After leaving multiple incoherent voicemails, it was finally time for me to board the plane. I grabbed my purse and blankie and followed the lines of people onto the cramped plane. Somehow, I ended up with a glorious aisle seat and as soon as I sat down, the tears began to flood again. The unknown scared me and I trembled in my seat, knowing that there was so much more to come. With my favorite quilt/ blankie folded on my lap, I shoved my face into it in an attempt to muffle my sobbing. After a few moments, it became harder to breathe and I lifted my head to gain some "fresh" airplane air. This pain and heartache was only the beginning. I looked around me and saw that many people were staring at me. Across the aisle a young mother and her two small girls played with American Girl dolls. The mom reached across and grabbed my hand. She had no idea what was going on in my life at that moment, but that small act of random kindness helped to calm me as we flew. Despite calming down slightly, I continued to bawl the whole flight.
The first flight passed rather slowly. I fell asleep for a portion of it and then spent the rest of the flight trying to read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows for the bajillionth time. Towards the end of the flight, we hit a huge patch of turbulence. I've flown in tiny Guatemalan planes before, so it didn't phase me much. At least until the plane suddenly dropped down and the lights went out for a brief moment. We all held our breath waiting for the plane to recover. Luckily, it was a very short bump in the flight and it did recover. In the middle of the turbulence, I couldn't help but think of the irony. Here I was heading to go save my life so I wouldn't die, and I was scared because I thought the plane would crash. I was scared. I realized that I wasn't ready to die. I thought I was, but I wasn't. I wanted my pain to be over, but I didn't want this life to be over. I just wanted to be free of the heartache.
Soon after the life-altering turbulence, we landed in Oakland, California. Announcements were made over the intercom, but I wasn't paying enough attention. I heard something about my next flight, but didn't know what they had said. I leaned over to the young mom and asked if she had heard the announcement. She nodded and told me to just stay on the flight as this was the same plane taking me to Orange County. I sat in my seat as the young mother and her two daughters slowly exited. The mom, arms filled with bags and toys, reached over and held my hand one last moment. "Hon, I don't know what's going on, but it's all going to be alright. Wherever you're headed, it's where you need to be and one day this will just be a far-off memory." The floodgates re-opened and I thanked her as she left. That made two moments that this inspired woman showed me a kindness I'll never forget.
Knowing it would be a while before the next flight left, I turned on my phone to see if anyone had texted me. Along with texts from Allison, Tara (my best friend's mom) had returned a call I'd made earlier (which was probably very incoherent). I quickly dialed her number and hoped she'd picked up. I don't remember the conversation, but it felt good to know that she knew what was going on. It was cut short by the start of everyone filing onto the next flight. I hung up and started crying again. As I sat there waiting, a text came in from Tara. "Rachel. I love you! You are not alone. Stay safe!! XO" The slow stream of tears became sobs with this. Trying to distract myself, I checked my social media. Pulling up twitter, I had a notification from my roommate, Melissa. "Girl, you got this! I miss you and I love you and I'll see you soon. <3 <3 <3" Although I couldn't escape the reminders of what I was doing, it suddenly dawned on me how many people were rooting for me. What I feared would be the end of various friendships proved to be a huge outpouring of love and support. Somehow, that thought calmed me down a little bit and I was able to peacefully read my Harry Potter book for the rest of the flight.
After what seemed like the shortest hour of my life, we arrived at the Salt Lake City Airport with plenty of time to spare. We drove around the loops and circles of the airport trying to get to the correct terminal. "Do you want me to come in with you, Rach? I can help you check into your flight." I sat there debating what to say. I wasn't ready to say goodbye yet, but I didn't want to burden her. "Don't you have classes to get back to, Janale?" "I'm already late anyway. It's decided; I'm walking you in." I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't want to admit it, but I was not ready to say goodbye.
