A Full Calendar

I promised some laughs and a tour of "inside the walls" of Peachford....I'll get there eventually, but not tonight.  One of the most difficult things of being "on the outside," is the feeling of being under a microscope.  Sometimes everyone seems to know the whats, whys and who's of me when in reality they know very little.  It’s kind of funny in a sarcastic way for me to sit back and hear things about me such as, “She moved away from Griffin and it was too much, she never got over dealing with that lost friendship from last year, she works from home and should be around people more, she has no friends in Alpharetta and how will she meet people, JT is the cause of this and the pressure she has felt to move, the wedding was just too much with moving and the issues surrounding it, she’s been talking to x,y and z and they aren’t good for her."

My reality is only 4 people know my triggers, causes, length of illness, recovery process, treatment plan and medications — me, my husband, my Doctor and my therapist.  I have found that it is important for that to remain true and I highly recommend it to anyone going through something similar.  Others don’t understand — they may say they do, but they don’t.  Not one “single” event has “caused” my depression.  Chemical imbalances trigger many things in people.  Until you have walked a mile in clinical depression's shoes, you don’t understand.  You haven’t felt the cloud, the sadness, the pain, the feeling of worthlessness, the racing thoughts, the exhaustion and sheer feeling of being overwhelmed in all you do.  I had a person who read my blog make the statement via email, "everyday is a March 7th for me."  It broke my heart because I know how much pain she is in and I pray she gets the help, support, proper medications and treatment she deserves.    

It is extremely important to support a friend with mental illness  — support via hugs, love and positivity.  Rumors, being told what you should or shouldn’t be doing, judgements, are not helpful to anyone.  It delays healing.  It triggers old habits.  Personally, I am treating this exactly like I have an addiction.  Successful addicts change their lifestyle (I cannot afford not to).  They attend meetings, support groups, Dr. visits and therapy.  I am changing my lifestyle and the meetings and groups are in ink on my calendar.  

I don't really have time for depression, my calendar is full.  xo...Natalie

Camp Cupcake

I'm wondering if "Camp Cupcake" for Martha Stewart is similar to Unit 4 of Peachford. I'm going to say yes. I'm going to think that Martha and I both had plastic covered cots, had to "check out" a dull razor as if it were a library book only between the hours of 7:45-9:15, use a hair dryer in the hallway supervised during "sharps" hours only, had no electrical outlets in her room, slept with flashlights shined every 15 min, lined up for meals like kindergartners, woke up at 6 AM and had cell mates with names such as hippie chic and wheelchair girl.

It's funny because my complaints were so minimal during my week long stay. It's almost like reverting back to a child like state where your Mom made all of your decisions such as meals, bed times and Doctor appointments.  It's extremely a mindless exercise to exist with no stress, watches, cell phones or schedules. It was an eye opener for me at how truly sick I was and had been for a really long time.

That being said, while it is a great mental health break, I totally get how prisoners aren't able to adapt to the real world. It's a tough tough transition to be locked up 24/7 for days on end and then thrown out to the wolves for survival!  Not literally of course for myself, but truly an eye opener that life has gone on for everyone else during the sabbatical. Sadly some patients are thrown back out to the wolves. Since Peachford is a "Crisis Management Facility", the length of stay isn't nearly as long as it should be for some. Once the "crisis" (whether it be suicide, a manic episode, alcohol, eating disorder), has subsided, it is time to leave.  It is time for the patient to follow a treatment plan of Dr. appointments, therapy visits, support groups, AA/NA , etc.  Unfortunately, many fall through the cracks and relapse due to having financial problems and no one to support their recovery at home. Not all of us are blessed with faithful cheerleaders on the sidelines of the game cheering us on to victory. It is heartbreaking to see a raise of hands of patients with no ride home after release.  As positive of an experience I want to say this was for me, I cannot help but see how we as a society are failing our mental health patients.  Many don't know how to cry for help much less where to go for help. Our Er's are not equipped and are severely understaffed. Many who do are left to sit in cold Er's for 24 plus hours with no sleep increasing their depressed state even further until a bed is located at a mental health facility.  It is a rude, harsh awakening at health care and the mental health system in America.  It is easy to place blame however, I find that to be fruitless.  Instead I choose to try to make a difference in the life of mentally ill patients.  I will continue to attend support groups for my own benefit and also speak up in these groups in hopes I can help one person. We are only one but we can make a difference!  I believe this to be true. I saw how one person made a difference in my life when it was nothing but darkness.  One ignored text, one harsh word, one smile, one kind word, one hug... Could be the difference in life and death. Trust me, I ran that race and crossed the finish line.  Be kind. If there is one piece of advice I can give us all, it is to be kind.  The reward of kindness is so much better than the alternative of negativity.  

