Where to Begin

Starting my first blog entry is a little overwhelming, I won’t lie. But it doesn’t really matter where I start, just that I start. I recently heard on a Tedtalk that “stories inspire stories”. And people telling stories contributes to breaking down mental illness stigma. So, let’s start with a story from my journey discovering my diagnosis; my first hospitalization.

The Big Move

We had just moved to Indio, California where my husband’s first teaching job took us. I had an accounting degree and we figured I would find a job as soon as we settled in. However, the stress of such a huge change in my life caused a severe attack of depression.

Adult Day Care

By luck I found a psychologist, Dr. Bolton, who immediately enrolled me in “intensive day treatment” at a mental health facility in the heart of Indio. Instead of spending the night in the hospital, however, I was allowed to go home at 3:30 because I had a husband who would be at home with me during the evening. So, I was basically in an adult day care of sorts.

A Little Bit Crazy

For the first few days I was thrown in with the general public so they could assess my level of craziness. I recall being in group therapy with people who heard voices and I was terrified. I knew I was crazy, but just a little bit crazy. I was afraid of what I didn’t understand.

Where I Belong?

After a few days I was put into a smaller group with fewer people. The people in this group mostly suffered from serious depression with suicide ideations. And this is where I would stay for the next few months. My days consisted of group therapy, individual therapy, arts and crafts time (a favorite pass time of mental hospitals I would learn later) and a lot of smoke breaks. Because I didn’t smoke I would just tag along with the majority of patients who did.

“5150KAY”

I recall one day during a smoke break looking out into the parking lot and seeing a license plate saying “5150Kay”. It belonged to one of the counselors at the hospital. I would later understand that 5150 was a slang term for placing people involuntarily into mental hospitals. What a sad and sick person to be working at a mental hospital. I still feel angry to this day when I think about that.

Volunteering

As I met with psychiatrists, I was started on an antidepressant regimen. After awhile the depression started to lift and I began to feel a little bit of peace in my world. Two months later I graduated from Intensive Day Treatment and, although not ready for full-time employment, Dr. Bolton had me volunteer at several places. I found quickly that I was the youngest at many of these jobs, especially being a “candy striper” at the local medical hospital. I felt shame that I wasn’t able to work and terrified that someone would find out that I had been hospitalized.

The Stigma Sets In

This stigma carried through with me into the future as I tried to pretend everything was ok with me. I recall my husband and I purchasing life insurance and worried that the agent would find out I had been hospitalized and that I’d be turned down for any policy that existed. I continued to hide the fact that I suffered from a mental illness.

Ashamed

Looking back on those days I am ashamed now at how ashamed I was of my mental illness. But in 1988 people didn’t talk about mental issues. It was something to hide, to keep from the general public. Because if you were incapacitated with depression, heard voices or suffered from any kind of psychosis, people were afraid. Afraid of what they didn’t understand. So many times, it’s been said that a mental illness is no different from a medical illness. But do people really believe that? Not too many do. My brain’s chemistry doesn’t work “normally”. I need meds to help my brain function. It’s no different from, say the medication a diabetic needs to keep his body running smoothly. And as more people understand what they are afraid of, the more stigma we can remove from any mental illness.