I spent my ninth wedding anniversary in a lock-down psychiatric ward in the hospital. I wasn’t suicidal or high risk like most of the other people there. I just felt like I was closer than I ever had been in my 31 years. I spent five days there, and by the time I was allowed to leave I couldn’t wait to get away. Lock-down wards like that one make sure patients with self-harm risks or violent tendencies don’t have access to any problematic implements. Only plastic spoons to eat with, no saving anything for later, only small pencils were allowed in group sessions to fill out our workbooks about addiction. We were allowed access to bathroom items twice a day; once in the morning and again in the evening. We were only allowed to rest in our bedrooms during the day if the psychiatrist had put a note in our files stating we needed to sleep due to medicine or mental/physical condition. There were several windows in the common area, but were barred, and the one at the end of the hall with two chairs beside it afforded only a limited view of a parking lot and a few trees beyond.
I made a few connections during my stay, there was the teen with ADD who cut herself and was scared to start the next phase of her life. The sweet gay man who also had ADD problems and self-medicated with meth. The veteran with brain damage who had to live in a group home and lost all hope sometimes. He loved playing Farkle, and was always asking people to play with him (we were allowed access to games in the common area sometimes depending on the nurses on staff at the time), so one day I agreed to play since I enjoy the game and no one else wanted to bother with him. We ended up playing several times and I could tell it helped both of us with the feeling of isolation.
I felt so trapped. I wanted to write and draw as that is how I usually deal with mental anguish but I wasn’t allowed to have the pencil in case someone stole it and tried to gouge their eyes out or whatever. I wanted to take a walk, but couldn’t leave the floor in case I didn’t come back. We got to fill out the hospital menu, and had lots of options, so I would order huge amounts of food (for me) and ended up gaining a few pounds in the few days I was there. I wasn’t underweight or anything, but that was the small amount of control we had.
The staff seemed to be able to tell I wasn’t high risk, and because I had checked myself in, instead of being forced in by family or authorities, they always seemed relaxed around me. I buried my nose in a book (that the wonderful nurse let me grab from the locked library room when I first arrived) and tried to just get through the fear and anxiety of the strange new place I thought would help me with my desperate feelings of uselessness… Being locked in a ward that was about 30 paces from one end to the other wasn’t super helpful for me in the long term. It did help me get a new perspective on my life that got me through almost another year. I missed my kids, especially my 1 year old son. I needed to get away but that psych ward wasn’t what I needed. I’m not a danger to myself or others. If I start to feel that way, it’s a huge red flag that I need help or a big change to get back to ‘normal’.
As summer nears again, I feel the desperation return. I can’t catch up, to bills or chores or kids or self-improvement or exercise. I’m a big fat lump with no motivation to do anything past barely surviving. I can only function because of the guilt I feel about letting my family down. I started making jewelry this year, which feels great, until it comes time to try to make money from the ‘hobby’, and I feel Impostor Syndrome, I look at my pieces as I post them online and realize how trashy and cheap they look. Who would pay for that? It looks like something a kid would give to an aunt, who would say “Thanks!”, then put it in a drawer and never look at it again. I developed panic attacks when I would attempt to post new necklaces. I withdrew and thought about giving up on it.
I used to be a positive person. I can still look on the bright side of anything that doesn’t directly have to do with myself. I’m stuck in a loop, running on a hamster wheel that won’t slow down, so if I just stop I fall and fall and fall. The antidepressant, the anti-anxiety pills, the sleeping pills, and the vitamins all help, but if I wait longer in the evening to take my meds, the mania sets in and I can’t stop talking, worrying, anxious guiltiness, fidgeting. So I take my medicine as soon as seems appropriate, and check out of life by 8 pm every night. My husband puts our toddler to bed and the teenager is self-sufficient enough to brush his teeth and shower and get to bed early enough to get himself up and on the bus to school on time. I don’t cook at all anymore, and do my best to keep the shared living spaces tidy and the laundry clean, but not usually put away. I tell myself it’s okay, it’s just mom life, we all go through this dehumanizing bullshit and if I just hang in there until my kids are grown I can finally have my own life.
I got pregnant with my son when I was 15. My parents didn’t throw me out or make a huge fuss “We’re not mad, just disappointed”. I graduated high school with honors and started college. I realized what I was missing out on, and tried to have fun instead of be responsible. That led to me dropping out of college and working full time at a local grocery store and running around as much as possible while my son was at his father’s place visiting or with my parents. I was searching for my youth and only ended up with some fun memories but no lasting relationships. I had another son. I loved them fiercely but felt like my life was beginning to crumble into something uncontrollable. I was 19. I worked when I could and got food stamps. We lived in a mobile home in the park my parents had been running for decades. My life wasn’t awful, and I felt fortunate to have parents who loved me no matter what. I didn’t drink or do drugs. I jumped into the online dating scene where I eventually met my husband. We felt so connected, so deeply linked; within a month we knew we were destined to be together forever <3<3<3 blah blah blah.
Marriage, moving to Washington state from Missouri, struggling as a young couple, me taking care of the kids and getting us all fed and kept clean. Husband working his way up the self-employed contract computer programmer ladder. Trying to take care of myself and form friendships and taking the kids to parks and school events and making small talk with other moms. Walking to the food bank when we just couldn’t afford everything and walking home carrying our food for the week on my back and in my hands. I got strong! I got slim! I was a wreck.
Moving back to Missouri, getting fat and unhealthy again, dealing with the weather and the allergies and the family, took its toll. For the first time in my adult life we had health insurance so after the hospital stay I began seeing a psychiatrist who prescribed me all these drugs to keep me somewhat balanced. But it began seeping in again, the desire to just give up. This time, husband wanted to help me however I needed it. We were both in a better space to figure that out this year. Marriage counseling helped exactly when we needed it most. So after a decade and a half of sacrifice and guilt when I didn’t sacrifice, I am taking a sabbatical. From normal mom-wife life. I am moving out on my own. I am focusing on making my jewelry a business. I am feeding myself and keeping myself clean. I am getting caught up mentally and physically in a way I can’t in my day-to-day drop off the toddler at preschool, have a few hours to do anything alone, often interrupted, and stop before I can really accomplish anything. I am lucky, I am desperate. Institutionalization loomed large on the horizon and this is the healthiest alternative I can see. While I wait for approval on the apartment within walking distance to most everything I will need I’m staying with a friend. A boyfriend, lover, companion, comrade. There is no cheating or separating or divorce. A sabbatical. I am taking a year for myself. I can afford to be selfish in this way at this time so why wait? Why not take the time to make myself whole again so I can be a Whole Mom, a Whole Wife, an Entire Woman? I need to find myself so I can fill those roles without being overwhelmed and defined by them. This is my journey.