When I was 10, my dad and uncle built us a house. The first two years there were very happy. Then my dad started to suffer from depression. He progressively got worse, so my mom took him to a psychiatrist. The doctor told my dad he needed shock treatments. As a result, my dad never went back to the doctor.
Consequently, at the same time I was emotionally unstable. My three brothers and I went to catholic school. I took my religion too serious. I wouldn't watch TV because I was afraid I would commit a sin. In the morning, after I got ready for school, I would kneel by my bed and pray. I would stay there until my mother called me for breakfast. I was afraid to go to confession, fearing that I'd forget to include a sin I'd committed. I used to walk to church every Sunday night to go to benediction, after having gone to mass Sunday morning. I sang in the choir, which I enjoyed. But I would stand so erect that one of the older girls made fun of me.
My cousin and I would clean the sacristy everyday after school. Our pay was candy, but we had fun doing it. To this day, I love my religion and now, parochial schools are not strict, as they were when I was a child.
Years later my mom told me she didn't know if she should help my dad or me. My dad was depressed for 1 year without any treatment. My bedroom was next to the kitchen and I could hear him crying and my mom trying to comfort him.
On December 13, 1957, my mom's birthday, he committed suicide. Back then, suicide was at a low level. Mental illness was hid in the closet and treated as taboo among people. He left a wife at age 40 and 4 children, ages 15, 13, 11 and 6.
We are catholic and our belief is that suicide is the most grievance offense anyone can commit. To this day, I feel my dad is in heaven because of his illness.
I refuse to believe that he remembered that it was my mom's birthday that day he died. He was not a mean person and he would not have purposely done that to her.
Consequently, it took her 15 years before she once again was able to enjoy her birthday.
If it weren't for support from the government for my brother's and me, my mom wouldn't have made it financially. She also worked a full time job to make ends meet.
As the years went by, I became very attached to my mom. I felt a deep longing for my dad. I was the apple of his eye and I couldn't believe that my daddy would leave me.
I graduated from public high school with a 1-year scholarship for nursing school. The summer before I went to school, I worked in a factory to make spending money.
I went to Sacred Heart Nursing School. I was there only two weeks, having become anxious, depressed and I missed my mom. The nun in charge suggested that I go to the psychiatric unit of the hospital. I was there for 1 week, not knowing that it was the first of many admissions to that unit.
Afterwards, I worked in a department store. I would still get depressed, having lost the opportunity to go to nursing school.
I met my husband-to-be and we were married in 1964. The uncertainty of my life, being a wife and pregnant, threw me into a deep depression. I cut my wrist, one of my many suicide attempts and I was again admitted to the psychiatric unit. After a couple of months and having shown no improvement I was taken to a state hospital.
My gynecologist told my husband that women like me are usually never stable their whole lives. He advised my husband to get an annulment. My husband wouldn't, because he loved my dearly.
My son was born in a general hospital. He had a birth defect, but thank God it could be repaired. My in-laws cared for him. I had to go back to the state hospital. I was released after 7 months and was able to conduct a normal life. My husband and son brought happiness to me once again.
In 1968 I became pregnant again and I was ecstatic. Our second son was born. He also had a birth defect, repairable again. My doctor told us it was either the sperm or the egg that caused the defects. He advised me to have my tubes tied because the possibility of a 3rd child with an irreversible defect was possible. Back in the 60's a request for a tubiligation had to go before a team of doctors. Only if 2 doctors gave their consent could the procedure be done. It took me many years to realize that the cause of the defects was my medication.
I was so happy with my new baby. I felt so good that I stopped taking my medication. I didn't realize that my medication was the reason I felt so well. I became extremely manic. Our sons were taken to my in-laws and my husband had to take me back to the state hospital. I was so manic I broke the glass on the office window with my hand. A team of nurses and aides wrapped me in wet sheets (a therapy which is not used anymore). While lying on a bed, wrapped for 24 hours I slept, cried, screamed and hallucinated. When I was unwrapped I was once again calm, but very depressed. I was given new medication and stayed at the hospital for another 7 months. At one time I stuck a sewing needle into my chest hoping to pierce my heart. The next day I told a nurse what I did and had to be x-rayed. The needle was removed surgically. I was then moved to a different unit where the patients were in worse condition. My recovery was slow and I had a lot of mental anguish.
