Around 8pm on Friday night, I found myself sitting cross-legged on my couch, sobbing, with my ex-husband's wife's contact open on my phone. Was this REALLY the person I was going to call in one of the most vulnerable moments of my life? Apparently, because now the phone was ringing.
I asked if she had a minute and if she was out of earshot of the kids, and then I awkwardly sobbed my way through trying to explain that I was at a mental breaking point and needed help. As a nurse, I hoped that she'd have some knowledge about local resources that I could turn to for help. I also felt like I could reach out her because she's open about how she's personally walked through hell and back in her own life, and even though it's been for different reasons, there's something appealing to me about a woman who's honest about her pain.
The next two hours included a call to the LDS bishop over the ward area where I live and then a call to a crisis hotline where a woman named Amber answered the phone. Talk about an uncomfortable conversation... "Um, yeah, hi my name is Trinity and I know you're a stranger but I'm really not okay and I'm just hoping you can help me somehow." Despite the circumstances, Amber talked to me with impressive and instinctive grace. From what I could infer, one of her main goals was to figure out if I was safe and if the people around me were safe (aka: was I going to hurt/kill myself or hurt/kill someone else). I assured her that as someone who's been at suicide before, this wasn't that. She asked a lot of questions about my daily life and what might be contributing to my emotional state. We basically landed on: trying to raise four young children, relentless and constant nausea for the past five weeks, growing a tiny human, trying to support a husband working through his own mental health struggles, doing life (cleaning, finances, meals, etc.), and being in the middle of existential uncertainty. "I just feel like I can't even breath," I told her. I admitted, to myself and to her all at the same time, that I'd been feeling this way for about the past two weeks.
One of our friends has recently been in and out of a mental hospital, and every time I hear an update about it, I find myself 1. concerned about him and then quickly 2. deeply envious. Sometimes, I daydream about getting into a car accident and winding up in the hospital where someone will feed me and I can just lay there all day and rest and sleep through the night and I won't have to break up any fights or make food that makes me want to throw up or budget our money or clean or be climbed on like a jungle gym. I just feel so damn tired ALL THE TIME. I want to be alive, it's just that I want to actually feel alive too.
Amber connected me with Kathy, the on-duty nurse at a local crisis stabilization facility, and the three of us talked about options for me. I had a lot of questions for Kathy, because basically all I know about mental facilities is what I've seen in movies (which is that if I go they're going to detain me against my will, handcuff me to the bed, drug me up with injections, and it'll cost thousands of dollars.) She kindly laughed and assured me that's not how they do things.
Within the hour, my next-door neighbor friend was caring for Violet, I had packed a bag with stuff that I didn't even know if I could take, I'd lightly speed-cleaned my house (yes, I know I have issues), and I was driving to the facility in Hurricane, Utah. Seems fitting. On the way, I also called Truman (who had just barely made it to his out-of-state destination for a best friend's wedding) to update him on everything that was going on. Ladies, if ya'll are single, you gotta get yourself a Truman. Our conversation was short but sweet, and entailed the phrases "You don't need to be embarrassed," "Don't ever apologize," "It's actually harder for me when you don't tell me how you're feeling," "I'm so proud of you," "I don't care if it costs money," and "I'll take a huge dump on shame." I honestly could've done without that last one, but he seems to enjoy a good poop analogy.
When I got there, I got outside of my car and stood there for a minute before I heard myself gently utter the words, "you can do this." Inside, I was greeted by sweet Kathy (a beautiful, grey-haired woman in her 60's) and a therapist named Dana with big eyelashes and a cute outfit. We made small talk as Kathy got me checked in, and I felt like I was outside of my body, watching it happen to someone else. I filled out a form, took off all my jewelry, dumped out my water bottle, and changed into black scrubs. It's a strange state to be in, asking question after question to find indicators of your autonomy. "Can I wear my fuzzy socks?" "Can I take this book with me?" "Can I leave my earrings in?" "Can I bring him - this is Henry, my purple lavendar-filled stuffed hippo."
I spent the next while in a therapy session with Dana, got to change back into my own clothes which were SOOOO much more comfortable, and then eventually found myself alone in a sterile room, balled up in a recliner with a very soft blanket. Three blank, grey walls, one glass wall with door, and a brown leather recliner held me that night. No children. No phone. No soft music. Only me and my thoughts. It took a long time to fall asleep, because I kept thinking of things I needed to do, like meet someone at 10a tomorrow to pick up a keyboard (guess that wasn't happening), and clean my bathrooms. It felt insanely hard to shut my brain down, but once I finally did, I dreamt all night long that Truman, me, and our friend were together, traveling in and out of mental hospitals. I can't imagine why.
I slept until 8am, which is much later than I usually get to, and soon after a nurse came in and told me that breakfast was ready. I stepped out of my room into the common area, which was filled with a few rows of recliners and a kitchen area with small, round tables. There were three styrofoam plates of food, all at one tiny table, and there were two men in black scrubs sitting at the other two plates. I didn't really want to sit by them, but it seemed like it would be more weird to move my plate somewhere else. So I sat down and started eating while covertly stealing glimpses of them. One man looked like a much more hygienic version of Sirius Black, and the other had buzzed hair and tattooed knuckles. I was judging myself, judging them, judging myself for judging them, and trying not to judge any of us, all at the same time. There was one other person in the common area - a woman with shoulder length grey hair tucked behind her ears and glasses. She sat in a recliner, buried beneath her designated blanket, and during the course of my breakfast I watched her randomly smile and quietly talk to herself with a glazed look in her eyes.
Toward the end of the meal, I saw Knuckles accidentally squirt juice on himself from one of those highly pressurized cups of diced peaches, and I laughed and told him that happens to me every time. He smiled at me and then asked the nurse where the paper towels were. A couple minutes later, I heard Sirius have a very normal-sounding conversation with the same nurse, and it was a great reminder to me that we are all just humans, trying to figure out this weird human life thing. I had no idea why these other people were there, and they'll never know why I was there either, but somehow we were the same even though we were so different.
I spent the next few hours being still. Reading Atlas of the Heart by Brené Brown, journaling, thinking, praying - trying to listen to myself and figure out what I need going forward. There was no magic pill to take or responsibilities that would suddenly disappear, and I knew that going in, but that wasn't really my goal. My goal was to take a breath, and that's what I did. I checked myself out of the facility a little before noon, and I was leaving based on how I felt and not the time, but I didn't mind avoiding a second awkward meal with the boys.
Here are my takeaways:
-Don't wait until it gets so bad. Ask for help earlier, even if you don't know how/where to get it - just start somewhere.
-The little things add up. Some help with my home or kids here and there doesn't really seem like it will matter, but it does. I think sometimes I accidentally convince myself that if it's not big, it's not worth it (IE: an entire weekend away vs. an afternoon away), but that black and white thinking is not useful and can even be detrimental.
-People will hold me if I ask them to. My friend, my kid's step-mom, my husband, so many strangers - they all held me when I needed them.
-There ARE resources for when it gets bad. We live in a time when mental health is being talked about more and more, and I think that's such an incredible blessing. There are people and places for support.
-Self care is not a luxury, it's a necessity. I already knew this one, but apparently I forgot. It can feel really challenging to take of myself sometimes, especially when I'm not sure what I need. I learned this weekend that something as simple as reading about emotions can REALLY help me understand my own.
-More stillness. I'm craving less tv, less of my phone, less noise. It wasn't until I spent hours listening only to the sound of the a/c that I could hear my heart and understand my needs. I still haven't solved how to find this kind of quiet with kids in the house, so stay tuned.
-Everyone has trouble opening those little peach cups. There's just no getting around it.
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