Praying we ended up in the correct location, we pulled into the nearest open spot. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the car. My heart started pounding when I realized that with each step, I was getting closer to another goodbye. We grabbed my luggage from Janale's over-stuffed trunk. I hefted a bag over my shoulder and took another deep breath. This road was continually overwhelming. Each step seemed to bring about its own hurdle. We carefully jumped over the imaginary barrier and made our way towards the Southwest counter.
Weighing my bags, the attendant asked me how old Janale was. "Oh... uh, twenty? But she's not the one flying today. I am." The lady looked confused. Walking away from the attendant, we laughed at the awkward encounters we seemed to always attract. I turned so I could watch as my two bags were loaded into the machine. I watched them slowly crawl along the conveyor belt until I couldn't see them anymore. Jan gently tapped my shoulder and told me it was time to go through security. We walked arm in arm the entire way. At the entrance to the security line, I paused. It was time to split up and I would be alone for the first time since I decided to check in. I dropped my carry-on blanket and purse as Janale enveloped me. I cried again as she whispered, "I don't say goodbyes, so you'd better not say it either." I squeezed her tighter and choked up while I attempted to whisper back. "Janale, I don't care. Thank you for driving me. I love you. I'll miss you. And I'm saying it... Goodbye. See you in a month." I broke down again. Janale reached her hand out to stroke my arm. We stood there for another second and then she turned to go. All alone, I continued to stand in that one spot. I looked back just in time to see the back of Janale disappear out the door.
I turned towards security and was overwhelmed by the process. I wanted to stand there just a little longer. The tears slowly rolled down my cheeks as I bent down to gather up my belongings. Somehow, the tears just never seemed to stop-- I kept waiting to run out of tears, but they just streamed down incessantly. Salty tears seeped into my mouth and I fumbled to get into the correct line. I tried to muffle my sobs in my blanket as the line progressed towards the innumerable TSA security members. "Please have your I.D. ready when you get to the scanner." I searched my pockets for the plastic card of my 15 year old self. Through my blotchy, red eyes, I stared down at the picture. Five years had passed since I was first handed that card. My mind took control and I thought about all that had happened and changed since I was deemed a suitable driver. While my mind wandered, I somehow made it through the monotonous process of security. My body went through the motions, allowing my mind to drift off. I continued on and slowly made my way to gate 63 at the very end of the terminal. Each step drained me a little bit more. By the time I sat down in an uncomfortable, plastic seat I was exhausted. All the crying and lack of sleep made every movement an Olympic event. The only thing I wanted at this point was to finally see Allison. And then I remembered that there were still so many people to contact. Like my best friend. Or my best friend's mom.
Sitting in the loud, communal seating at gate 63, my hands shook as I dialed my best friend, Clare. For over twelve years we'd been best friends- through thick and thin- and I dreaded what she would say in response. She picked up at the last second and I quickly asked if she had a minute. "yes, I have ten as I walk to class, does tha..." Before she could finished speaking, I blurted out "sooo I'm getting ready to board to a plane. To california. I dropped out of school. And I'm checking myself into a psych ward" I'd gotten pretty good at saying that sentence all in one breath. I don't remember much of the conversation other than the fact that she was in total shock. Ten minutes passed and the conversation was still going. "Clare, you need to get to class. I just wanted you to know what was happening. I'll call you when I have more details and a better idea of what's going to happen." We hung up and I could tell she was still in shock. I took a deep breath and dialed her mom's number. Like I said, Clare and I had been best friends since we were small children, and her mother had become like a second one to me. She had talked with me through various situations and catastrophes, so I was eager to hear her voice on the other line. ...It went to voicemail. I'm sure that voicemail was about as incoherent as all the others I left throughout that week. "Hi, Tara. Sooo give me a call when you get this. I'm getting ready to board a plane in a bit. If you call while I'm on the plane, I won't pick up. But I'll call back when I can." At least, that's what I was aiming for in the message. Who knows what I actually said. I hung up the phone and sat defeated in that stiff, black chair. What was I even doing? This was a lot of work for something I wasn't even sure would help. For something I wasn't sure I wanted.
