"We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered."
-Tom Stoppard
Almost a year ago, I sat at this same laptop and blogged about my new found single hood--sending it out into the void. I cried, I screamed, I beat against the invisible cage I built with my grief and my bitterness. A part of me had died with my marriage and I eagerly awaited for the feeling of "fine" to return. People do it every day, right? They get divorced, they move on..they meet someone new. Why couldn't I?
After my last post, I moved in with my best friend in Summerville South Carolina where my son and I struggled to meet our half of the rent in order to separate ourselves from our previous uncomfortable living arrangements. I worked full time in the Charleston cancer clinic, staring into the eyes of people who were physically broken and in even more pain that I was, but I had nothing to offer them. My own pain oozed from every orifice of my being; bleeding, discoloring everything in my line of sight. I tried to take a second job working part time in the evenings to give my baby a Christmas, but 8 months of no emotional support started to take their tole. I was starving for one kind word, encouragement, and love from those around me, while still grieving for a part of myself I thought I'd never get back. Most nights Hayden and I lived off of cheese, crackers, and cereal, and I felt like a failure. Those closest told me "It's not forever." "You're strong, you'll figure it out." "You just need more exercise and you won't be so depressed." Like a brisk walk would magically make food appear on the table and fill the gaping hole that was left by my son's father and ex-husband.
I quit. Through a complicated series of events that I won't get into, I found myself in the emergency room handing the only precious thing I had left over to the nearest nurse and I quit my life. I was in a fog for the next 48 hours. Tears streamed down my face in a constant flow, streaking my mascara, running into my hair. I couldn't stop shaking. I lay on the hospital bed for hours while nurses and doctors came in and out and asked me if I wanted to die, how I planned to kill myself, and if I wanted to hurt my son. They were angry with me for being too numb to answer their questions. Why are you crying? Who can we call to come get your son? (No one. Please don't call his father. We're here by ourselves. He can come in. No, you don't have to call child services) If I had been bleeding out or vomiting up pills, would they have been quicker to offer their compassion? I stayed in the hospital for another 24 hours before they released me to a behavioral health center. A place for people like me who quit. They told us we were brave for seeking help, even though more than half of us were there because of unsuccessful suicide attempts.
My name is Carolyn and I'm clinically depressed. It sounds so hollow saying it out loud. Like some sterile made up word coined by a psychiatrist to to make us feel more normal. What is normal, anyway? The truth is, I've always been depressed, but my desperate financial situation and ugly fights with my son's father brought it to a head.
I stayed in the Palmetto Behavioral Clinic for two of the longest weeks of my life. Two weeks in which we were monitored like prisoners. No makeup, no hair dryer, regular check-ins to make sure we weren't trying to harm ourselves, group sessions, and meetings with our psychologists. And what quickly became our favorite time of the day: medication time. A respite from the niggling, nagging feeling that we were an ink blot--a stain--on the white canvas of humanity. A feeling most of us have lived with our whole lives. Like there is something fundamentally wrong with us on a cellular level. Something that prohibits us from functioning normally and having the God given will to live. During those two weeks, I had to make a choice. My doctor and my counselor pushed me on a daily basis to find a reason to want to leave. I didn't want to leave. The fact that I felt more at home with alcoholics, addicts, and bi-polar manic depressives was only confirmation to me that I belonged there. That I would never be a good parent, a good partner, a good daughter....ad nauseum. They warned us daily about the dangers of giving up and becoming wards of the state. At the time, spending the rest of my life with people who felt like me didn't sound all that bad. I wanted my newfound minimilistic routine. I wanted to surround myself with the sweet empathetic words spoken by our nurses, the glass walls the medication provided--separating me from all of the pain that was waiting for me out there, and the deep heavy sleep from the Trazadone. Sleep I hadn't had in over a year. I didn't have to be Mom there. No one needed me. No one needed anything from me. No one could touch me or hurt me or hate me in there.
Fortunately for me, I had a tough counselor who wouldn't let me feel sorry for myself. She dragged me into phone conferences with my family and Hayden's father. She forced me to face reality, even though that was the place I wanted to be the farthest from. This is where I learned my first lesson about depression. Sometimes the people we need are the tough ones who make you question your ink blot theory. Is my son really better off without me? Would anyone really miss me if I weren't here? These are dark and frightening questions for the clinically depressed. They are questions that plague us on a daily basis.
It's been almost a year since I was at Palmetto, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Slowly, and carefully I've re-built my life and my confidence, trying to spare my family any of the gory details of my "sprint in re-hab." I make jokes, I re-call funny stories about my fellow patients and friends, but they still don't know that a good day for me is a day when I don't think about all of that. A good day is when I forget about my ink-blot theory and feel alive.
I choose instead to be inspired by people from history who also struggled with depression. Charles Dickens, Lord Byron, Tolstoy, Ernest Hemingway, Edgar Allen Poe....these famous authors turned their pain into something beautiful and inspiring that would continue to influence the world years after they died. I seek out others like me who have learned to deal with their handicap. I "try on" their coping methods like a pair of new shoes. Hoping to find the ones that fit. That make me feel less exposed.
I saved the draft of this blog two months ago. At first, I didn't want to write it because I didn't think anyone would understand. That somehow my words would be twisted and translated into something unrecognizable to me. But then I remembered that everyone already knows and that I would rather you know my side of the story than some version of the truth. I am healing. The sum of my parts are slowly being sewn back together through the love and support of my friends, family, and through my coping methods. I'm still here. Today, that is enough.
