On December 5 of 2023, my maternal grandmother-- my bubbie-- passed away after years of struggling through dementia. She was my first grandparent to pass away. I know I'm lucky to have all of my grandparents around for as long as they were, but it didn't make the grief any easier. At the same time, I was finishing up my first semester in an expressive arts therapy program that had so much potential and yet so much was going so wrong.
And then, in October of 2023, Hamas massacred hundreds of innocent people and took hundreds more hostage. And it was not easy, to say the least, to be a Jewish woman who loved Israel in a radically liberal graduate school space. People I considered my best friends blocked me on social media because I posted condemning Hamas (it wasn't even pro-Israel stuff-- it was literally just anti-Hamas!). I lost friends, I felt distant from my classmates, and I kept pushing.
I should've taken a break, I see that now. My mental health was in the toilet, and still, I tried to smile and put on a happy face. I was up late every night finishing papers about mental health diagnosis and treatments that I morally disagreed with. I was reliving trauma from high school, a time when doctors wrote me off with more medications as I suffered in silence.
In March of 2024 (so recent and yet a lifetime ago), I was put on a 5150 hold. I was hospitalized for the first time, and honestly, I'm impressed that this is the first time, that it took this long. I believe at some point I was put on a 5250 hold, and was forced to stay longer than 72 hours, because the paperwork was messy and I had dissociated so intensely I could not speak.
It was a horrible time in my life, but I made it through, and I know that I am stronger because of it. I have coping tools now, I have set boundaries and made difficult decisions (including withdrawing from that graduate program). I have healed more in the past almost two years than I had in the decade preceding it.
I believe it's important to speak about these things, these causes of intense shame, to give light to others. I was unwell, and being hospitalized made everything worse. It is a place for people in crisis, and it is not friendly to neurodivergent patients. If you can avoid it, for yourself or for a loved one, I recommend doing literally anything else. But it is a real thing that happens to so many people stuck in the throws of mental illness, who feel there is no way out. Sometimes, it is what has to be done.
There is no way out but through. After I was released back to the care of my parents, I needed time to heal. I needed help and I needed guidance. As I mentioned earlier, I would not recommend hospitalization, but the out-patient treatment program was incredibly helpful to me. My mom helped find me a spot, so I could be free from the in-patient wing, and I started yet another healing journey.
On the first day, I received a big binder modeled around DBT (Dialectical Behavioral Therapy). This modality has been extremely useful to me, and I believe it works well for neurodivergent brains. I'll link some resources, including a digital and printable version of the binder I hold so dear.
Healing is not linear. I now have more tools in my tool belt, more emotional awareness, more clarity for crisis. And, as you saw in my last post, there are times I still struggle. Life with a neurodivergent brain and a depressed mind is not always easy. In fact, it's never easy. But it is always so worth it.
After I was released, I didn't know if I would ever want to talk about it. I was not myself at that time in my life, and mental illness will do that to you. The world can be a harsh and demanding place, and sometimes you crack. Sometimes you break.
There are always endless ways to knit yourself back together again.
And I have, a hundred times over. I have started a ritual I learned while in the psych ward, called "ghost letters" or "empty chair letters". It gives me the space to write to all the loved ones I have lost, the pieces of myself they still hold. I write often to Arielle, one of my best friends from college who passed away in December of 2019. She was taken too soon, and I had so much left to say. My therapist recommended I reach out to her parents, which I try to do at least once every few months. I want them to know I think of her, I miss her, and she left a handprint on my heart.
I keep my DBT binder next to my bed. When my depression or anxiety lures me to curl up and hide away, I flip through the pages. I run my fingers along the pages as I read, and learn, and process.
I have established a sleep routine, where I will shower or take a bath, tidy up, brush my teeth, and take my nightly meds. This is something else I learned, the importance of a wind down routine to close down the day.
When I was trapped in the psych ward, I found my strength. The strength that was hidden so deep within me it took a Hell of my own making to carve it out. When I was able to reach a level of mental clarity enough to explain my story to a doctor, he was impressed. My parents tell me I was a favorite patient for the nurses, because even in my worst times, I am still me. I know what I value, and what I hold dear.
As the doctor was ending our final session, ready to sign me out and send me home, he told me so kindly, "I mean this in the best way-- I don't think I'll ever see you here again. I hope I never will."
And here I am, through it all. I am telling my story, I am speaking my truth. I am here for myself, and I am here for everyone else with something they feel that shame they want to hide. You don't have to share your story. But I sure as hell am sharing mine.
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