The Stigma of Depression

In the spring of 1998 I fell into a deep abyss of depression. I couldn't function. I could barely take care of my children. I wanted to die. Reaching out for help in an LDS world felt like I'd failed. But I did reach out to my bishop who sent me to LDS Family Services for counseling. Fortunately I had a great therapist. He was very concerned about how depressed and withdrawn from life I had become and recommended I get into a doctor and start some sort of antidepressant immediately. So I called my doctor and learned it would be at least a month before I could get in to see her.  At that point all hope was lost.

My husband was home sick from work that day. I looked at him and told him it was good he was there because if he'd gone to work he would've come home to me being dead. It was a cry for help. Instead he became angry and told me how selfish I was acting. This did not help how I felt. I called my therapist and told him I appreciated his help but I was not worthy of help and deserved to be dead. He asked to speak to my husband and told him to get me to the emergency room immediately. My husband was not happy about this at all, but he took me there. 

In the ER I was asked a lot of questions about how I felt.  Then came the big question. "If we send you home are you going to hurt yourself?" Yes. Yes I will. And then I detailed my plan. The look of pure terror on my husband's face just made me feel even more of a failure. I understand now why he looked at me that way. He was truly terrified I would follow through with my plan.  Letting them know all this in the ER was my ticket to the Psychiatric Unit. I was taken to the unit within just a few minutes. They sent my husband home and gave him a way to contact me. 

I won't detail my time in the psych ward. But I will say that I learned much about how to cope with the negative thoughts that were running through my head daily. I met people with a variety of mental health conditions and realized many of us dealt with the same issues. Almost all of us had some form of religious upbringing or life. It seemed odd that we all had this love of Christ yet we couldn't find his light in our lives. 

I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder and a major depressive event.  It was during this stay that I was told I would most likely spend the rest of my adult life on some form of medication therapy to maintain an even keel.  This has been pretty accurate.  If you met me face to face you would never suspect the demons I live with. The fears and the struggles. 

However, this was not my first go around with suicidal ideations.  Less than a year later I once again descended into the depths of hell.  This time I actually followed through with my plan. I took over 50 sleeping pills. My children were all at home. It was a Thursday afternoon. For some reason the pills took quite a while to kick in and my husband had come home from work. I had actually called him hours earlier at work and told him what I had done. His solution was to tell me to force myself to throw up.  I couldn't do it. I wanted to be dead. So when he came home from work and I was not acting right he realized that the drugs were taking effect.  Even at this point he did nothing. He fed the kids dinner then called his parents to see if they could watch our children that evening. It was nearly 8pm before he pulled up to the hospital. Nearly 8 hours since I had swallowed the first pill. The medications were finally taking full effect and I fell asleep. 

I remember hearing the monitors beep and everything slowing down. I remember the sense of rush and panic. Then the darkness came. Think about the darkest place you have ever been. You cannot see anything. Not even your hand an inch from your face. But this darkness was deeper. It was as if the light of Christ had been removed from me as well. Hope was lost. I could hear cries of pain and agony. Perhaps some were coming from me. I begged God to remove me from this Hell. That I wanted to go home. I wanted to be anywhere but this place.  

Then my eyes opened. The doctor was standing there and told me they thought for a minute they were going to lose me. I was given activated charcoal to drink (the other option was a tube up my nose and down my throat to pump it in). This is the nastiest stuff on earth. It's like crushing a charcoal briquette, mixing it with just enough water to make a slurry, then drinking it. It took a week to get the gritty taste out of my mouth. Even now, 17 years later. I can recall the taste. After a promise that I would not hurt myself again I was sent home. I slept for 3 days. 

Looking back I can almost understand why my husband became somewhat enamored with a woman in our ward. They had dated before he had met me. Rumors flew through the ward that an affair was going on. I'm not accusing him of an affair and stood firmly that one did not occur. An email I received after our separation told me that an affair had occurred. Whether or not this is the truth is a moot point now. I have forgiven him any indiscretion he may have had at that point. 

I know now that living with someone with mental health issues cannot be easy. My husband Dan lives with schizo-affective disorder (co occurring bipolar and schizophrenia). There are days where it is hard to cope, so I get where my ex-husband is coming from when he talked about my mental issues being difficult to deal with. But I have triumphed. Three times in the last 17 years I've had major backslides, but none required hospitalization. Therapy is my friend. Medication is required. Understanding that I have triggers and sometimes they are unpredictable. 

I want to note that my experience as the sleeping pills took affect and I slipped into darkness does not mean that is what always happens. My husband had an entirely different experience with his own suicide attempt years ago. You can read about it here. I stated this because I don't want those who read this to think their loved one who succeeded with suicide is lost. I believe God knew I needed that experience to keep me here to do a work I have yet to figure out.

Why share this now? It's the end of Suicide Awareness Month. I'm hoping that this reaches someone who feels like I did and realizes there is hope. Just reach out and there is someone there who loves  you. Don't be afraid to ask for help. It right at your finger tips. May you find peace, light, and love. And may your story not end short, but have a semicolon where it continues on.