It was 16 years ago.
I was broken.
I had been broken for a long time.
I thought when I got married,
started my own family,
I could erase everything that had come before.
I thought I never had to think about it again.
I would now have a family full of love…
I could make it perfect.

I kept all the pain hidden deep inside…
but it reached a point it wouldn’t be kept anymore.
I had no control.
It was stuck inside me,
it was hurting me.
I became physically ill.
I came down with the stomach flu,
but it wouldn’t go away.
It stayed.

I felt nauseated all the time.
I didn’t want to get out of bed.
I felt like I couldn’t get out of bed without puking.
I constantly felt like I had to use the bathroom.
I didn’t even want to leave the house.
I thought I would throw up or have diarrhea…
I wouldn’t make it to a bathroom in time.
Maybe I would just pass out,
in the middle of a store.
When I did go out,
I carried a plastic grocery bag in my pocket.
The first thing I did when I got some place…
find the bathroom.

After eight months of sickness and tests,
I was finally diagnosed with depression.
I soon started medication…
counseling.
I discovered it was panic attacks I was having.
I had PTSD from things that had occurred in my childhood.
My avoidance of leaving the house had a name…
agoraphobia.
Functioning in the world,
taking care of two small kids was difficult.
I couldn’t even drive.
I was so afraid of not being in control of my body,
that I would purposely drive myself off the road.
I had days where I felt such rage,
I wanted to run straight into the brick wall of our house.

I had been seeing a psychiatrist for medication,
and a counselor for over 1 1/2 years now.
I assumed I was just better,
I would never go back to the dark place.

Fall came,
the holidays were approaching.
In the past,
this had been a difficult time of year for me.
I don’t remember any other specific trigger.
I was spiraling down again…
it was going deeper.
I was crying all the time,
I didn’t want to do anything,
my thoughts continued to become darker…
the feeling of hopelessness was overcoming me.

It was November 9th, 1999.
I had an appointment with my psychiatrist.
I couldn’t stop crying,
I knew I just didn’t want to be here anymore.
There was no hope in me.
I would never feel normal,
not be plagued with the darkness.
I was scared of what I might do.
In the past,
when I was in high school,
I had made two attempts to end my life…
the last of which should have been successful.
I knew I was in that place again.
Now, I had two children,
who would be left without a mother.
A husband,
that would be left without a wife.
For this reason,
I willingly went.
My doctor wanted me to be evaluated,
at the behavioral health hospital.

I forced myself to be honest,
they asked their endless questions.
I was hopeless.
I could not agree that I wouldn’t hurt myself…
I knew I had done it before.
I was capable of doing it again.
I couldn’t trust myself.
I willingly admitted myself to the facility.
I could be kept safe for my family.

I was strip searched.
They took everything from me.
My husband was now leaving…
I was staying.

Nothing there was familiar.
I was surrounded by strangers.
I was shown to a room.
I would share it with a woman.
She had been abused by her boyfriend.
She had thrown herself down some stairs,
in an attempt to end her life.
She had a broken shoulder,
among other injuries.

The room was bare.
Two twin beds extended from one wall,
open space all around them.
We had our own bathroom,
it had no door.
Privacy wasn’t allowed,
we needed to be watched.

I laid down to sleep that night.
Cold dark room.
I missed the familiarity of my small family.
This place felt strange…
empty.
How could I ever possibly feel better,
in a place like this?
I reminded myself,
the purpose of being there was safety and not comfort…

~to be continued…