Ramblings: Depression: Keep Fighting the Good Fight

Three years ago this month my nephew was born.

Earlier that month our world shut down due to the COVID pandemic.

Even earlier that month I spent four days in a rehab hospital.

Mental illness is a struggle for so many of us. With increased isolation and social media, many are struggling more than ever. For whoever is in the Pit, has lost everything, has no hope, can’t see a way ahead or anything worth living for, HOLD ON.

You are not alone. I have been there. I am still here.

Three years ago this month I very nearly quit.

I checked myself into the Hampstead Hospital and Residential Treatment Facility on a Thursday morning after a terrible night. Walking through those doors was one of the most frightening things I’ve ever done. It was the ultimate act of vulnerability: both admitting I had problems too great to handle alone and surrendering my freedom to submit to the control of others.

The decision wasn’t made easier by the long wait at Reception. Being a walk-in with no referrals or call-ahead, the office had to process my ID and insurance. It was just as well they had hold of my license, for every long minute of waiting so close to the front doors I longed to bolt right out again and drive home as if nothing had happened.

After all, I’d cut before.

I’d been this low before.

I could just call my therapist, tell her things were bad, and we could start meeting twice a week again.

Maybe my primary care doctor could increase the dosage of my daily anti-depressants.

I didn’t have to be here, didn’t have to lock myself in, proclaim my problems and failures so publicly.

But no.

The resolve that had gotten me showered and dressed, packed a bag and backpack with comfortable clothes, toiletries but no razor or contact lenses, my Bible and journal, and prescriptions in a Ziploc bag; had walked me to the car and made the ten-minute drive here—that resolve held me to my seat in the waiting room until Reception told me I was approved. And someone was there to walk me to the ward.

After long hallways and two locked doors I was in. On the ward I turned over my bags to be searched and emptied of any inadvertent contraband, sent a final text telling Mom what I’d done and where to pick up the car, and submitted to the rather brusque nurse’s exam (which doubled as a strip-search.) She was the only one to ever see the real cuts that prompted my stay. After a decade of highs and lows, of cutting and resisting the temptation to cut, I knew that if your pain was too deep for intervention, you inflicted the wounds out of sight.

The nurse wondered why I’d not taken Ativan to quell my blood lust. “You did all that cutting,” she said with disapproval. Her unspoken beratement stung, battling with my reason, what I knew of Ativan according to my doctor.

When the doctor had prescribed Ativan a few years before, white pills so tiny they seemed like a joke, she’d described it as an “anti-anxiety” medication. Ativan an emergency medicine, only to take “as needed,” such as a panic attack. Apparently it was such an attack that had prompted the prescription, chest pains then hyperventilation that landed me in the ER. Since then, I’d only taken an Ativan with the onset of such symptoms.

When I’d done “all that cutting” the night before, I’d felt no anxiety. It was pain. Pain so deep, sorrow and grief so profound I was drowning. There was no relief from it. But the physical pain of cutting was a distraction. It slightly lessened the emotional agony. Slightly.

But that agony was back in full force that afternoon as I sat waiting on the ward. The nurse dismissed me but until the staff finished searching my bags I was instructed to stay put in a chair. A chair front and center so when the other residents returned from lunch I was obvious at once. Spotlighted in my tragic humiliation.

They were gracious, my fellow inmates. Only two of them approached me whilst confined, and it was only to say a gentle hello, give welcome, reveal themselves as flawed and needy individuals, let me know I was not alone.

“Why are you here?” the first man asked.

“Depression,” I answered.

“Lots of people are here for that,” he said.

He and the other went away again, reabsorbed into the group activity. They left me with the reassurance that, yes, it hurt. However, here I needn’t try to hide the hurt.

This knowledge of solidarity didn’t quench my tears the first afternoon, didn’t lessen the agony. It would help, but not right then. Those first hours were simply hours of grief. I wept.

I wept for my loss and my failure. I had lost what I’d loved most. I was lost now, without purpose or interest in anything, no plan or desire for anything to come. I had failed at my job and my mission, failed my coworkers, my faithful supporters. Most of all I’d failed my children.

I’d been living my dream, the dream for which I’d waited so long, and now it was over. The best part of my life was over. If I kept living it would only be downhill from here.

