I’ve Never Found a Four Leaf Clover, But I’ve Been Institutionalized Twice

On April 17th, 2017, I voluntarily admitted myself to the behavioral health inpatient program at Mercy Hospital for suicidal thoughts and ideation. I was released four days later.

This may seem like a shock to a lot of people. It shocked me, too, at first. I wasn’t shocked that I needed help, because I’ve known that for a long time. What has shocked me, however, is how hard it has been to let go of the sadness, anger and the feelings of emptiness and worthlessness. These were my closest friends. That’s where my comfort lay, my security blanket, my addiction. Depression, for me, is like my favorite pair of sweatpants, complete with holes and torn seams and stains. Yeah, it may not be pretty or flattering, but it’s mine. It’s mine and I made it this way and it’s a big fucking part of who I am. It’s the one thing I didn’t want anyone to see me in, but strangely it’s still somehow the thing I wore the most.

How can I still be me without my depression? I’ve used it to sculpt my image and personality for so long. I’m only in the beginning stages of fighting this disease and I already feel naked without it. I mean, shouldn’t I be happy to know that I could and will be better without it? Shouldn’t I have known that a long time ago? I mean, when your head hurts, you take ibuprofen. Have an upset stomach? Eat these Tums. But I wanted to kill myself, literally just wanted to fucking die, yet I was nervous about giving that up? How could I have been that stupid? I wasn’t being stupid, though. I just needed help.

I’m on medication now. Things seem to be leveling out, for the most part. I still wake up sad, but now I can feel like I can talk about it without fear of burdening my wife and friends. I still feel guilty, and I still feel embarrassed and scared. However, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel, and I can see it now. It’s only the size of a pinhole, but it gets bigger everyday, and that’s all I can really hope for. The light gets brighter and I’m walking towards it instead of away for once.

They cut the cord out of my sweatpants at the hospital, so now they don’t fit as well as they did before. Maybe that’s symbolism, maybe it’s just because they didn’t want me to hang myself after lunch. I don’t know. What I do know is I want new pair of sweatpants, a pair that fits. A pair without holes or rips or bleach spots. A pair that comforts me the right way. A pair that I ‘m not ashamed to be seen in. Depression is always going to be with me, maybe hiding in a pocket, ready to come out whenever I think I need it. Maybe I’ll need it, maybe I won’t. But I certainly can’t ignore its existence anymore.

If you want to talk to me about my experience, have questions or just need to talk, I’m here.

I’m still here.