Jill Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest

It's Bell Let's Talk Day again.  It's hard to believe it's been a year since I first posted about my experience with mental illness.  And boy, what a year it was.

Today many others are sharing their experiences, or experiences of their loved ones.  In the Ottawa Citizen this past week there was a book review of a young man's memoir about his experience with depression.  As I read the article, I found myself being judgmental.  You mean, he once thought about killing himself but didn't actually make an attempt? You mean he never actually went to therapy? Why does this guy feel like he's some sort of authority on depression?!

I discussed my critical thoughts with a friend.  "There was a point in your life, Jill,  when you developed the self-awareness to realize that what you were dealing with was depression," my friend noted.  "This guy (the author) has developed self-awareness about himself.  Your paths there are different, but you are both arriving in the same place."  It was an interesting perspective.

After my relationship ended in November, I found myself lost and unable to see how I would ever find the energy to start my life over again.  I was so tired of having to pick up the pieces time and time again.

On November 12 I attempted suicide for the second time in 2015.  After 2 days in the ICU, I found myself being transferred to the Inpatient Ward at the Queensway Carleton.  At first I hated being there.  It was a combination of prison and psychiatric summer camp.  We weren't even allowed to possess dental floss for fear that we would harm ourselves, or each other.  

I remember the first time I was granted privileges to leave the ward to go outside for 30 minutes.  The fresh air had never tasted so sweet.

I met so many amazing people in the psychiatric ward.  Everyone had their own story - their own path there.  But there we all were.  Some had been there for weeks.  Some for a few days.

There was a lot of time to think.  I saw myself at a cross-road.  I could either succumb to the dark side and remain institutionalized, or I could pick up the pieces and get out of there.  Once I saw the benefit of being in the hospital, I made a daily effort to improve.

The Inpatient Ward is intended for short-term hospitalization, and they release you when they feel you've stabilized.  Every day I woke up not knowing when I was leaving.  First it was 3 days.  Then a week.  When they started discussing discharging me at the end of my second week, even after such a short stay I was admittedly scared to return to the "real world".

We weren't allowed cell phones inside the ward, nor was the tv allowed on during the day.  After awhile many of us enjoyed the break from technology.  If it wasn't programming time, we'd sit around and color, do puzzles, chat etc.  For a group of crazy depressed people, we sure had a lot of laughs.

Although my hospital stay did nothing more than stabilize me, I certainly learned a lot about other people's battles with depression and other mental illnesses.  Male and female. Young and old.  The artist.  The father.  The teacher.  The new mom.  The phd student.  We were all in there together.  Many of us you would not stop on the street and believe we had just been a patient in a psych ward.

Since I've left the hospital, the key to getting through the tough times has been keeping in touch with those I have met, or continue to meet, who have shared their mental illness stories with me.  It brings a sense of normalcy to what we are going though.

So let's keep talking.

xo