However, as I sat there, I thought of all those phone calls I had already made. I thought of all of the people who knew me and knew what I was doing, and yet they still loved me. I thought of the people who would be heartbroken if something happened to me. As I sat there and wondered what I was doing, I realized that if I couldn't do this for myself, I could do it for all of them. I never wanted to hurt anyone and this experience would only be for a moment. Eventually, I would get out and I could live my life again. But this short experience would save my loved ones lots of heartache and pain. So I knew it would be okay. No matter how long or hard my stay would be, it would be worth it. No matter how terrible I felt or how much I hurt, I knew that this was something I could do to make up for all of the stress I'd been placing on others' lives. If I gave up here, all of those phone calls would be for nothing. So for that moment that was all I could hang onto. I could hold onto the thought that this would get better. That I would be doing something not only for me but for everyone who was a part of my life.
I woke up on Thursday morning (D-Day) to the sound of Ingrid singing softly. I was slightly disoriented as I rolled over to turn off my alarm. I looked around me and saw packed bags and empty walls. Where am I? Slowly, it was all coming back together and I remembered what was happening that day. In just a few short hours, I would be getting in a car to fly to California where I would be checking into a psych ward for an indeterminable number of days. It was all surreal and I still couldn't believe I was leaving for (what I thought would be) an entire month. As I was getting some last-minute things together (AKA throwing a box full of tampons into my suitcase because I totally forgot about hormones), my roommate, Natalie, was heading out the door. We had a quick goodbye and hug. I was immediately overwhelmed with the number of goodbyes I would be saying that day.
I was still adding last minute toiletries to my bag(s) when my phone began to ring. I knew it was JanaLe. My heart stopped for a second. This was that next moment. This was me taking the next step towards my new life. I was leaving behind my old, sorry life in Provo and hitting that stupid, red reset button (don't you sometimes wish there actually was a little, red reset button?). I stood up and something wet landed on my foot. It was a teardrop. I didn't even realize that I was crying. My roommates each grabbed a bag and I grabbed my blanket and purse. We walked out to Jan's car in complete silence. There she was, sitting in my parking garage, with a plastered-on smile across her face. I turned to my roommates and tried desperately to convey every emotion inside. Instead, it was just tears. Lots of tears. I said my goodbyes and parted with my last words of wisdom: "Make good choices. Write me. Call me. I love you. Listen to Ingrid. Be friends with Emily. Don't have sex. I will miss you. We do hard things." My roommates laughed while I listed off my last-minute advice. I couldn't help but laugh, too. Bekah suddenly started whispering my current favorite song- Ingrid Michaelson's "I am a Lady in Spain". The three of us laughed as we emotionally sang my favorite lines, a hobby that will never get old. Despite the laughter and smiles, tears continued to fall uncontrollably down my cheeks. I quickly gave each of them another embrace goodbye.
With that, I slid into Janale's car. I sobbed and she reached her arm around my shoulders. "Okay, Rach. I need gas so let's do that... and then we can go to Starbucks, okay?" I nodded because words were not possible at that point. We pulled out of the garage and rain began to pour down on us. I laughed a little. Even the sky was crying. JanaLe turned on her favorite song and said, "I love rainy Thursdays". That's Jan for you. She knows how to make you smile and how to ease a tense situation. Before hopping on the freeway, we quickly stopped in at Starbucks. It's funny because had I not known otherwise, I would have thought it was just any other day. Me and Jan just driving around and eating food :) But, I knew the truth and it wasn't just any other day. We were on our way to the flight that would change my life forever. With hot chocolate in hand, we began the hour-long drive towards Salt Lake.
