When God Shows Up In the Psych Ward (Part One)

I don’t know where most people are when they hit rock bottom. You know rock bottom – the place where nothing seems to be going right, it feels like all of the air is sucked out from your lungs, and you can’t scrounge up an ounce of hope. I thought I had hit rock bottom a couple of months ago. But I found the basement underneath rock bottom on the bathroom floor in the most fancy hotel I’ve ever been to. It felt so ironic to be in something that felt like a palace but face down on the floor in the bathroom ugly crying uncontrollably and having the scary thoughts of hurting myself return. (I removed myself from the bathroom and called my mom and promised to take just one anti-anxiety pill before going to bed. I wanted to stay safe.)

Two days later – after binge watching Stranger Things (no, Mom – this had NOTHING to do with Stranger Things, don’t blame it. I will defend that amazing show for eternity.) – I went for a walk and found myself milling about in the basement that I went crashing into back at the fancy hotel. Negative thoughts began flooding my mind – an angry swarm of yellow jackets. Each thought stinging worse than the one before.

I couldn’t handle the stress of my job.

I’m not cut out to be a nurse.

If only I could just snap out of this depression.

Why do I have to be so negative when it comes to my life?

Who is ever going to love me and sign on to be in a relationship with someone who is depressed?

I’m going to be alone forever.

I probably won’t get a job that I like.

What’s the point?

Why doesn’t God care enough to make all this pain stop?

And cue the flood of thoughts of different ways to commit suicide. I went through all the ones I’ve known of - the methods that friends, acquaintances, and strangers used successfully to end the pain.

I didn’t want to kill myself. I don’t want to kill myself. The thoughts just kept coming though. It was a sort of out of body experience where I was simply making a list and scratching off the ones that seemed too painful or too cliché, and moving on to something that seemed like a better idea.

And then I realized what was happening. And I got scared. Really scared.

I’ve been down this road before. My freshman year of college I had to drink charcoal to get the 22 anti-anxiety pills out of my stomach.

I didn’t want to go back there. I can’t do that again. I refuse.

And so I asked for help. It’s not a weakness. It’s strength. To admit you need some extra support and you want a safe environment with people watching out for you? It takes courage. And it’s okay to do.

And friend, if you EVER have thoughts of harming yourself – or someone else – PLEASE ask for help. It’s okay. I promise. And even if you’re just hurting and have lost the ability to enjoy things you once enjoyed – or are tired all the time and have no motivation to do basic activities of daily living – seek help. It’s okay. Talk to someone. You are not alone - no matter what your feelings tell you.

*          *          *

I had to change into a hospital gown and pants in front of a female ED tech. The gown smelled like it was washed in urine. So I tried on multiple pairs and the counselor joked that I was having a wardrobe malfunction. I laughed. (You have to maintain some sort of sense of humor.)

I sat on the stretcher in the hallway waiting to get a bed ready for me upstairs on the psychiatric unit. My mom sat in a chair next to me – ever so often reaching out to hold my hand. They made me pee in a cup and took my blood to make sure I was medically cleared. Then two tall, skinny men, wearing navy blue pants, white long sleeve shirts and white gloves, who didn’t smile came pushing a horrifying looking metal chair on wheels – but you couldn’t call that thing a wheelchair. At least, I wouldn’t. I whispered to my mom, “Dang, that’s creepy.”

And – yes, you guessed it – they had come for me. I took a deep breath and humored them by climbing onto the contraption and allowing them to push me through the frigid hospital, with my hospital gown and pants offering very little warmth. Thankfully they let me keep my beanie, though.

As I went gliding through the hallways, my mind raced. How did I wind up here? Is this really what’s happening right now? I’m supposed to be all better. God healed me of my depression and anxiety back when I accepted Christ. I hadn’t had to be on any medication since 2011. Yes, I needed therapy on and off. But this? Again? I don’t want this. I want it all to be a nightmare that I wake up from soon.

“The Queen has arrived!” shouted a male patient who had come out of his room as I made my grand entrance onto the unit.  I didn’t know what to say, so I didn’t say anything. My mom looked concerned. It didn’t faze me too much. I’ve been a psych counselor before. I used to work in a very similar environment – only my patients had committed crimes and some had killed individuals. Being here this time wasn’t as scary as it was ten years ago, during my last hospitalization at the ripe old age of 17. I’ve seen some things. I’ve heard some things.

They took all of my belongings and searched – making the decision of what I could have and what I couldn't have. Pajama pants, make-up bag, and shoes – they all were held hostage in a locker. My phone and phone charger were held hostage at the nurse's station. I'd be able to use my phone for an hour in the morning and an hour at night, in a supervised room.

 I was shown around the unit and led to my room. The mattress was too long for the bedframe and it was hard as a rock. But my mom and I sat down on it and she hugged me as I cried.

“Are you scared?” she asked.

I nodded, as tears streamed down my face. “I just want to feel better again.”

 My nurse came in and said it was time for her to go. We hugged and she said she’d try to come visit in the morning with a few extra clothes. My nurse took me to the exam room where he asked lots of questions.

That night I joined in on an activity group. I met seven other patients and some counselors. We played a game that was like Apples to Apples, but with pictures and captions. We all laughed a lot. It was an interesting group of people. People I never would have talked to outside of these walls. But I instantly felt safe.

My nighttime routine was set that first night. Take my medication at the half open door to the med room. Thank the nurse. Go into my room. Wash my face. Brush my teeth. Climb into bed. Read a Psalm or something from Romans. Journal. Hold onto my stress ball. Crawl under the blankets. Close my eyes. And get used to the door opening every 15 minutes as a counselor did their checks. I woke up to screaming in the middle of the night several nights as some man was having a particular rough time. But was able to fall back asleep relatively quickly.

I’d fall asleep whispering “It’s all going to be okay.”

I knew that even though my feelings screamed that God had left me, He was right there. And I prayed that first night that He would open my eyes to His love and His presence. I prayed He’d show me that He cared about me.

And He faithfully did. I’ll recount His grace during my stay in the hospital in part two. I pray you would stay tuned for that one – because it’s so, so good. God is so, so good. Even when we’re blinded by the darkness that surrounds us – He is there, friend. If you are struggling with depression or anxiety or any mental health issues – please know that God isn’t mad at you. He loves you. He is near to the brokenhearted.

“I was pushed hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me. The LORD is my strength and my song; he has become my salvation.”  ~ Psalm 118:13,14

“Cast your burden on the LORD, and he will sustain you; he will never permit the righteous to be moved.” ~ Psalm 55:22

“My eyes are ever toward the LORD, for he will pluck my feet out of the net. Turn to me and be gracious to me, for I am lonely and afflicted. The troubles of my heart are enlarged; bring me out of my distresses. Consider my affliction and my trouble, and forgive all my sins.” ~ Psalm 25:16-18