day 8. it's going to be okay.

I finish my week of lesser eating tonight and it's been full of grit and joy.  I kept some of my daily posts private, because, you know, guard your heart and all.

Steve and I went to see the movie Lion over the weekend. I cried through most of it. I almost apologized to the man sitting next to me. He had more of a show than he wanted I think. I cried in La La Land, during "The Audition Song." Syd was sitting next to me and tried to console me, by patting my arm like one does to a baby.

Then I really cried during Manchester by the Sea, shaking my head in disbelief as things unfolded.  Ben was next to me for that one.  He was like, "Hey, stop."

My Scottish grandfather was a weeper.  It's how I'm built. Kleenex in one hand, sword in the other.

"You didn't cry," I tell Steve after seeing the Lion movie. "I don't really feel connected to you." I'm also a bit dramatic.  And hangry.

"I had tears in my eyes," he says. Not the same I tell him.

The theme of finding home in the movie Lion for some reason took me back to a specific memory.  Some of you know this, but in 2010 I went into a major depression. The kind where you watch trees get taller outside your bedroom window while you mostly lie on your bed, for like, 2, maybe 3 years.  When it started I could see the house on the corner of my street from my window. When it was over, I couldn't see any of it. Steve recently said he was going to trim the tree as it's getting close to our house. I was like don't you touch it.  I don't want to see that house again.

There were a lot of reasons for my pain, and major depression was a brand new thing for me.  I tried several medications to help me and nothing was working. My doctor had the idea for me to go to a psychiatric hospital where I could get larger doses faster. Which meant I would get well faster, maybe. We made the decision for me to go.

I pictured a place where I would be left alone and given meds and I would leave after a week. So I was not prepared for what was tp happen next. I was already a mess, as one is while they battle depression and anxiety.  These were not cathartic tears.  These were pleading tears. 

When we arrived, I was taken to a hallway with Steve and told to say goodbye. Then they took my cell phone, and asked if I was wearing shoes because they would need my shoelaces if so. They took my wedding ring. They put all of it in a bag. Then they took me to a check-in room that locked from the outside.  I would like to say I felt panic but it was more like death trying to come for me.

I was taken to a dorm-like room (with no décor obviously) and made to change into a hospital gown.  I was supposed to have a roommate but mercifully no one showed. I was given a schedule of events (origami and feelings) and meal times. It quickly began to feel like prison but with some pretty disturbed people around me. I guess prison has a few of those, too.

I wanted out. I went to the nurse in charge and said I had changed my mind. She looked at me with little emotion and said, "I'm sorry, the doctor won't be in until tomorrow morning. You have to wait for him to see you, to decide if he wants to discharge you." In that moment, it was like the sun had  left the sky.

I made phone calls to Steve and my family. I passed male patients in the hallways barely clothed in hospital gowns who looked hungrily at me - because I was looking pretty good at this point. I was terrified. We were not allowed to shut our doors at night.

I sat down to eat a meal on a tray and a woman was brought into the center and placed next to me. She began shouting and violently stabbing her food.  I was too beyond myself to move, and an orderly came and led me to another table.

Then there was the other "other" room.  Some patients passed through our area and were taken to a place that looked straight out of a Jack Nicholson nightmare.  You know the one.

I was there because I had a desperate need to get out of the pain I was in.  But I knew I wasn't certifiably insane or needing a long hospital stay.  One thing was very clear: I knew I had to get out of there and that I had one shot in the morning. 

Steve was allowed to visit me for 30 minutes I think that evening.  He said it was the hardest thing he had to do, to leave me behind. I slept that night with my Bible on my chest.  As heavily as I was dosed I fought sleep, remembering that my door was open. It was hell. Thin mattress, thin sheets, thin gown, heavy heavy Bible.

In the morning, the doctor on call, a gentle in spirit Eastern Indian, came to see me. I knew I wasn't insane, but after 12 hours in that place you start to wonder, so I was doing my best to convince both of us I was not.  I told him I was feeling better. That things were looking up.  Anything to get me out of there. I know he knew I was lying.  I gave him my best smile.  I made sure my hair was combed and that I could speak clearly.

This kind man sat at the side of my bed and he smiled at me.  It was the first true smile of my haunted stay. He smiled with compassion. He looked at my bedside table that held my  Bible, the only precious thing I was allowed to bring in. God.

Then he said, "You have a good support system.  I know your husband was here. And you had some phone calls. I think you will be okay to leave."  I had not thought of the fact that my every move was being watched.

He signed the paperwork and let me go. Just like that. A few hours later I was walking in my neighborhood, feeling fragile, and as free as a deer in a meadow that contains unseen hungry lions lying low. I encountered a friend and I was wordless.  I actually don't remember if we spoke.  I'm sure she told me she was praying for me, because she's that kind of friend.

I'm no longer in the grip of depression, and haven't been for years.  And I'm convinced mine lasted as long as it did, and took me the places I went, so I could have a new kind of compassion for others.  

When I see someone struggling with depression and anxiety, I know they need to be told they are going to be okay. No matter what. I don't say when or how, just that they will be. Come hell or high water, it's going to be okay.