Like I said, Janale has a way with people. She doesn't know it, but she can make anyone happy. She has this ability to express love in a way that is rare. Her smile is contagious. It was a little strange to be having such a serious conversation with her as we drove. When small-talk and favorite songs were no longer enough to fill the silence, she finally asked the question I was anticipating: So... what happened? It was a question I had been trying to prepare for, and yet there was still no answer. I don't know what happened. One moment I was okay and the next I felt as if I was in the depths of despair. I had no hope and no reason to live. We talked and talked about it over and over. It didn't feel real. I kept trying to internalize my situation by repeatedly stating the obvious: "I'm going to the loony bin. I am literally checking myself into a crazy house. What am I freaking doing, Janale??" She shut that up really quick. "Rachel, stop it. I won't let anyone talk like that about my friends, even if it's about yourself. You aren't going to the loony bin. You're going to a hope house. That's what it is. You're going somewhere to give you back your hope. One day, I would love to open my own so I can save amazing people like you. Zack (her BF, now husband) can do all the counseling, and I will provide the ice cream therapy." Jan has this theory- no situation is ever made worse by eating ice cream. You're happy? Here, try some ice cream. You just bombed a test? Here, you can have ice cream, too. You're checking into a psych ward? Here, a bucket-full of ice cream for you.
No matter how silly Janale can sometimes be (in the best way), she was right. It wasn't the end of the world. No, I wasn't going to California for a vacation, but I was going to gain something very valuable: hope. I was going to take a second to re-learn how to breathe. I was going to live in a hope house. I was going to have a reason to live again. I was finally going to be happy.
Last week, I went for a drive with one of my friends in the Elementary Education program, Lashea. We finished classes for the day and went to grab a soda before moving onto the rest of our day. One of our professors let us out early because it was his last day of lecturing for the semester. He gave us this really incredible speech about juggling the priorities in our lives and how to not get overwhelmed as we enter the teaching profession. It was amazing and exactly what we all needed to hear (after many of us failed a super important paper for the semester. whoops).
Shea <3
Anyway, Shea and I were talking about this professor, Brad Wilcox, as we walked to her car. He is a literacy professor, but he also writes books, speaks for the LDS church, and teaches religion courses at BYU (along with all of his church work with seminary/institute, EFY, etc.). When I was a senior in high school, my laurel advisor (church youth group leader) had us read and study a talk Brad Wilcox gave for a BYU devotional (it's amazing. and if you watch the video for it while you read it, you will get a feeling for how amazing he is as a professor!). It changed my life. And as we studied this talk and tried our best to embody it in our lives, I felt so much peace and comfort. Nothing prepared me more for the difficulties that would take place in my senior year. And as those difficulties built into what have become the most grueling four years of my life, I'm grateful that such a powerful depiction of Christ's Atonement can be the driving force in my life.
I started telling my friend about some of the experiences I'd had during my senior year, something I hadn't done in quite a while as it tends to bring up a lot of the anxiety that I try to avoid. I don't talk about it much because it bring up a lot of emotions, so I only talk about it with people I trust most. In this group of friends, they know just about everything about me and don't ever judge me. They just love me and want me to be happy in whatever capacity I think is best. So Lashea knew bits and pieces of what had happened already, but didn't know explicit details. I have this policy with my friends: if you ask it, I will answer honestly. If you don't want to know something, then just don't ask it. So, we went into specifics and talked about that day. We talked about how it made me feel and how it affected me as a person. She then started piecing together the timeline of things. How two years later I found myself in a psych ward because was in a situation I couldn't handle. Yet, with the help and support of everyone around me, I did handle it. Shea reached her arm around me and said "Rach, I'm just so glad you're here. Think about everything you've done since then." It hit me and I had to try hard to stay focused on our conversation. These four years have been unfathomably difficult.
Year after year, something big hits and it just becomes one more thing
to deal with and overcome. We talked a little bit about that and then she quite
candidly turned to me and asked "But, don't you see how far you've come?
Do you notice a difference?" And with all of my heart, I can say “Yes. Absolutely, totally, completely, thankfully—yes!” (quoted
from Brother Wilcox!).
