It’s hard to believe that it was eight years ago today that I woke up in what many would consider a rather obscure place. After several days of the most severe anxiety, exhaustion, and all out fear, I found myself being woken up by a charge nurse, taking my blood pressure, and informing me that the doctor would be in shortly to conduct a physical. “Part of procedure,” she gently explained; a procedure that followed my apparent self-admittance the night before to the psychiatric ward of my healthcare provider’s (who shall remain nameless) mental health facility. It wasn’t until later that day that I found out I was on the maximum security floor, allegedly for my own protection. This explained why the nurses took my shoe laces, purse, and clothing and provided me with surgical scrubs to wear when I was admitted. When the doctor arrived, he examined me and I was questioned extensively regarding my medical history, medications I might be taking (which, ironically, were none) and what I believed were the circumstances that led me to this Alice in Wonderland adventure I was now on. It would take months, and in some cases years, before I could honestly answer why I was now a patient among some of Los Angeles’s most severely mentally ill. Despite the disconcerting journey I was now embarking upon, my life was about to radically change course; but thankfully and fortunately, for the better.
Because this was my first day at Prozac Central, I was allowed to stay in bed for a few extra hours. Given I hadn’t checked in until four in the morning, I was thankful for the opportunity to cacoon in my bed. I slept on and off, but with one eye open, because I was scared beyond belief about my new environment. There were patients roaming about, moaning, crying and some were talking to themselves. My roommate spent the morning pacing up and down the hallway, screaming obscenities at the nurses. She clearly had some anger issues. At one point, when I had awoken, I found her standing over me, staring deeply and quizically at me. God help me, I thought. During lunch, I met some of the other patients who, like me, felt as if we were suddenly re-enacting One Who Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest. The first question everyone asks you is "what are you in for". The reasons for each person I encountered ranged from people like myself who had just taken on way more than we could handle, to those who were in such immense pain that they felt suicide was the only answer. I noticed that several members of my new community of friends were wearing what I thought were wrist bands. When I inquired what the wrist bands were for, I was informed that they were bandages due to those particular patients having slashed their wrists wide open. One woman who had befriended me had been admitted for overdosing on Lithium and Xanax. During group discussion a frail African American woman, in her 50’s, and walking with a cane, came up to me and introduced herself as Myra. She bent slightly toward me, looked me straight in the eye, and announced, in a thick southern dialect, that she was both homicidal and suicidal. I immediately fled to my room and hid in my bed, crying and wondering how someone like me, who had everything life had to offer, had ended up here.
In short, I had hit the wall. I was exhausted beyond belief and had been going through my days like a zombie from Dawn of the Living Dead. I was the mother of a beautiful, healthy 18 month old baby boy. I had a large, three bedroom home in a nice neighborhood, on a cul-de-sac. My health was great and for all intends and purposes, my marriage, at the time, was doing well. I was a successful recruiting manager at a major Big 5 firm. The hours were long and the expectations high, but I met each challenge with my usual energy and enthusiasm for a job well done. My husband and I had money in the bank and we were experiencing one exciting achievement after another. However, the need to do all and be all, for everyone, to the utmost of my abilities, truly got the best of me. It knocked me flat on my back in a mental health facility; giving me nothing but time to reflect on my life and the choices I had made. From all outward appearances I was living the American dream; yet here I was living a terrible nightmare.
I was released after three days of group therapy, graduating to minimum security (where I got my clothes and shoe laces back), spent countless hours with a therapist trying to convince him that I was not a child of sexual abuse (I truly wasn't and it annoyed me that they tried to convince me that maybe that was why I was there) and attended an art class where I made a to-die-for beaded bracelet (apparently, my parting gift). I felt as if the time I spent in the hospital caused me more anxiety than what I originally had checked myself in for. I’m of the firm belief that people who completely hit the wall from being overworked, overextended and overtired should be sent to a retreat facility rather than locked up in a high security mental health ward. The retreat facility would provide a comfortable, tranquil environment with yoga and meditation classes, and counselors trained to teach you how to keep your life in balance. Being locked up in mental health facility just doesn’t seem to be the right antidote.
