Day One: Stumbling through the door

I don't want this.

I don't want this.

I don't want this and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. The decision is made. We ride down the road together, rain making rivulets against the glass pane and mirroring the tears that streak my face. Every time I think I have cried all the tears within me, I begin all over again. What I don't know in this moment is that these tears are only the first of many to come over the next several days and months ahead.

We arrive and I stumble through my tears, Gray holding onto me as we walk to the building where I will be until they say that I am okay enough to come home. I try to tell myself that it will be okay. That it will only be a few days. That is what the therapist told me when she said that the outpatient program felt I would be better served by going inpatient for a few days. I try to tell myself this but I don't believe it. Everything is spinning completely out of control. I stumble through the doorway, not caring if I fall and break my neck. Death would be better than this. I don't want this.

Papers are signed, instructions given, information input into a computer elsewhere in the building and then the attendant returns. It is time.  Oh God, oh God, oh God. Help me God. Please help me get away from this awful place. Help me. Please. Please. This is real. This is really happening. I can't. I can't. I don't want this. But it is happening and before I know it, Gray and I are standing in the hallway outside the door to the ward and I am stumbling through my tears and begging him over and over and over not to leave me. Tears fall so fast down my cheeks, that later I discover that my shirt is soaked by them. Gray presses me close to his chest and my heart breaks again. I don't want to do this. Through my tears, I hear his voice and know that he is crying too. I cling to him as though the mere thought of letting go might cause him to vanish like smoke. He clings to me too and I feel his tears as they drop onto my face. When I finally look into his face, the pain etched on it mirrors my own. Despite this, he says that we have to say goodbye. No, no, no, no! I don't want this. The tears I have been crying have yet to stop and with this, they fall even harder with my sobs. Somehow we part and with a final look over my shoulder, I take a last glimpse of my beloved and stumble through the door to the ward. As the door closes behind me with a loud bang, my sobs become a howl and I stumble behind the orderly toward the elevator.
 
*****
I don't want this. I can't. These are common refrains for someone who is experiencing the deepest throes of depression. The path that leads out of a depressive episode is often something akin to a giant hedge maze that twists and turns and confuses you to no end. Although you know cognitively that there is an exit somewhere, like the hedge maze, you may not be able to even see it because of the walls and obstacles in your path.

My journey through depression began many years ago somewhere around age twelve, but lately I have begun to suspect that it may have begun even earlier than that. I know that it has coloured who I am as a person, my outlook on life, and the way I relate to others. It has also stolen much from me through the years. As awful as it is, I have learned to live with what Winston Churchill referred to as "the black dog" of major depressive disorder (MDD) and have learned some ways of managing it through the years, although there are times when it grabs hold of me and pulls me down. Despite its seemingly mercurial nature, I have actually noticed a kind of pattern to how my particular black dog attacks me. My MDD is cyclic in nature and the pattern I've observed is that a depressive episode begins and winds up lasting anywhere from 4-8 months, but never more than that. During that time, I can sink very very low, but with time, talk therapy, prayer, and the support of the people around me who care for me, I find my way out of the darkness and back to a more normal state of life. Basically, the MDD goes into a kind of remission. It's not a manic state or anything approaching it, just a normal even keel emotionally. The various symptoms that are the hallmark of depression for me recede and I am able to go about my life more normally.

What I haven't told you is that I am currently in the midst of one of those depressive episodes and it has been going on for 21 months as of today. That it has gone on as long as it has is a very different thing for me. It has been incredibly different in a number of ways. The snippet above is just the tip of the iceberg. I have been on a very long journey and one that I really don't want anymore. I have decided to write about this most recent journey through the dark valley in the hope that it will help others understand what it truly is to experience the deepest depths of depression and how it differs from having a really bad day. That last bit might seem unnecessary, but you would be surprised at the number of people I have met who truly do not understand the difference. My other hopes for this (and I am scared to call them hopes as I have been burned by hoping) is that others might feel less alone in their own walk with depression and that perhaps, by stumbling through these words and thoughts, I might find my own way out of this dark night of the soul.

Thank you for reading and walking with me. Please comment if you feel so led. God bless you.