I am not the same person
I was when I started here at BYU. I am not the same person I was 3 years ago, 2
years ago, or even 2 months ago. These experiences here have been awful. But
they have been tremendous, too. They have pushed me to places I never could
have imagined. I have changed and grown more in these four years than I had in
the 18 years leading up to this point. I get a little nauseous as I think about
everything that has happened and how jam-packed with life these four years have
been. I get excited knowing that I am to be leaving this place. But then I get
sick thinking about leaving. While these four years have been some of the
worst experiences of my life, they have also been the best. I have learned more
about myself and others and God than I could ever articulate. I have
learned what real friendship is. I have seen sacrifice, love, and charity
day-in and day-out. I've seen changes in myself so drastic and powerful that it
doesn't seem real. I've seen some of the most generous acts of kindness-- the stuff
of Hallmark movies. I have become something here. I have become a person I can
be proud of.
In these four years, I have
accomplished so many things. Not because of my own ability, but because of the
support of professors, friends, and family in my life. On days when I
struggled to get myself to class, tender mercies carried me through. And as I
think about leaving this place, it makes me a little sad. There are places
throughout this town and campus that have been the location of pivotal moments
in my life. The laundry room where I finally confessed the inner turmoil taking
control of my life, the street corner where I cried my guts out to
friends, the school where I taught my first lesson, the campus where I faced my
fears of failure, the classroom where I met some incredible peers, the
apartment complex where I made friends to support me during my biggest
trial to date. All of these places have left their mark on me. And even though
it's been incredibly difficult, I wouldn't trade any of it. The compassion and
love that I have grown to possess would not be possible without the heartache
and trials I've endured. The confidence in myself and my ability to be a force
of good were gained here. Because without sorrow, there is no joy. Without
understanding the empty, dead feeling that comes with a lack of happiness, I
would not be able to recognize the beauty of it when I finally allowed those
emotions back into my life.
Me and Brad!
His grace is
sufficient to cover all things. His grace is sufficient to change us. His grace
is sufficient for me. Although there have been SOOO many people who
have helped me grow, there is nothing that has helped me grow more during these
four years than the never-ending grace of the Atonement. The ability to
overcome hardships and move on from horrible experiences comes from my ability
to rely on the Atonement. My ability to use the Atonement to change has shaped
me into the person I am now. Christ's constant companionship helped me endure
periods of absolute isolation. Christ's compassion and complete understanding
has helped me endure the pains of this life. My dear professor helped me to
comprehend what His grace means in my life. And my amazing friend helped me
recognize the changes His grace has already started within me.
I was nervously sitting in my room waiting for my roommate, Melissa, to come home from school. I don't know why I was scared to tell her that I was leaving because she knew about my depression already. She finally came in and noticed I hadn't gone to class and that I was basically just a hot mess. She sort of stood there and looked at me before saying anything. "Rachel, did you not have class?" I turned and took a deep breath. I proceeded to tell her what was happening and how I was probably going to be gone for the next month or so. A little shocked, she started to cry and just nodded her head. We talked and cried as she folded laundry. Melissa and I have this strange obsession with Haagen Das Dulce de Lece ice cream and we only allowed ourselves to eat one a month. She came in with her half-eaten container and said, "You need this more than I do." We cried and laughed and I rambled out as much advice as I could. Almost every night, the two of us would talk about our day and discuss any problems or irritations. I couldn't leave without giving her my two cents on anything and everything that could possibly arise during the next month or so.
After a while, our other roommate Bekah came home and I prepared myself for another emotional disclosure. As I often did, I walked into her room and snuggled up with her on her bed. "Bekah- Babe, I'm leaving. I might leave tonight, maybe tomorrow. I'm getting on a plane to California and I don't know when I'll be back. Probably not for at least a month..." Silence. I knew she was crying because I could feel her body tremble. Slowly she asked, "Rae-bae, where are you going? Is everything okay?" Deep breath. "Bekah, I don't know. I hope it will be. I'm... I'm going to go check into a psych ward. My life is sort of falling apart and I don't know what else to do." We lay on that bed for a long time just crying together. It had been a while since I had cried like that and once the tears started, it seemed impossible to stop. But unlike times before where I cried by myself in the privacy of my own room, we cried together.