It is through some of the deepest pain we can find truth, faith and see the beauty in people and humanity.  

There is some humor to be found in my seven days.  I only hope I can do the funny stories justice this coming week without being offensive to some.  After all, sometimes you have to laugh to keep from crying.      

Girl, Interrupted

Friday afternoons are supposed to be for cocktails on the back deck, not a trip to the ER to drink cherry flavored charcoal shots.  My cheerleaders, JT and Amy, stood by my side and said "you can do this", "you are doing great!"  Yep, it was totally a piece of cake for me, just as if it were an Athens lemon drop shot covered in sugar from Munchies.  3 bottles later, I was sober.  Sober with the realization that I needed help.  The kind of help that a warm bath, Vitamin B and D and a hug weren’t going to give.  I needed professional help.  I needed a 1015 to save my life.  I waved the white flag and would have done just about anything at that point to feel better and whole again.    

Close to 24 hours wide awake, burning up with lukewarm washcloths on my neck and forehead, a mouth which felt like a desert that couldn’t get enough water to quench the dryness, carrying an IV bag to the restroom every 1/2 hour while a guard watched my every move, a polyester set of scrubs sticking to my hot skin, watching my sweet JT shed tears every hour, finally the time came to leave for Peachford Hospital, my home for the next week.  A bumpy ambulance ride and being wheeled out into the freezing cold into a strange place was not what I had in mind as far as paid rides are concerned.  Give me Uber any day of the week!  

Laying on a plastic covered love seat for 4 more hours in the Peachford waiting area wasn’t what I had in mind either while waiting to check into the “Ritz”.  It is surreal hearing the words, "you are being admitted involuntarily but would you like to fill out paperwork to change your status to voluntary?"  My thoughts, "who cares lady, just start the process of making me well."  The scene was straight from a Lifetime movie set after my intake at Peachford.  I was allowed a hug from JT and then the double doors shut and locked.  I don't think either of us have felt more alone in our entire lives.  The only thing in my favor was my almost catatonic, numb state from not eating or sleeping.  I shudder to think about how strong he had been for me all of those hours at North Fulton and how he must have felt walking in our house alone with no one here to be with him. 

I only thing I remember walking to Unit 4 was the horrid smell of the woman's perfume that did my intake.  That combined with my headache was super fun.  Going through 2 more double doors and walking into what would soon be known to me as the "day room", became a scene out of 28 Days.  Vitals, a strip search and a plastic covered bed...I know, you are thinking I really went to the Fulton County Jail.  

More on "Camp Cupcake" tomorrow.  I am humbled by your sweet comments, emails, tweets and texts.  They mean the world!  

The Perfect Storm

One might call the week of March 3^rd the perfect storm for me.  The combination of a significant increase in my anti depressant drug "e" caused every side effect imaginable such as dry mouth, day and night sweats, racing thoughts, insomnia and many more.  This combined with a West coast trip time difference, the act of smiling when sad and a rough bed to sleep in made for a week of hell.  A visit to my therapist on Friday surely would have helped I thought.  Surely it would have given me the perfect mental fortitude to jump back on a plane Sunday to head back to Santa Monica for another meeting.  Surely turned quickly into surely not hours later.  I would love to detail my exact feelings that afternoon in hopes that I could help another.  The truth is, I don’t know who I was that day sitting in my bed.  The Natalie that I know would never not want to be here to love her husband, family, friends, kitties, hydrangeas, sunshine, diet cokes, crushed ice, chocolate and many other loves. 

