait till I have more time.
Of course, since the busyness was all manufactured, this was just another form of procrastination. But I’m not usually a procrastinator, so why now?
Over the past few months I’ve made some big breakthroughs, feeling every week like I was finally starting to separate myself from the past and the pain I associate with it. And I think that’s why I’m finding this time of year so difficult – it’s such a strong reminder that even if I’m better at not letting it control me, the pain is still there. And it always will be. But if I put off writing this post, maybe I could pretend it’s not there for just a little while longer.
But we all know we can’t avoid tough things forever. And this one has caught up with me. So here I am, at 2am on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning letting out all the emotion that built up while I was trying to shut it away. And you know what? It’s helping 🙂
So now I’m here on my own (with cat of course) sobbing on the couch in the middle of the night, letting myself feel that pain. And it’s ok. It’s a good thing to let yourself feel things.
I may be crying and I may be hurting, but the difference between now and two years ago is that now I know that I can move past it. Tomorrow’s a new day and a new chance to love on my cat, be with friends, take in the Tucson winter sunshine, and maybe even find a new hole in my backyard 😉
The takeaway
This has been one of the toughest lessons of my recovery from depression:
Beating depression is not the same thing as being happy all the time.
No healthy person is always happy. And just because I feel sadness or pain or whatever other “negative” emotions there are doesn’t mean that I’m not still getting better.
I am.
Thanks for reading ♡
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