I was just too weak. I chose to leave the Best Job in the World.

The guilt, shame, and sorrow for the hurt I’d caused compounded with my own hurt for I missed them all terribly. I missed my children, coworkers, the school, the work, the climate, the missionary status.

This grief for what I’d lost and missed so dreadfully piled atop the depression and anxiety already present, the very depression and anxiety which had driven me to departure. Driven me from my beloved children and position right to the edge of suicide.

Under all that weight, almost a year since leaving Haiti, since resigning as a teacher at Christian Academy of Petit Goave, I checked myself into Hampstead Hospital.

I needed help. More help than bi-weekly counseling with an excellent therapist. More help than two high-dose anti-depressants. More than extra Vitamin C and D and Magnesium, than healthy diet and frequent exercise. More than journaling and prayer, than church and Bible-reading, than friends and familial support. More than fresh air and sleep and occupation could do.

They weren’t enough, all these strategies. All the tools in the toolbox my therapist had been teaching me just weren’t enough.

And even though some months before I’d posted a blog boasting of how far I’d come on this depression journey, of how far God had brought me, of how much better I was than the wreck I’d been before—I was a wreck. Again. And ashamed of it. I was supposed to be better by now. Why was it still so hard? That was discouraging and embarrassing, rendering me more guilty and more depressed.

So I sought greater help. Declared myself unfit and turned myself in. From Thursday to Monday I was a patient among other patients.

Most of those on our ward were there for substance abuse, some under judge’s order, some repeat attendees who came through regularly. The ones who said with a shrug, “I know I’ll be back,” greatly saddened me, and somewhat angered me. They had come here to fight, to better themselves. They had no right to be so defeatist, to declare their own failure inevitable.

But those who said so were not fighting with Jesus. Although in the hospital under good counsel from licensed psychiatrists, compassionate doctors, experienced and open-hearted former residents (recovering addicts who now worked at the hospital helping others), these patients were convinced they would never make it, that they would return to their lives and manage for a little while before falling back into the same destructive habits, and be obliged, or mandated, to come back to the hospital. They were caught in a cycle of defeat, and they didn’t seem to want to fight.

That was the greatest tragedy.

I did not want to come back to the hospital. I did not want to need to come back. Although I liked all of my fellow residents and most of the staff, although I felt deep connections to some of them and was immensely grateful to the hospital, I did not want to stay there again, and surely did not want to be reunited with these same people again under the same roof.

I did not want to return to life outside only to fall back into destruction and necessarily drag myself or be dragged back here. The hospital was cold. It was confining. It was boring. The windows did not open and we were only permitted brief walks outside once a day, twice if we were lucky.

There was no music but the TV was always on too loud. There was an unimpressive book selection on one bookshelf. There was no privacy. Showering was awkward. There was only one bathroom for each gender. Obviously there were no devices with which to communicate with people outside (only the phone at the staff desk which we could use at certain times for short calls.) I had my sketchbook and a few pens but not many colors and no paint.

I already had all the right answers. I knew all the strategies. I’d been working for nearly a year with a competent therapist, and for two years before that had been talking with another counselor over Skype; these self-help and mental wellness tools were not new to me.

The greatest help the hospital offered me was the chance to weep uninhibited and to meet people as broken as I was. Sure, we meet broken people all the time, but rarely do we begin with confession. Our fall to, “I’m fine, how are you?” protects us from hard truth, ours and theirs.

Among my fellow residents, the question “How are you?” demanded a real answer. We wanted to know what the others’ were feeling, what struggles we shared, what victories we won. Essentially we already knew the worst of each other. Being here, we had all of us hit rock bottom. There was no further to fall. No fear, shame, or judgement remained. What was left was to build each other up. Only together did we stand the least chance of climbing out of that pit.

Being around these people was the greatest help to me, the greatest encouragement. And I listed their names as motivations to keep trying, keep fighting the good fight.

I loved my fellow inmates with the empathy of our shared struggles and the unconditional love of God. I remember them fondly even now, three years later. With only one did I keep any communication. We kept in touch for a year and met once for breakfast. Most residents, I think, want simply to move on with our lives outside the realm of the hospital, focus on all things, and people, unrelated to our stay and what landed us there.