It was Christmas time and my husband took me home on a pass. Christmas Eve we went to his parents who once again were caring for our sons. I don't know why, but a short while after we were there, I started to laugh uncontrollably. I couldn't stop and my husband took me back to the hospital.
Once again I recovered and went home. We rented a larger apartment and our sons came home. Our oldest son was in 4th grade and the youngest, in kindergarten.
Life went well for 2 years. Except that, my aunt, who was my dad's sister, committed suicide.
I went into a deep depression taking an overdose. Once again I went back to the psychiatric unit. I was there 2 weeks and became stable. Our sons were with my in-laws and wouldn't come home because they were scared.
As a follow-up to the hospital, I went to a mental clinic where my doctor put me on Marplan, which is a MAO inhibitor, a type of anti-depressant. With this medicine you have to avoid certain foods or you could have a severe reaction causing a stroke or even death.
I started to work at a card shop and became very stable and my self -esteem grew. We wanted to buy a house and with the help of a veteran's loan (my husband was in the Navy before we met) we were able to.
One of the happiest days of our lives was when our sons came home. We raised them until the day they went out on their own. I thank God I was well for 20 years. I attributed my well being to the medicine, my will to survive and be happy for my husband and my sons.
I didn't even have to go to the mental health clinic. On my last visit there, I asked my doctor how long I had to keep seeing him. His response was that I was released. The fact that I asked him that question confirmed that I didn't need him anymore. He was the best doctor, one of many, I had. My family doctor renewed my prescriptions.
In August of 1993, the medicine company stopped making Marplan, my lifeline. The chain of events over the next 7 years was a nightmare to my family and me. Either psychologically or the imbalance in my brain without the Marplan, once again threw me into deep depression.
I cut my wrist, stabbed my chest and drank peroxide. When the doctor in the emergency room was stitching my wrist, he told me that mental illness was worse than cancer. Of course, that could cause a lot of controversy.
My trips to the hospital became more and more frequent. In 7 years I was more in than at home. My husband's patience was very thin at times, but I couldn't blame him. The family suffers as much as the ill person. There are 2 sides to the story.
At one time I was extremely paranoid. I went for a walk and felt like everyone that passed in a car, looked at me and knew who I was. When I was in my house I thought that people knew what I was doing. If a received a phone call that was a wrong number, I thought someone was checking on me.
I went to my 35th class reunion and sensed that there were undercover policemen, who watched me when I opened my purse, because they were looking for me to pull out a gun.
I would wake up in the morning and be taken over by fear. I laid on the couch and cringed holding my rosary tightly in my hand.
Needless to say, I always wound up in the hospital with constant medication changes and therapy.
Sometimes when I was released from the hospital I had to go to a day program where we had therapy, current events and crafts. It was a center you could learn a transition from the hospital to home.
All the time, depression weighed so heavily on me, I didn't know where to turn. A nurse at the hospital told me she never saw a patient with such deep depression as I had.
I was given ECT, electrical convulsive therapy. It would help for a limited amount of time and then back to depression. Some people are stable indefinitely with ECT.
At one time, I thought I was Jesus come back. I went to church and felt that some people knew I was He. I felt euphoric knowing that I was Jesus. My doctor explained to me that I was depressed for so long that my mind imagined me to be Jesus so I would have a good, happy feeling.