***
Later that day as I walked into my room to begin packing, I noticed something strange on my desk. A bag of goldfish from my fourth roommate, Natalie, next to a bag of Lindor truffles (my favorite!), a pink flower, and a card from Bekah. I was touched at their thoughtfulness. I sat on my floor and tried to quickly compile pictures and mementos I knew I would want with me. My constant flow of tears refused to subside. Melissa walked into our room and walked over to her wall of pictures. On it were posters and pictures of special moments or people. She pulled a picture off the wall of the two of us and gave it to me. Tears streamed down her face as she said, "Rachel, take this with you. I want you to remember me when you're in there." My heart melted. She helped me get my pictures together as I continued to pack up my clothes.
While packing, someone knocked on my front door. A girl in my ward was stopping by (coincidentally) to drop a candy bar off to me. Embarrassed by my red, puffy cheeks, I shyly walked out to greet her. She immediately knew something was wrong and I proceeded to explain the situation. She hugged me and wished me luck. About a half an hour later, another friend of mine stopped by with a bag of cookies and said "I heard you're leaving, can I help you with anything?" I declined her offer, but was touched by how generous and thoughtful these people were being. It made leaving a little bit harder, but it also felt good to know that they were on my side.
***
After I finished packing, I was exhausted. As a last hurrah, my roommates and I decided to make a quick drive through Inn N Out. We drove and ate and laughed, and I forgot for a few moments that I was preparing to check into a psych ward. The thing about my amazing roommates is that despite my "craziness", they were exceptionally supportive of me and never made me feel stupid or worthless for checking in. They never looked down on me or treated me any differently. They loved me and supported me and just wanted me to be happy. It wasn't easy, but because of their support, it wasn't harder. As I've been reflecting on this experience along with many experiences since, I've come to realize how important it is to have people in your life. Everyone goes through periods of despair (some of them last longer than others!), but if we help each other out, it makes it so much easier. Sometimes people get stuck up and look down on others, but I've come to realize that it is because they just don't understand. We all struggle with something. None of us are perfect. We all have hard times and weaknesses; it's what makes us human. But when we embrace this concept and embrace help from others, we become so much stronger than we could have ever been on our own. One of the biggest lessons I learned in 2014 is that it is okay that I am not always okay. It's okay when I'm okay, but it is also okay when I am not okay. We aren't meant to be perfect, and that is perfectly okay.
I'm gonna take a breather on the psych ward story to talk about something that has been on my mind. Today is Suicide Awareness Day and this week is a Suicide Prevention social media campaign. There's a trending #hashtag on Facebook called #StopSuicide. I love it. I feel like that should be a trending hashtag ALL the time. Suicide prevention shouldn't be trendy, it should just be a thing.
My roommate and I attending a suicide prevention event last September
I started my last semester of classes last week and it has been so much fun seeing my friends again and getting back into routines (although the three papers assigned in the first week of classes was a little overkill if you ask me...). One thing I've noticed this semester, though, are the number of side comments and jokes that are casually made about mental health and suicide. I'm not going to lie, I'm guilty of it, too. The "Kill myself" or "Well, I'm just going to jump off a cliff now" comments might seem innocent and maybe even humorous, but there is so much more to it. If we really think about what those jokes and comments are implying, there is actually nothing humorous about them. They are referencing people taking their own life. They are perpetuating a stigma, and the flippant use of these phrases make light of a serious topic. During my classes so far, I have already heard 3 professors make jokes about suicide or being crazy. I cringe every time, but everyone around me thinks nothing of it. How can we be so nonchalant about suicide in our language, but be completely torn apart when it happens in real life?