In the television series “House, M.D.,” Dr. House is at one point obligated to stay at a rehab hospital. There, when staff deem residents ready to leave, they hold a celebration including a “re-birthday” cake, signifying that this is the first day of the person’s new life.

“We’re proud of her, we wish her well, and we hope to never see her again!” one of the doctor’s shouts at patient Annie’s re-birthday party. Everyone joyously joins in on the last phrase and applauds. The wish is that Annie will go on to thrive on the outside and never have to return to the hospital (House, M.D. Season 6, Episode 2 “Broken: Part 2”).

I was a voluntary patient at Hampstead Hospital and, at least when I was there, it was not customary to hold such celebrations, particularly with the odd hours of patients’ arrivals and departures. However, I appreciate the sentiment, and often recall that scene when reflecting on my own time in rehab.

In the three years since, I have slipped into low places. I have gone through periods of intense depression and there have been hours of despair when I’ve thought of removing myself from the world. However, since the hospital, I have not cut. The periods of deep depression have not lasted; suicidal thoughts have not consumed me nor have I made any lethal plans. I am better. I am not cured.

I still grieve what I lost.

I still feel conflicted.

I still get lonely and discouraged.

Sometimes I cry, or weep.

I still take two anti-depressants every morning. I still have an emergency prescription for Ativan. The last time I took it was over a year ago.

Some days, or moments, it is the thought of going back to the hospital that has rousted me out of the Pit or stayed my hand when tempted to cut. The idea of being confined is unpleasant. The idea of being a returning patient is worse. I will not be a repeat offender.

I refuse to give up the fight.

In fact, the one special “mental illness” workshop offered while I was at Hampstead provided me with a souvenir that still sits beside my bed, right behind my alarm clock. While most of the ward residents were at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting down the hall, a few of us sat around the common room table with a facilitator and made origami boxes, writing different words or phrases on each side. On the bottom of the box was our personal goal, on the inside sides were attributes, on the outside sides were strategies, and on the front was a motto or mantra. Mine was “Keep fighting the good fight,” from the Unbroken song “Good Fight” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K0M3X3_pFD4. The ink is faded and the box a bit battered, but it’s there, visible to me every day, several times a day, reminding me to keep fighting this war of life.

Life is a war of so many opponents. Sickness, time, negativity, debts, toxic relationships—and each of us has a personal retinue of particular pernicious enemies of which others may or may not know.

The best we can do for one another is to be supportive. Sit and listen. Don’t accept the words “I’m fine.” Give someone your whole attention, without distractions of phones or television. Tell someone it is okay to cry and really mean it. Write a letter to a long-distance friend. Send a card through snail mail just because. Trust someone enough to share your own fears and failures. Pray for one another. Be joyful with another’s successes and good news. Cry with your friend for her loss or bad news.

Never dismiss someone’s illness as imagined.

Mental illness may show no outward signs. Neither do diabetes or heart disease.

I am mentally ill. I’m not proud of it. I am proud of what God can do with me, how He still uses me, is still making me a part of the Petit Goave school ministry, in spite of it. I am sick, I am broken, I am a failure and a loser. But God is the Healer, the Maker, the Victor, the Ruler. And I am on His side. So, even though I expect my entire life will be hard and I’ll have to fight, I know the outcome of this war. We win. And, oh glorious thought!, this life is not as good as it gets. One day there will be eternal life with God in-person, and there will be no more sickness, no more brokenness, no failure, no loss, no grief, no depression, no hurt. There will be only love and joy. That is a future worth fighting for.

So, my friend, keep fighting the good fight.

Jesus said: “I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. They will come in and go out, and find pasture. The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full…I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.” John 10:9-10, 28

My previous Blog regarding the Depression Journey: https://rachelallyssaramblings.blogspot.com/2019/10/suicidal-missionary-continuing-story.html

If you need help:

988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline

We can all help prevent suicide. The Lifeline provides 24/7, free and confidential support for people in distress, prevention and crisis resources for you or your loved ones, and best practices for professionals in the United States. https://988lifeline.org/

(Text or call # 988)