The facility we found had been on our radar, my husband and I, since before the 2014 year even began. We knew what was coming, and that it wasn't going to be good. And it wasn't. I finally fell into what can only be described as full on despair in May 2014. I held on until June. I couldn't do it anymore, I was out of strength. I attempted suicide in June of 2014, the second my husband's back was turned. His back was rarely turned that Spring/Summer as he saw what was happening right before his eyes. He will never forgive himself for those few hours he took away from my side. I gave him that burden to bear. He has forgiven me, he has not forgotten. I have forgiven myself, I have not forgotten. That is a place I will never go to again. I will be in hospital if I feel that sense of despair again. I will not take that chance again. I was lucky. We both knew at that time that I had to get into this mental health facility, and fast. The waiting list, 6 months long. I was at month 5 when I tried to kill myself. Month 6 was a few weeks later when they called. They had a bed for me.
Upon arrival at 9am on that Friday morning, they showed my husband and me to my room. A room no bigger than my walk in closet at home. There were two beds in this tiny room. Beautiful windows from side to side looking over the grounds but I was to have a private room. I don't do well in tight spaces with other people. The first of my temper tantrums began. Tears pouring down my face I turned to my husband, and said "I am not fucking staying in this room, I am supposed to have my own fucking room, I want to go home, NOW". He turned to the nurse and interpreted that as, "she was to have a private room, and this one appears to be a double". The nurse advised us that a bed had opened up, it was semi private and the second a private opened, I would get it. It shouldn't be more than 2 weeks she said. My husband hugged me tight and begged me to stay. I had to. If for no one else, for him. I had to stay. He asked the nurse if another room, one a little bigger was available. He could tell I felt claustrophobic in that room. I was pale, and clammy. I was obviously stressing.
They took me to another room where a woman I had seen practically shaking in her own skin at admissions was unpacking. I quietly introduced myself, left my things behind and walked my husband down to the car. I begged him to let me go home, he begged me to stay. I did what he asked. I knew it was for the best. I knew what I had put him through. I walked slowly back to my room and began to unpack. Once done unpacking, I crawled into bed and let the tears fall silently. I didn't want my roommate to see them. I was strong. I didn't want to share. Besides, she was a mess. Exaggeratingly breathing in, breathing out, jumping and gasping at every sound. The last thing she needed was me blubbering on. I didn't leave my room much that day. I can't recall eating. I slept on and off, and I cried.
My first full day was a Saturday. I was awoken by the nurses at 645am. Standard practise they said when I asked. I hadn't slept much that night as they check in every room every few hours with a flashlight. That takes some getting used to. This first room didn't have a bathroom so upon waking off I went to get changed in the stall of the ward's public women's bathroom. The bathroom made me feel like I was at camp, or back in high school. I didn't much fancy either the first time around. I brushed my teeth and hair and slowly made my way to the cafeteria for breakfast. The cafeteria was buzzing, buzzing too much for my over active mind. I almost turned and left without food that first morning. There were just too many faces, too many voices, far too many people looking at me. I stayed. Lined up, got my food, and sat alone next to a post to block me from other people. The food was average, it was obvious they tried. I guess feeding 300 people in the hour and a half they allowed, wasn't easy.
After breakfast, I wandered. I wandered the loooong long hallways finding everything I would need to know about. I saw where the Rehab center was, the other psychiatric ward (the high risk lock down ward), the mood and anxiety program, and the eating disorder clinic. I walked the beautiful grounds, taking in the beauty in hopes it would help me accept where I was. I checked out the café and store, the gym, the rec centre, and even the old bowling alley. I walked for hours. I needed to be away from that room. That hospital like room I never thought I would find myself staying in. And for 60 days no less. You see on arrival I thought the program was 30 days. Little did I know the standard program runs 60 days? That broke my heart. I couldn't imagine leaving my husband, my dog, my rabbits, my home....for two months. I couldn't imagine being stuck in this place, no matter the beauty outside. My husband knew all along. He had called for the full information long before that day, he just knew I couldn't handle it until I was already there, being forced to face the truth of where I was at mentally. The good news was finding out I could leave every weekend and every evening so long as the doctor approved. I decided there and then to be well behaved and be approved!
We were allowed to keep our cell phones on this unit, thank god. Most of the others, you were not. But on two of the units, ours included, they wanted you to stay in touch with the real world, the reality outside of those walls. I texted my husband that first day, "please tell me how long I have to stay here, how long before you know I gave it my best?” "Two weeks" he replied. I had hoped for one week. I could do two weeks. This is like University without the alcohol I thought to myself, I can do this. I can learn for two weeks and leave. That phone was my life line for the first two weeks or so. I texted my husband every half an hour.
Those first few days I was on auto pilot. I did what they said, went where I was supposed to go but I seethed with resentment. I resented my husband for wanting me there. I resented myself for ending up there. I resented all of the staff because I was sure I wasn't sick enough to be there. And I resented every patient I came across because they just reminded me, I was sick, I had an illness. I slept, ate, slept, ate. My husband came to see me that first Sunday, basically a day after my arrival. He brought the dog. I sat on the grass with them and I sobbed. I wanted to go home, but I knew I had to stay. I missed them both so much already. My husband cried. He wanted me home, but he knew I had to stay.
I can honestly say those two weeks were some of the hardest days of my life. They weren't awe inspiring yet. They didn't teach me amazing things. For the first two weeks you get a schedule, easy classes like horticulture and art therapy. The time is spent just getting used to waking up at a certain time, going to bed at a certain time. You get on a simple schedule. You could only get whatever medication you were on during specific times. And each time you did get your medication you were required to share with your primary or secondary nurse how you were feeling, what was truly going on inside. As my primary nurse said my second day, "fine, okay, good, and alright tell me nothing and aren't acceptable answers when I ask you how you are". Jesus fuck lady, I just got here! I am having a hard enough time having to line up to take my crazy pills with all these crazy people indicating that I am crazy. Ease the fuck up. You might be surprised to know that I said none of it. I said "I am sad" and walked away.
I didn't stay in hiding for long. Come on, you all had to see that coming. By Monday I was saying hello to other patients quietly. I was curling up on the stinky old couch in the lounge with a book when I didn't have classes. I had a meal or two at a table with my roommate. The other meals I spent head down, reading my book. I guess I was hiding in those pages now that I look back. Hiding inside a fairy tale story, my face hidden behind the paper. But I might have looked up and even smiled once or twice at people. I started to meet people in the lounge and in the classes. I was finding my groove a little I guess.
By the end of the week one I found myself talking frequently with two girls who'd arrived around the same time as me. By the following week we were playing basketball in the gym together. I was moved into a semi private room with no roommate. And the week after that I brought my softball stuff and we were out playing ball with other patients on the diamond on the grounds. By week four......well obviously by now I was there to see the program through. I had my own private room by then with its own bathroom. It was comfy. It was mine. I was loving french toast Wednesdays and pancake Friday's with ma' girls, now a gang of 5 of us. I could no longer believe so much time had passed. I was knee deep in the hard classes and I wasn't even close to being ready to go home?
What the hell? How did I end up here?
P.S. More about my story, my time on the "inside", will follow.
And Homewood Health Centre is the facility. I couldn't recommend more. If you are ready and prepared to do the work, it will work for you.
http://homewood.org/
You sound on the upside, I wish you all the best of everything. and good luck. Keep the faith, and keep going. You deserv every happiness..remind yourself of that.
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