One summer, I became manic. I called the police and told them I needed to talk. I was sitting on the back porch when they came. I don't remember what I talked about except I told the one policeman I didn't want to see his gun because my dad shot himself. My son came, so the police left. My husband came home from work and we argued. Not knowing what was happening, my husband left the house. Again, I called the police and my son. Six police arrived and I made false accusations against my husband. He came home and to his dismay found the officers in the kitchen with my son and me. I told the police my husband was crazy and then I went to our bedroom. My son followed me, telling me I had to go to the hospital. He helped me pack, after I agreed to go. He drove me there and as we were waiting in the emergency room, I remember crying and being very tired. After a doctor examined me, I fell asleep. I dreamed that my soul left my body and I was in heaven. I hugged Jesus and my dad. I heard my mom and sons calling me and I woke up. I was very thirsty and cried and yelled until a nurse brought me water. I was admitted to the psychiatric unit again. I don't remember, but as I was getting better, some of the other patients told me, I watered the plants repeatedly.
That was my only manic episode. I recovered from that faster than from depression bouts.
My second last suicide attempt was in 1997. I swallowed all my pills with a bottle of wine. As a rule, I never used alcohol because of my medication. Being desperate and wanting to be free from depression, I overdosed, hoping to die. Sitting at the kitchen table, I wrote notes to my husband, my sons and my mom. I got up to go upstairs to bed and I fell on the floor. My glasses flew off and a few days later I found that they were bent and one of the lenses was missing. That morning I was supposed to go for breakfast with my mom and mother-in-law. I called and told them I wasn't going, that I didn't feel well. Divine providence sent them to check on me. They found me in a stupered state and called the ambulance and my husband who was at work.
They took me to the general hospital, where my stomach was pumped and I was under close observation for days. I was taken to the psyche unit and ultimately to the state hospital. Not having been at the state since the early 70's, I found it quite different. None the less, it's a terrible place to be, but the general hospitals only keep you there for a limited amount of time and then you are sent to state for prolonged care. The doctor's, nurses, and aides are very nice, but the stigma of being there and the food is awful.
Once again I was stabilized and released after 3 months. Always in the back of my mind was the nagging thought of what and when next?
I was home 6 months and went into depression again. I bluffed my way through Christmas, which I did for 5 years. Putting out the decorations, I felt confused and disoriented. The holidays, which I always loved, had no meaning. I wouldn't tell my family how I felt because I didn't want to ruin their good times.
Two days after Christmas I told my husband I wasn't feeling well. He said he thought I wasn't feeling well, but he was hoping he was wrong. He called my doctor and she wanted me to come into the hospital for about a week. I talked to her, telling her I couldn't function. She convinced me to go to the hospital.
Over the years, she was great and very concerned. She tried every combination of medication imaginable. She would hug me and was very supportive. When I was home, she told me I could call her anytime.
After two weeks in the psyche unit, our insurance company informed us that my coverage was depleted. My husband told me I wasn't ready to come home. Knowing that the cost of 1 day on that unit was $600.00 and wanting to commit a successful suicide I told my doctor I was much better. She sent me home not knowing I was lying. My husband was angry with her for releasing me.
The next day, my husband asked me if I was going to be all right and what I planned to do. I told him I was going to pack away Christmas decorations and he went to work.
I took all of my pills and went to bed with a plastic bag on my head. After all was said and done my husband told me he called home at noon and when I didn't answer he immediately came home. He had to break open the bedroom door, which I locked. He called 911 and I was in a coma for 3 days. My husband practically lived at the hospital during this time. A priest blessed me 2 times and at one point was ready to give me the last sacrament Catholics receive before dying. The doctor didn't think I was going to survive, but God had other plans for me. To this day I don't know what His plans are. But having lived through all my suicide attempts, I hope there is a bright future for me.
Naturally, I was back on the psyche unit with a one-on-one, which means I had a nurse or aide with me all the time. He or she had to monitor all my actions.
My doctor told me that she had to send me back to the state hospital. I pleaded with her not to send me. She told me she couldn't take the chance that I would try suicide again if she sent me home. My husband and sons told me I had to go because they couldn't trust me at home. They were devastated by my near death experience. No one would put their loved ones through an ordeal like this unless one was sick. I was very sick.
