Jumping in with both feet

To start I want to give you some background on myself. I am 32, have 2 kids and a wonderful husband. I'm a stay at home mom and I love it. My husband and I got married only about three months after meeting. We got married in November of 2000 and have been married for almost 13 years. And for many of those years I lied to him. I lied to him in probably every way a person could lie. I hurt him many times with my careless decisions, mood swings and emotional chaos. But he stood by me, forgave me and loved me through it all. In November 2010(ish) we had reached a breaking point. I needed therapy. It was clear as day. So I started seeing a psychologist and a psychiatrist. Almost immediately I was diagnosed bipolar with major depression and severe anxiety. Suddenly we could see a pattern that throughout our past years of marriage, my bipolar, depression and anxiety had majorly ruled our lives. I was put on medication and we were able to repair our almost broken marriage. I continued on my medication and things got better and better.

I do want to say though, this was not my first time on mood altering(stabilizing) medication. As a teenager I was put on an add medication but discontinued that on my own. Then Paxil right after I got married, which made me feel horrible. And I believe it was during my first pregnancy that I was put on an antidepressant which I continued for postpartum depression. I also had postpartum depression and anxiety after my second pregnancy.

So fast forward to earlier this year, 2013. I'm not sure exactly when it started, but I felt like I was being pulled to the edge of a cliff with a dark and terrifying fall into nothingness. I began to think suicidal thoughts. Some days I could distract myself. I began distancing myself from my husband. I didn't want to tell him how I was feeling. We had plenty of other life stresses and I didn't need to add to our plate. But one evening I remember we were driving in the car and I told him. I said the word I hadn't said aloud, ever. That I was suicidal. Suicidal... It was such a scary word to me. It made the situation so much more real. I mentioned to him "what if I need to go to the hospital?" He was sure we could work through it with the help of my therapists. And it did get somewhat better...but that was short lived. One day, April 30th to be exact, I just broke. I broke into a million little pieces. Thankfully I was with my therapists when it happened. They knew I needed to go to the hospital. So from my therapists office I called my husband, who had no idea I was feeling suicidal again, and we set up a plan for me to go home and get my things ready and to to the hospital.

I was a blubbering, crying heap of a mess. And unfortunately my kids witnessed it all. There was nothing I could do to stop it though. So we got to the hospital and I was admitted. It took hours to get placed in a mental health facility and my husband and kids were there to support me with hugs and kisses. Finally I got placed in a good facility where I was taken by ambulance. I had to say goodbye to my husband and kids. That was so so hard.

When I got to the facility, hospital... Whatever you want to call it, I was still a mess. They gave me a nice warm meal (the food there was really good) and got me settled in. I had a room with a roommate. She was very sweet. Our room had our own bathroom with shower. All of my clothes and toiletries were taken and put into a basket where the nurses kept until designated times of the day when we were allowed hygiene time. It felt foreign to me then, but thinking back on my week in the hospital, I felt safe and cared for. I got exactly what I needed. Everyday, about twice a day, I was asked if I felt suicidal, how I rate my depression, etc. I met with a new psychiatrist everyday to discuss my progress. My medication was changed and it was like I was slowly being pulled out of the black abyss I had fallen into. My husband, mom and dad visited me during the designated visiting hours. My kids weren't allowed to come up there. That was hard. But phone calls were allowed for most of the day and I called every single chance I had.

The days were rigidly scheduled. We had breakfast, medication time, hygiene time, group therapy time several times a day, exercise time, art therapy, lunch, free time, dinner, medication time in the evening, snack times and bedtime. It was sometimes very much like kindergarten for adults. But going through the motions felt good. I was inpatient for about a week. Whenever someone got to go home it was like a celebration, all day. So when my day came, it felt really good.

I remember coming home and posting on Facebook about being in the hospital. I never told anyone that I was headed to the hospital, so when I posted that I was out I had this outpouring of support from so many people. It felt so good. I didn't feel judged or anything. I did feel fragile though. Like I'd been through this big thing, breaking then glued back together. 

I continued therapy and I still go once a month. The fragile feeling slowly faded. I feel more "normal" than I have in like, ever. My kids are in school full time and my days are my own. In the back of my mind though I worry. I worry about the days becoming shorter and the holidays, which is always such a source of stress for me. But I will take it one day at a time. 

Thanks for reading. I hope to post regularly :):