My Life Series: Depression Part 1

My life series: Depression Part 1

Have you ever been treated for depression? Have you ever had a loved one who has been treated for depression? I think most of you can answer yes to either/or. Depression is finally being talked about. It is being recognized for what it is….a disability. It disables your thinking, your ability to function at times. It damn near killed me as a teen and played a very large part in the breakdown of my marriage. Because it has played a major role in my life, it is something I feel worthy to dedicate a blog entry to.

I was sound asleep in my bed. No, it wasn’t even my bed but it was the bed I slept in for about a year. My father had custody of me, we lived in a motel. It sounds horrible but really, it was alright. We had a kitchenette, it was close to where my younger siblings lived and very near to my friends and school. So I was sleeping, when I heard my father come in fairly late. I was 14 at the time, my first year of high school.

My father was a fire truck chaser. Some of you may have had Dads like this, or are those kind of dads. The ones who listen faithfully to that police radio (although I don’t think this is as easy as it was back then). He’d listen to police chases and when he happened to catch an address for a fire near-by we’d hop in the car and go. It must have been not too long after I drifted off when he came into my room. He mumbled something about a shooting, a 14 year old in our town. I went back to sleep without computing much of what he said.

The next day I caught the bus to school. I skipped first class as I always did and walked to the coffee shop around the corner. I waited for my boyfriend who had a second period spare. There were a group of kids mingling around the doors, some crying and others just looking devastated. The story was that a very good friend of ours and his buddy were playing with a BB gun that our friend was given that night as a birthday gift from his father. The gun accidentally discharged and shot him in the chest. He died instantly. His life ended that night and at that moment I wished mine had too.

I didn’t know what was happening to me. I spent weeks visiting his grave site. I’d read to him, we always wrote poetry together. Times were much different then. From morning to night I would visit with him, I just couldn’t let him go. I had never dealt with death before. I certainly wasn’t doing it now. I’d go to school once or twice a week but I wasn’t really there. Then I lost it. I was in the girl’s washroom. I started to cry and I could not stop. I don’t remember this moment but was told I just began screaming.

The school nurse came in, an ambulance was called and when I arrived at the hospital my father was there. I was admitted to the psychiatric unit for depression. My dad stayed with me for a few hours. I really didn’t know why I was there, but at the time I really didn’t know what had happened at the school. I had totally blacked out. I chalk it up to a mental overload. My mind just shut down, I could not take any more. It sounds crazy, I mean what kind of stress can a 14yr old have? No bills, no car, no pressure. All I know is at the time life didn’t feel so black and white.

So that night I found myself sleeping (a drugged sleep this time) in yet again, a bed that wasn’t mine but became my place of rest for the next eight months. This is when I learned what depression was all about. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. A doctor visited me every day to order a new set of medications that were to make life more bearable. But the reality was that I was in some horrible place with people much worse off than I have ever been, even at my lowest point. I was surrounded by alcoholics, drug addicts and even a guy named Bob who swore he was Christ. I did have some fun with him. No, not that kind of fun…. sex with God? I could never!

The next eight months was a lot of group therapy and one on one counseling with a social worker. She was so phony, I saw right through her. It was pointless for me to be there but I did learn a lot about life in a short amount of time. I was a phase three which meant I was not allowed my own clothing. Nor was I allowed a razor or any electrical item with a cord. They called it the “suicide watch”. My fun was limited to hiding in closets and under beds when it was time for my 15 minute check-ins by the nursing staff. The rest of my time was spent in the smoking room. Yes, a smoking room dedicated to us on the Morris wing only. Could you imagine 30 psychotics going through nicotine withdrawls? I’m sure it was in their best interests.
My father would visit me every day, as did my boyfriend. What a dating experience that was! Bet noone could ever top that one. But, he stuck by me.

We never talked about why I was in there really. He was just there and it was comforting that he was. Most times I was stoned. It was easier to keep me drugged then to actually work through the issues that brought me there I suppose. I was stubborn. I didn’t want to talk, I didn’t want to get better. I just wanted to wallow in my own self pity just a while longer. So that I did.