Rummaging through my unorganized closet, I came across an article I wrote during my years in the hospital fighting depression. A roommate during my stay, whom I became close friends with, recalled her descent into hellish depression, as well as her suicide attempt. She gave me permission to write this article (excluding her name).
Dreaming. In tranquil waters. I’m sitting in my dinghy cross-legged, floating. The sea and sky are black.
I awaken. Black. Black is black. The room is black, but it must be morning. I’m all mixed up. I thought I heard the food trays arrive. I sneak a quick look out my room, and yes it is morning, but the halls also look black. All I sense is dread. Am I in a dream world? I shuffle back to bed.
I recollect particular events, my hospital admission for one. My family expressed they had no alternative, I was incoherent, seated in my rocking chair, rocking back and forth, back and forth, tightly wrapped in my orange and lime-green crocheted afghan. I hadn’t called anyone for days, nor answered the telephone. They were apprehensive upon entering the house. Phew! Just in time. I was alive they said.
Time passes and I am unable to actually climb out of bed now; I’m encased in cold stone. My heart is thumping so I must be alive, but this dreadful veil covers me like death. I feel chilly. Suicidal thoughts continually dance in my head. Is this punishment for my depression? Life is unfair. I don’t want to live, yet I don’t want to die. I’m confused.
**I was discharged before her, and it was forbidden to visit former patients, so I’m unsure of her outcome. I hope she recovered, stayed strong and had the courage to create a beautiful life.
Written and copyrighted Deb McCarthy 2017