If you were to look at me today, and guess what made me the way I am, I guarantee you'd be wrong. When you look at me you'd see my protruding cheeks that round out like a peach when I smile, and the sporadic light brown dots that splatter my face as if Jackson Pollack painted on me. You wouldn't guess that the happy, smiling girl in front of you once feared her own mind.
Starting in July of 2012, I begun to see a therapist to receive help for my growing anxiety. I had anxiety towards sophomore year at a new school, as well as towards irrational fears of my past regurgitating from the depths of my mind. I began to spiral downward as the months went on. The help I was getting in therapy assisted me in finding better outlets to let go of stress, like breathing exercises and meditation, instead of hurting myself. But as school became filled with pressure, so did my head. On Oct. 29th, at my weekly therapy session, I admitted to having thoughts of suicide. I told my therapist that I was always afraid of asking for help, and I agreed to be hospitalized for my own safety.
To be honest, I don't remember what happened after that moment. I remember sitting and waiting to be admitted in an ER hospital room. I sat there silently on the hard, yet plush bed and let the world take me in. My parents, my heroes, stayed with me the whole time and made sure I knew I wasn't alone. When the time came to go up to the psychiatric floor, I knew this was it. I was leaving the girl I knew behind and was finally ready to accept help.
I remember being brought into a conference room after touring the facility that I would call home for awhile. We left as the other patients were heading to their bedrooms for the night. My parents and I were then escorted to a conference room where I tried to stomach what I could of a dainty and pale hospital meal. My sisters, who my father had called earlier on, came into the room and suffocated me with hugs as we all cried. We then signed papers and I was carted off after saying goodbyes to my family.
I was given a sleeping pill and laid down. As I closed my eyes, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was finally getting help. The help I knew I needed but never admitted. I would be okay. I was out like a light until a nurse came in and woke me up to take a blood sample. I remember sitting up groggily and looking out the window to see the sunrise above the Minneapolis skyline. I winced as the needle drew blood, but I smiled knowing that the city I was looking at was giving me hope to continue on, it was telling me, "one day you'll be here and living the life you want."
As I stepped out into the common area where we ate, watched TV, talked on wall hanging phones, and played games, I was terrified of what lurked behind the curved wall that semi-hid the area. I was the first one out. I grabbed my breakfast tray and sat down by the window that peered out at the city. I was shaking as I heard people coming. They grabbed their trays and sat near one another. Except for one. Her name was Marie, and as she grabbed her tray, she looked at me and smiled. She sat behind me on the window ledge and asked simple and delicate questions. She showed me the ropes and let me know that I was welcomed. She left the next day. I felt alone, yet again.
I then moved out of my room and was given a roommate. A patient I had not yet met. Her name was Emma, we helped each other get out of our shells. I remember vividly making her laugh and having a nurse come peer into our room just to make sure it wasn't a maniacal laugh. After that moment, she began to go to more of her groups and talking to others. I felt at home. But, I began to miss my own.
My parents and sisters visited every day during visiting hours. I felt our family growing stronger. I spent a full week in the psych ward inpatient program and the next week doing the outpatient program. I began to feel the help take hold of me and turn me inside out. I took my diagnosis of depression and severe anxiety in stride. I went back to school the following week feeling like I was missing something. I missed the love and safety of all those in my program. The world outside of those white and speckled walls was not as helpful or as memorable as my time in treatment.
To this day I have not forgotten the beautiful souls and wonderful caretakers that I met. If I had never gone into treatment, I am certain that I would not be here today. Looking at me today you wouldn't see the pain that I endured, the fear I went through or even a time when I didn't seem happy. This dark experience is hard for me to describe to others with correct words, or even without tearing up. To this day I remember fragments and smells of our ward and think to myself if it all actually happened, and then I remember that I am here because of those memories and fragrances.
Life since then has been nothing short of amazing. I enjoy the little things, take time to work on myself, help others and have become my own role model. I, like most others, have bad days too, but the days that are good are frequent. There's a Hemingway quote that says "...true nobility is being superior to your former self." I will never let my past become me and I'll never forget how scared the splattered faced girl once was.
