Last month marked six years since I went to the Menninger Clinic in Houston for suicidal ideation, cutting myself, abusing my meds, seeking out opioids, binge eating disorder, compulsively shopping and more. I was in big trouble. Everything hurts. I couldn’t take care of the kids. My husband was taking care of everything, and he was at a breaking point as well. None of the treatments we had tried for my depression had worked; I had been deemed treatment-resistant and I was beyond hopeless. My friend mentioned going inpatient at a psychiatric facility, and after reading about the Hope Unit at the Menninger Clinic, I was sold. Lucky for me, they had an opening so I said good-bye to my husband, 4-year-old daughter and 2-year-old son. For six long weeks.
The hospital was good for me. I had a team of doctors that monitored my care. They changed my medication, suggested intensive therapy and recommended electroconvulsive therapy because I was treatment resistant. The change-up in meds worked, I did intensive therapy as well as family therapy with my husband, and when I was weaned off the right meds, I tried the ECTs — they changed my life. I took mandatory classes where I learned about coping skills. At the six-week mark, I felt confident to leave, but I should’ve stayed longer honestly.
When I returned to the real world, I thought I was ready, but I wasn’t even close. I tried, but the safe walls of the quiet hospital were long gone, and it was hard to cope. But then I found NAMI. I learned how to truly cope at NAMI. They taught me about recovery. They told me that I was a human, that recovery wasn’t linear, and that it was okay if I messed up.
The hospital and the ECTs were good for me, but NAMI truly saved my life. There’s no doubt in my mind that I would’ve wound up back in the hospital had I not found NAMI. Or worse, that I would’ve killed myself.
And now, as the six-year anniversary passes, I think about my current state of affairs. I’m depressed. It’s not bad, but it sure is annoying. Everything is difficult to do, and my body feels so heavy. I’m isolating, thinking it will recharge me, but it doesn’t. I do self-care most days, but it’s not very rewarding.
I hate the summer schedule, and I know that school is starting in a month, but that gives me anxiety, too. I just feel stuck.
It’s all temporary, I know this. But I can’t tell that to my pain, which is real and steadfast at the moment.
I need to paint. To read, binge watch Gilmore Girls (which I’m already doing). Get a massage. Or two. Get my nails done. Wear something cute and belt out the lyrics to all my favorite Taylor Swift songs in the car. Wear the softest pajamas I have and watch a show with my husband. Eat my favorite meal and have ice cream for dessert.
Six years ago I would’ve just swallowed some Klonopin and let them numb my pain. Or I would’ve shopped for something I couldn’t afford. Cut myself. Lied and schemed until I got some form of dopamine.
But — as I smile as I type — I am not that person. My recovery has taught me better. I am stronger, so much stronger, and just now I see the answer: painting, reading, binge watching, massages, etc. — those forms of self-care are not just silly acts of self-care — they are my way out of this dark tunnel, they are my armor, they are how I fight back against relentless and cowardly depression.
I just need to fight, and I know how to do that.
After all, God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers.
And I’m reeeeeaaaaaallllllly strong.