My doctor visited me when I was in ICU. She told my husband he was right about not sending me home from the psyche unit. But, I never lied to her and she assumed I was better. I will never accuse her of making the wrong decision.
To be committed to a state hospital, one must go before a panel of a judge, lawyer and 2 doctors. My doctor told the panel that I OD and put a plastic bag on my head. She said my face was blue when my husband found me and I almost died from the overdose. They asked me if I had anything to say. I told them I didn't want to go to state. I wanted to stay on the unit for 2 weeks and go home. Their decision was to send me to state.
I arrived at state in a deep depression. I had no fight left, thinking that why should I try to get well, I'll only get sick again. I gave up and didn't care what happened to me.
I had a very caring doctor. As the weeks passed, I remained depressed no matter what medication I was on. I was allowed to go on walks around the hospital grounds. When a car passed me, I was tempted to walk in it's path. I told the doctor and he confined me to the unit with an aide watching me all the time. That situation lasted 3 days and then I tried to move on.
My oldest brother, who lives out of state, would call me once a week. I also talked often to my mom and aunt. They always prayed for my recovery. I prayed, but my faith was diminished. My two older brothers visited me every week. They were very supportive and wanted me well and home.
When I was at the hospital in the 60's there were about 3000 patients. In 1999 there were about 150. So mental illness had made a breakthrough with new medicines and treatment. Years ago, patients would mostly sit on the unit, watch TV, have group therapy and assigned jobs. I had to dust and dry mop the student nurses' rooms.
In 1999, I had a job packing items for an outside company. It is now a law that any patient who works, gets paid. It wasn't much, but it was an incentive and gave you a sense of accomplishment. There were crafts, classes, cooking, individual counseling and day trips.
My doctor told me to make a list of all the positive things in my life, to get rid of the depression, to finally get the monkey off of my back.
I started to go home for weekends. I would have anxiety all week, because I was afraid to go home. Unfortunately, I felt safe at the hospital. Home was where suicide was tried and after seven years of in and out of the hospital, I was reluctant to start over.
I was released after being there 6 months. It was a battle at first, fearful of what lied ahead. But I promised myself I would never hurt my loved ones again. I wanted to enjoy life and be strong for others for a change. I am now home almost 2 years, the longest time I've been well in 7 years.
My husband suggested I replace my doctor. I did and I see him every two months. He prescribed a new anti-depressant, Lamictal. When I started to take it he told me to watch for a rash. If I developed a rash to go to the hospital because my skin could peel off.
My system accepted the medication well and I am free of the deep depression. Like anyone, I don't know what the future holds. I just want to be well and handle whatever comes my way. I want to be strong for my loved ones, as they were for me.
God is important in my life. He allows situations to happen, good or bad. I hope his plan for me is to be mentally healthy the rest of my life.
I would like one day to be an advocate for mental health. No one knows what it's like until you've walked in their shoes. The stigma attached to mental illness must be erased.
Mental illness is a chronic disease and must be worked at every day. Unfortunately, there still is a stigma attached to it. I long for the day that it will be treated like any other disease, which it is. There have been long strides in improving the medication. Although, doctors are not God and when they prescribe medication, it is a hit and miss situation. What helps one person will invariably not help another. Depression is caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain. Also, your life happening and your outlook are also a factor.
With the correct type of medicine, you can be helped. The doctor I have now told me that prescribing medicine is like a witch doctor who throws a little bit of this in the pot and some of that, hoping to come up with the right combination.
I wish there could be a universal pill, which could help everyone concerned. Depression is a disease like any other. It can be inherited, being in the genes, or brought on by events in one's life. Don't ever take prolonged depression lightly. SEEK HELP!
I have my loved ones and my life, which God spared many times. I don't know what's down the road, but by the grace of God I go.

Anon

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