When faced with a severe depression relapse, it often feels like being thrust into a den of wolves—overwhelmed, battered, and painfully alone, even when surrounded by loved ones. I’ve battled with depression since childhood, so I recognize the warning signs, yet each time it resurfaces, the struggle remains just as daunting.
I noticed the telltale signs: isolating myself, neglecting self-care, and grappling with pervasive negative thoughts—thoughts like, “I hate myself,” and “What’s the point of trying?” I felt like I was desperately hanging on to the edge of a speeding train, unable to stop the downward spiral.
This time, the intensity of my negative thoughts escalated. I envisioned multiple ways to escape my pain, and the guilt of these thoughts was compounded by my love for my husband and two young daughters, aged two and seven. The thought of their lives being better without me felt suffocating.
In a moment of desperation, I packed a bag adorned with quirky dog illustrations and headed to the emergency room. I raised my hands and admitted my darkest thoughts. After a long night in a holding cell, I spent nine grueling nights in a psychiatric hospital, where I faced the reality of medication side effects and the struggles of seeking proper care amidst chaos. I learned to manage my nausea, endured medication mishaps, and lost access to my journal—my lifeline—due to its spiral binding. I participated in groups, played Scrabble cautiously, and colored endlessly to keep my head down and avoid trouble. Finally, my release came, and I was overwhelmed with relief.
However, the shadows of depression and anxiety followed me home, clinging relentlessly to my every step. I resumed therapy with a new psychiatrist who was willing to think outside the box, and I explored various coping strategies—distraction, art, and community support through groups. I even launched a small business from home. Yet, the relentless negative thoughts persisted.
As weeks passed, I found myself on shaky ground again. Suicidal ideations became more pronounced, and I struggled with self-harm. I reached out to friends to fill my home with company and asked my husband to hide pills to curb temptation. It became clear that I needed to seek higher-level care again for the sake of my family. This time, I chose a hospital that felt safer, known for its trauma unit with a focus on women. I traveled four and a half hours with my father-in-law to secure a bed, enduring the chaos of a holiday weekend.
Once again, I spent nine days in treatment, adjusting medications and connecting with others who shared similar experiences. I formed bonds with fellow patients, whom I affectionately referred to as my situational sisters. Despite the challenges, I felt safer than before, even when I encountered staff who questioned my sincerity. I longed for hope, absorbing every inspirational quote that lined the walls while pouring my heart into writing poetry.
When I walked out of the hospital, I was met with a mix of relief and fear—fear of returning to my everyday life. I embraced my daughters tightly and jumped right back into therapy, knowing that healing is a journey, not a destination.
Every day is still a work in progress. I embrace my flaws and recognize that it’s okay to struggle. Healing is not instantaneous; it requires resilience and perseverance.
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In summary, navigating a depression relapse is an arduous journey filled with ups and downs. By seeking help, connecting with others, and embracing the process, I continue to strive for healing and hope.