The topic of suicide is controversial at best.  I have no interest in debating anyone on the topic.  I can only offer my feelings and what I felt Friday, March 7^th.  Those cannot be debated.  This is a VERY BIG STEP for me in recovery --journaling and stating publicly what occurred.  Bear with me....  

A finger snapped, my heart rate and pulse were out of control and the harsh reality of the pills I ingested became clear.  Sheer panic swept over me and all I remember is the strong knowledge prodding me to get to the phone to call JT.  God had a better plan in mind.  His plan was to send JT home early that day.  As I turned the corner to grab the phone, I was met by a garage door closing and JT.  I cried in agony for help and for him to take me to the hospital.  The next 24 hours would be ones of grief, fear, reality, tears and love.  The sentence, “Suicide is a selfish act” is not one that I can agree with.  I cannot agree because I myself was not in any frame of mind to know what I did, the consequences, etc.  While I’m sure many do take their lives to complete an, “ok, I’ll show them” mission, I am not that person.  Some pain is simply too much to bear and some illnesses are too far along to comprehend the action.  For me, it was an overwhelming feeling of sadness, exhaustion, racing thoughts, no self worth.  It is an indescribable feeling of desperation no one can understand until you have been there. 

Friends and family are not equipped to help with this kind of help.  Not one person could have known I was in this state.  Sure, I dropped hints.  I told a friend at lunch in Griffin that I went to the Doctor and cried because my Drug "e" wasn’t working like it should.  I secretly was begging her to reach out to me, she didn't, but she also had no way of knowing my level of desperation.  I told my husband I was having a rough time sleeping and was sad and promised I would go to a therapist, get help and all would be fine.  He had zero way of knowing the depths of my pain.  I was a master at hiding it.  I lamented daily via text with another two friends who offered prayer, devotions, positive quotes, affirmations and any other sweet gesture one would think would help.  They were band aids for me.  These two had no way of knowing that.  I don’t know that even I knew that at the time.  

March 7^th was a day, an event in my life meant to ensure spiritual growth, a new church home, marital growth, mental fortitude, new friendships, the confirmation of old friendships, the dissolving of unhealthy friendships, new healthy habits, new hobbies and meeting strangers.  God doesn’t waste a hurt, does he Dusty Takle?  Rick Warren of Saddleback Church stated after his son's suicide due to mental illness, "One of the things I believe is that God never wastes a hurt and that oftentimes your greatest ministry comes out of your deepest pain."  Amen!      

This post has been overwhelming but in a good way.  I haven't been able to use the word overwhelming in a positive fashion in a long, long time.  I haven't been able to do a lot of things in a long time.  Follow along to see that evolve. 

Get excited!  More tomorrow on cherry charcoal and the ER.....    

1013 is not my house number

1013 is not my house number.  

2045 North Bethany Creek is mine.  

Yet, 1013 became mine on paper Friday, March 7, 2014. 

In case you aren’t aware of Psych codes, 1013 is the code for an involuntary admission to a mental facility.  Yes, I earned that badge, I added that to my resume, I added that title to the list of my endorsements.  I’m not ashamed of 1013.  1013 represents bravery, an act of asking for help for a disease out of control, a resume filled with events that many people never make it to because suicide robs them of a fulfilling life. 

The stigma of depression, bipolar, mania, etc is one that encourages the public to hide an illness and to be ashamed of facilities, medicines, therapies.  It is for this reason alone, I have decided to go public with my illness.  If I can save one life, change one negative thought to a positive, it will be worth it all.  I am not ashamed of my diagnosis. 

I will do my best to relate my story weekly so that it comes full circle.  I cannot promise my sentences won't be run ons, that commas will be in correct places and fragments won't be scattered throughout.  However, I can promise...raw emotion, honesty and writing from the heart.  

My prayer is this blog may be forwarded, shared or emailed to a soul and heart in need.