72 Hours

You know that person, the one who always feels the need to burst your bubble, to take the joy out of every fucking thing? We all know someone like that, and we do our best to avoid them. Depression is a lot like that person, but as hard as you try, you can’t lose depression’s number, and you can’t ensure that depression isn’t invited to things. Depression is always there, making everything in life ugly, unenjoyable, and meaningless. It’s difficult to describe to someone who has never suffered clinical depression what it’s like. I remember thinking, “why don’t those people just get out of the house, read a book, watch a funny movie, or do this, or do that?” The naivety of most people who have never suffered from depression themselves is astounding. People think you just need to cheer up, and it’s not quite so easy. So here's my experience, or just a snippet of it, really. So judge me how you may, but I'm going to choose to be transparent about the dangers and harsh realities of a major depressive disorder.

Growing up, I was always made to feel like a burden. I was certainly unplanned, and I always felt unwanted. Throw on top of that the baggage of thirty years of life, a fucked up family, a high stress job, and you get a general feeling of worthlessness. I’ve never been the type of person to feel like death is the best option, but sometimes, when you’re in that moment where the pain is so intense, you’d do anything to make it stop. For me, the moment passes quickly, and it’s never more than a fleeting thing. This time, however, it was much worse. It was as though Nigel Tufnel had turned my anxiety up to eleven. I found myself in downtown San Francisco, standing at an intersection, thinking about which car looked like it might kill me the quickest. I had a powerful urge to walk right out into traffic. I took a step into the gutter, a car honked at me, and I immediately stepped back up onto the curb. No one around me really noticed, to them I looked like an impatient pedestrian, waiting for the light to change.

Living in a major city is difficult like that. It’s easy to go unnoticed, and the opportunity to die is everywhere, if you set your mind to it. In that moment, when I stepped back up onto the curb, some little bit of sanity took hold of me and shouted, “CALL SOMEONE, CALL ANYONE!” I pulled out my phone, and with trembling hands I typed out the words “Feeling kind of suicidal right now.” In less than a minute, my phone rang. I have never been so happy to hear that sound. I sat on the sidewalk with my knees to my chest and I sobbed into the phone. My friend on the other end has been there, and she knew what to do. Sarah kept me calm, she told me to tell her exactly where I was, and then she contacted my doctor and another friend who was nearby. Seemant was there within twenty minutes, and he stayed by my side while we waited in the ER. My breathing was labored, I had tears streaming down my face nonstop, and there was a guard at the door to make sure I didn’t try to kill myself in the hospital room. I had become that person, the high risk patient who has to be watched by a fucking guard. I was a crazy person. It was all completely called for though. I had tried to strangle myself in the backseat of the car on the way to the hospital. I just wanted the pain to stop, and it didn’t matter how.

I kept repeating to myself that I was just being dramatic, and that I just wanted attention. That was the voice of my mother in my head, though. The doctors in the ER placed me on a 72 hour psychiatric hold, as I had expected them to. The goal had been accomplished, to get me somewhere where I would be safe from myself.

If you’ve never been in the psych ward of any hospital, it’s quite a bit like you might imagine. The rooms are bare, with no televisions, no electronics of any kind really. You know, you could strangle yourself with the cord. The door to the bathroom is short, so that if necessary, someone can look in on you, to ensure you’re not lying in the shower with your wrists slit… not that you find a goddamn thing in the place sharp enough to do that with. Every thing had been stripped out, except for two beds that sat low to the floor, and a bookshelf secured to the wall. That’s it. The room was an expanse of sad, lonely echoes, and a roommate that I could easily deem to be just the slightest bit more crazy than myself. The first night was the hardest. They took my phone away. My immediate reaction was that these bastards must be sadists who like watching suicidal people get pushed even further to the brink. They also put the words "adult mental" on my bracelet.  That was probably the most alienating part of the experience.

I laid in my bed in the dark, listening to the snoring stranger next to me. I didn’t sleep at all, I just lay there, feeling nothing. The next day, I talked to a psychiatrist, she evaluated me, and we talked about what led me there. She deemed me to be not crazy enough to be held for the full 72 hours, and told me I could leave tomorrow. So I went back to bed, and I watched the rain gather on the window. I can’t really say what that’s like. I felt nothing. I was just existing. Seemant and Aaron came to visit in the afternoon. We mostly sat making small talk for the half hour or so, and they knew that’s all I needed. I just needed them to be there, to acknowledge that someone cares. After they left, I had a bit of energy, so I took my first shower and promptly went back to bed. They returned during the evening visiting hours and brought me chocolate, which was promptly confiscated from me. That was the saddest feeling for me, being treated like a prisoner. However, the longer evening visiting hours left me feeling much better. I needed my little chosen family to be present. Matt’s plane landed in San Francisco, and he took the BART directly to the hospital to meet everyone there. Aaron and I sat on the couch my head on his shoulder, with Seemant squeezing my arms. I felt loved, for the first time in a long time. I suddenly felt like myself. The next morning, the doctor retrieved me from breakfast to tell me I was most definitely going home. So here I am writing this.

What gets someone to this place, walking out into traffic on purpose? It's complicated, but I'll say this... I'm not crazy, I just buckled under the weight of stress. I'll also say that in spite of everything, I can definitively sit here today and say that I have finally met the people who understand and care for me better than anyone else has ever been capable. They are my family. You'll never find an assembly of people more odd and mismatched, but we work. There's the blue haired lesbian, the Mormon, the little brown guy, me, however you may classify me, and there's the dramatic, but loveable redhead and her nerdy husband. Somehow, we've all managed to find one another, and help each other through the hard times with nothing but love and understanding. So... Since I have little positive to say about the struggles I currently find myself in, I'll focus on that. I am loved, and that's why I'm alive today. 

Note: NOT HELPFUL ADVICE.

If you know someone who is depressed, please please please don't tell them to snap out of it, or get some exercise, or whatever other unhelpful things you may be inclined to say. Just love them, be there for them, and understand that there's nothing you can do or say to help, only things you can do or say to make it worse, and know that depression won't ever leave, it will just come in waves.