Last week in one of my classes, a girl mentioned how she was getting married the next day. Our professor was laughing and casually exclaimed "Wow, she is CO-mmitted... I'm just not sure what kind of committed!" It was an innocent remark but it holds so much more meaning than we give it credit. We associate institutionalization with crazy, to the point that mental illness is often synonymous with crazy or insane. The thing is that mental illness has had this inaccurate label placed on it for centuries, but it's wrong. Having depression, bipolar, or schizophrenia does not make a person crazy, it makes them sick. There is something chemically wrong with them, but there is a physical explanation. There is a reason why people with schizophrenia have a sudden switch when they hit a certain age- their chemical make-up changes. There is a reason why people with depression can't feel happy- they are lacking the chemicals that correspond to that type of response. Just because you can't see a mental illness doesn't make it any less real. You can't see diabetes, but nobody questions its existence. SAME FREAKING THING.
This has been a hard concept for me to grasp and I honestly haven't really grasped it entirely. I struggle with accepting my past and accepting my diagnosis. I struggle to comprehend what that means in my life and how it impacts my daily decisions. It's a lot easier to just say I'm crazy than try to find the words to express what I am feeling or why I reacted in a certain way. "Crazy" just explains it all away and then I never have to do the hard work of becoming self-aware. I had a friend who recently lectured me a bit on calling myself crazy. My casual, self-deprecating speech patterns cause more tangible self-hate in my life. By calling myself crazy, it diminishes my agency and increases the shame instilled by the ever-oppressing shroud of stigma. I hadn't ever realized how influential my thoughts and spoken words are on my actions. It's still easier to just say I'm crazy and avoid the harder conversations. I'd rather "own" my craziness than be ashamed of it or worry about what people will think of me. But I've realized that I need to have those harder conversations in order to move away from the shame. I need to push past this barrier of "crazy" in order to take more control of my life. If I let "crazy" be the dictator of my actions, my life will continue to reflect that. However, if I deal with my illness in a healthy manner, I can move towards becoming a whole person again.
***
Tangent, as always. But really, let's not make light of serious situations. Let's take responsibility for the words that leave our mouths and think about the impact those words have on others. Let's begin to eliminate the jokes revolved around mental illness and institutionalization. It might be uncomfortable or awkward to point out the inappropriateness of a joke about suicide, but it's better than making suicide commonplace in our society. Let's stop suicide, let's stop the stigmatization of mental illness. Instead, let's start to develop tolerance and let's start to rethink our understanding of mental illness.
During my last post, I talked about how the decision to check into the psych ward came about. My dear friend, Allison, basically gave me no other choice (and for that, I am grateful). What I didn't talk about were the long hours after that conversation where I was in complete and utter desperation. I didn't mention how many phone calls I made that day or the number of people who reached out and made a difference. As I wrapped my brain around checking in, I wanted people to tell me that what I was doing was right. I didn't know how to make a decision at that point and I didn't trust my own brain. I needed people to reassure me and remind me why this was the right choice. I was completely turned around and lost. I felt insane. I felt like by checking into a psych ward, I would be making myself crazier than I already was. The thing about the psych ward was that I knew people would find out. I knew that no matter how hard I tried, gossip would bring my committal front and center and I knew that it would be a hot topic of discussion. The only other person I'd ever heard of checking in was this girl from high school. I remember when she disappeared from school, everyone started talking about her. I hadn't heard anything about her in months, but the second she checked in, all anyone ever talked about was this girl. I knew that once people figured out I was gone, they would start the rumor mill up. I was frightened that I wouldn't have control over what people thought about me (hilarious because we never have control over what people think about us!) and I feared that this would be the end of who I was. What I didn't realize was that I hadn't been that person in a long time and that by checking in, I would resemble myself more than I had in years. I didn't realize that had I not checked in, people would be talking about me in a much different way.
Up until this moment, not a lot of people knew that I struggled with depression. I kept it under-wraps because I didn't want people to know and I didn't want them to look at me differently. I was completely sucked into the shame and stigma, I was afraid. I was afraid to say something and I was afraid to reach out for help. I was afraid that people would think I was lazy, crazy, or dumb. I cared more about what other people thought of me than of what I thought of myself.
