The next few hours after my sister came home were a blur of thought and emotion. Calls to family members, friends, loved ones, and even just people we thought needed to be updated were made. A continual stream of questions was shot my way that I didn't have the ability to answer. Why had I tried? What was really so bad? What could they do to help me? There were no answers I could provide that would make sense to anyone but myself.
Hours later, we arrived at the ER for the University Hospital. The standard stack of papers was issued to us to fill out and we were directed into a back waiting area. This is where the string of long clinical questions began.
Have you been diagnosed with depression? Yes.
Have you had thoughts of self harm in the past? Yes.
Have you recently inflicted harm on yourself? Yes.
Is this your first time attempting suicide? No.
Does your family have a history of depression? Yes.
As the questions continued, I watched my family's reactions around me as I numbly answered all of the questions passed my way. I was ashamed of myself as I watched the pain dance just behind their eyes. I knew that I had let them all down and it was all I could do to not simply crumble away. I was trying to pretend I wasn't collapsing inside, but each blink, each tear they shed, knocked out another piece of my feeble defenses.
The questions finally completed. I stared blankly at the floor, matching patterns in the tile sections as I vaguely heard the assessment provided. I would be admitted to the psychiatric hospital for a brief visit. I would be transported up to the building in an ambulance and would then begin the "quick and easy" process of taking time to get my life back together. Protocol dictated that I had to be on a gurney when we arrived at UNI, but the EMT with me was kind enough to offer me a small but significant choice; if I wanted to, I could sit in the back of the ambulance and not be strapped down until we arrived at our destination. It may seem like an insignificant offer, but it meant I could hold onto a small shred of dignity, even an imaginary one.
With all of the decisions made, I was escorted to the ambulance where I climbed inside. I saw my parents following behind the ambulance in their jeep, flashing their lights any time they noticed me looking out of the rear windows. Each flash delivered its clear message.
We love you.
We're sorry we didn't know.
We're here for you.
This ride is when the pieces began to come together for me. I knew at this moment that I wouldn't be leaving the hospital willingly until I had answers. Until I had the right treatments that worked for me. Until I felt that I could be a better person.
Living with an invisible condition will always be a struggle, no matter how good things are. I'm not here to tell anyone that once you get help life is always going to be sunshine and daisies. It won't be. Nor will ignoring treatment lead to a life existing in a continual state of gloom continually suffocating you in its brumous clouds. Each day will have its ups and downs throughout. Each week will have good days and bad. Each year, there will be low points as well as high. My question to you about these peaks and valleys is a simple one. When you are on your path, are you focusing on the peaks or on the valleys?
Don't look back. Keep pushing forward. It might be a difficult road right now, but once you reach the peak, I promise you it will be worth it. Don't be afraid of what's ahead. Don't focus on what you have already passed. Keep your chin up and do whatever you need to in order to keep moving forward. You are not alone. No matter what, I'm rooting for you. You are an amazing person and I will do anything I can for you.
I promise.
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