02/24/2017
One of our wonderful patients would like to share her story...
"December 25, 2016, a date shared by the joyous holidays of Christmas and Chanukah. Celebrants marked these occasions by joining with family and friends at parties and get-togethers. But I was not one of them.
I spent the day in the psychiatric unit of a local hospital suffering from major depression. Other patients welcomed their families during visiting hours, but nobody came to see me. Spending a major holiday mostly alone and behind locked doors was not a pleasant experience. I even resented my fellow inmates who experienced a brief respite from their despair in the company of their loved ones.
I had admitted myself to the facility one week earlier when non-stop crying and sleeping away the days were my normal activities. On many occasions, I had neglected basic hygiene and didn't bother to shower or even brush my teeth. I had left the land of the living.
One Saturday, in mid-December, a neighbor knocked on my door collecting money for Christmas gifts for the maintenance people who kept our condominium building clean. I didn't answer. She persisted until I could no longer endure or ignore the noise. Dressed in a dirty nightgown and barely verbal, I let her in. Sensing the obvious--that I was in bad shape--she asked if I was OK. When I answered that I was in trouble and needed to go to the hospital, she offered to return in an hour and drive me there.
So, I packed a small suitcase with jeans, tee shirts and a couple of sweaters, along with underwear, and toiletries which I was not allowed to use, dress myself in old, comfortable clothes and waited for her return.
When she arrived sixty minutes later, I was hardly prepared for the experience I was about to endure, but knew I could no longer stay at home and deteriorate further.
With the kind neighbor staying with me, I checked myself into our local hospital stating that I was dealing (poorly) with depression. The wait was short before I was taken, alone, to an interim holding area with a nice bedroom and plenty of privacy. Spending the night there, I felt safe and almost peaceful.
But the next morning when aides transferred me to the actual psychiatric unit, my state of mind deteriorated. I had already surrendered my clothes and shoes, which were replaced by an immodest gown and socks with non-skid bottoms. But seeing where I would be staying for the next few days--which turned into weeks--my mood plummeted.
I had to share a room, sleep on a hard surface which could hardly be called a mattress, put up with mostly empty hours, and eat communally with the other patients. Since I lived alone, all this enforced togetherness only raised my anxiety level. I could not find a peaceful place to be by myself, and the constant sound of voices and doors opening and closing unnerved me considerably.
We had daily consultations with a psychiatrist (who had never met us before), and an internal medicine physician. These interrogations, which were supposed to help us, rapidly began to feel intrusive and not particularly beneficial. I dreaded seeing the doctors.
On weekdays, a social worker led us through boring exercises designed to reveal our true feelings. What a waste of time. These sessions lasted barely an hour and left the rest of the daylight hours free of structure. The television and magazines did little to distract me from my depression. I was locked in my despair, with nowhere to go.
Despite new medications, I still felt terrible and the days turned into weeks as I was wondered if I would ever recover. After almost three weeks, I decided to be discharged as I could no longer bear being institutionalized. Because I had entered the hospital voluntarily, and was not a threat to myself or others, the authorities decided that I was ready to leave... but I was still far from being 'cured.'
My journey back to emotional health began to take place in a day program (at Aspen Day Treatment) where we had group therapy and other interventions. The other participants were men and women I had never met and I felt free to be truthful. I decided to be honest with myself and the staff and other patients, and then the healing began. I attended that program for as long as my insurance would allow--about eight weeks.
Today, I am feeling good, but the hospital experience and the possibility of a relapse are never far from my mind."