So as I mentally prepared for the journey of checking in, I was scared to finally admit that something was wrong. I was afraid that I was making the wrong decision and I didn't trust my thought processes. What if I'm not crazy? What if I was just making this all up and just needed to wake up from some twisted dream? What if I go and they never let me out? What if I die in there? I had no idea what to expect in the psych ward and I had no idea how long I would be gone. There was so much uncertainty with this decision... and uncertainty always seems to breed the anxiety-driven racing thoughts inside my brain.
Eventually, I reached out to more people. I called people on the phone for reassurance, I texted some to let them know what was going on, and I sat down in one-on-one conversations with friends. I cannot even tell you everyone I talked to. Most of the conversations I remember now are because other people have remembered them for me. It's a little disheartening to know that I can't remember large chunks of time in my day.
One person I reached out to was my high school english teacher. This woman is someone who I look up to and trust more than most. Over the years I have known her, she has never given me advice that had ulterior motives. I knew that by talking to her, I would receive intelligent advice that she believed would help me. She would listen to me and analyze what was going on. She wouldn't make a decision based on emotions, but based on what she logically thought would be best for me. I don't remember what we talked about exactly, but I do know that the conversation was a turning point in my day. The conversation started with me quickly telling her what was happening (I have no idea if anything I said was recognizable English) and then me desperately asking her if she thought I was crazy. I was pacing back and forth, biting my nails, and pulling at my hair as she tried to calm me down. After talking with her, I knew that I needed to check in. I remember she told me that if I was concerned enough to call her, then it was probably because I needed to check myself in. She told me that she 1) loved me and 2) was concerned for me. She told me that no matter what I decided to do, she would be there for me. It was the push I needed. But it was a different kind of push than what others had been providing up until that point.
I look back on this conversation and admire her so much. She was probably a little nervous. Most people that I talked to were a little panicky. They worried that they would say the wrong thing or that I wouldn't get help fast enough. But she remained calm (at least from what I could tell) and she left it in my hands. She didn't try to take control from me, but she helped me to figure out where I needed to go. I needed to feel in control of the situation because I felt like everything was crumbling around me. I felt like my world was collapsing and I was desperately trying to hold onto a falling piece of wall.
Eventually, I made a mostly-solid decision. The next morning I was going to fly to Orange County when Allison would pick me up and take me to a psych ward. We didn't know which one, or what type of facility, but we were agreed on the checking in. Once the decision was made, I started texting people and telling them what was going on. I had promised to keep my high school teacher in the loop, so I sent her a quick and emotionally-disconnected text.
"I am flying to Orange County tomorrow. My parents have been told, my flight is bought, but the facility hasn't been decided yet." "This is tough for you, I know. I appreciate your update. I've been thinking about you and you are so brave. Do you have someone meeting you when you fly in? Not sure if you will be able to text when you get to your destination. I'm here if you need me." "I do have a friend meeting me and taking me to find a good place for me. I will hopefully be checked in by tomorrow night. I will be without a phone once I'm checked in, but hopefully I will have outside communication after a bit. This is hard, but I can do hard things. Thank you." "I know you can do it. Have a safe trip. I am so very proud of you for helping the most important person in your life."
That's the key right there. There are so many times where I have dropped everything to help someone else. I've gone and picked up friends from the airport at 2:30 in the morning, I've helped friends study for tests during an already-crazy finals week, and I've stayed up late making cinnamon rolls before my friend's GRE exam. There was this one time where I didn't do an entire school project because I decided to drive around with a friend who was having a hard day. The thing is, I know I would do it all again if the choice was presented to me. Why is it, then, that it is so much harder for me to drop everything and take care of myself? Why is it that dropping everything to ensure that I am okay feels like I'm letting everyone else down? It's stupid. Yes, it's important to focus on others, but when it sacrifices your own sanity... it might not be worth it.
Sometimes, it's okay to take some time for you.
***
I'm grateful to the people who waited patiently as I slowly stomped out my own path. I'm grateful to the people who picked up the phone and listened to the irrational ramblings of my unhinged self. I'm especially grateful to all of the people who saw me in that state and yet continue to see me as I am nowinstead of how I was then.