My mother was living on the East Coast at the time of my “breakdown” of sorts. She flew out to California to help my husband take care of me. I was so riddled with anxiety and pumped full of antidepressants and medication that I was incapable of taking care of my son. My mother-in-law flew out to California to take my son back to the East Coast for a few weeks, until I got back on my feet. Here I was, a fiercely independent woman, now needing to be completely dependent on everyone around me. My anxiety attacks were so frequent that I had to take life one hour at a time. My mother, who is one of the strongest women I know, kept me busy with exercise, gardening, shopping, talking, reading and re-engineering my life and responsibilities to a more achievable level, sans the exhaustion and anxiety. As the weeks passed, I found myself becoming stronger and more capable of enjoying life again. The dark, haunting thoughts were no longer plaguing my mind, and my zest for life was slowly returning. My heart ached because I missed my son immensely; however, I knew I was doing what was best for him by concentrating on getting myself well. After four weeks I felt strong enough to take care of my son again. My husband and I flew to the East Coast to bring him back home. We arrived around midnight, so he was soundly asleep when we got to my mother-in-law’s. He looked so angelic and beautiful. I wept uncontrollably looking at him asleep. I felt a twinge of guilt for not having been with him during the past four weeks. I had to combat these thoughts with the comfort in knowing that I was emerging from my ordeal a stronger, healthier mother who now knew all too well the importance of striking a proper balance in my life. My reunion with my son was the highpoint of my healing. He brought, and continues to bring, immense joy to my life. In some ways, he was the elixir my soul needed to take the next important steps in taking back my life.
When my husband and I took count of how many people stepped in to take care of my responsibilities during my “down time”, we were astounded to find the number was 14. Clearly I was doing way too much. It’s now been eight years since that dark, painful, frightening night. For years I questioned why I had to go through such a tumultuous trial; however, it wasn’t until I stopped questioning my ordeal that I finally found my answers.
My life is completely different now. I left my big corporate job with the big corporate pay check. I live in a smaller house with less upkeep. I work from a home office (and on many days in my pajamas – major business casual attire) and I’m one hundred percent meshed in my son’s life. For reasons that are private, my husband and I divorced two years ago. We’ve remained the best of friends, but the pain I had endured during the end of my marriage is completely gone from my life. I’ve downsized my life in so many ways, yet I feel as if I have more than I ever have. Since my ordeal, my mother, father and one of my brothers moved to southern California. I have family time with my son, EVERY day. I have occasional ME time. I have time to nurture my friendships versus catching up with each other every six months. I have more time to write and even started this blog. I have a strong sense of peace that is unshakable. I have the strength that only comes from enduring such a circumstance, and I have the unending joy of knowing I emerged from my battle victorious. I’ve developed a tremendous empathy for anyone who goes through what I did. No one understands the anguish unless you’ve been through it yourself. I’ve learned to be less of a perfectionist and more of a realist on what I’m capable of effectively accomplishing without jeopardizing my health or time with my son. And, yes, I do take time to stop and smell the roses. I hesitated sharing such a deep, personal part of my life, however, I strongly believe that the lessons I’ve learned and the messages imbedded here are priceless. I wake up every day and say to myself “Today, I’m making a choice to live an extraordinary life”. By doing so, my life takes care of itself, and my life truly is extraordinary.
I recently took my car in for its 3,000 mile check-up. As I sat in the customer's lounge, I was struck by the whole process of a 3,000 mile check up. If your vehicle is low on any of the fluids, that are vital for optimal performance, then the mechanic dutifully replenishes them. The tires are rotated and checked for pressure to ensure that they are balanced and in good working order. The oil filter is replaced, the electrical system is given a once over, and the brakes are tested to ensure that the car will stop on a dime the next time I pass a sign that says "shoe sale".
