Finding Help

Sometimes I just feel hollow…like something is missing inside me…deep inside me…in the dark recesses of my soul. I want to cry out, maybe bay at the moon, howl like the last of the wild wolves searching for its kind. I feel like that tonight.

I can’t say what causes this feeling. Nothing out of the ordinary happened today. Things went well for the most part. But still there is this awful ache. Like something within me is broken and I might just die before they figure out what it is. I almost feel like I’ve sprung a leak and my essence is slowly being absorbed by my surroundings. One day they will find just an empty shell with nothing inside. And that will be the end of me.

Why does this feeling come and go? Why can one day be good and precious and wondrous and the next be without meaning? What happens in the meantime? Does some evil spell fall upon me? Or am I feeling the pain of a thousand starving children? Am I an unlikely spectator of a murder most foul? Or perhaps I have given just a little more than I received lately and the tank has run dry?

I hate to feel this way yet it is a familiar thing. I remember feeling this way so many times even when I was very young. Then I wondered if I had suddenly been plucked from my world and plopped in another. That I had been dropped into this place in the middle of a life without introduction or purpose. Everyone else seemed to function fine as though they had been there forever. But to me it was like I was a newcomer…not knowing the rules or the game we were playing. Everyone else seemed to get it, though, I was the only one who didn’t. It’s a terrible way to feel as a child…never feeling safe…or wanted…or part of something.

These are common things for people who suffer with depression. It is a horrible affliction. In fact, I don’t think there is one more painful to endure. It is so hard that many people do not endure it but choose to end it in the only way they know how…to kill themselves.

I have thought of this many times through the years when the pain became more than I could stand. When I was held in the grip of something so unmerciful and so powerful, only the idea of death could bring about relief.

I thank our loving heavenly Father for my children. Without them in my life I would have surely succumbed to this torturous ailment, forcing my hand. But regardless of my personal pain, I could not bring it upon my children by ending my life. Though death would perhaps end my pain, it would bring about pain to my children. So, I endured. I found another way to stop the suffering.


I will always remember that day. The weeks prior were one blur of misery. I could muster the strength to get my kids up and ready for school. As they tottered off to the bus stop I would drag myself to my bed and bury myself in the covers. There I would stay until just before the bus returned. I would make them dinner then weep myself to sleep. Then the next day it would start all over again. The days dragged on…until one day my oldest daughter said to me, “Mommy, why do you cry all the time?”

Through the eyes of a child I found truth.

I determined the next day if I felt no better to call someone for help.

The sun rose on that balmy day in September, 1991. The kids bounced onto the school bus as I lovingly watched. When I got back in the house I planned to take a shower and when I was done if I felt no better I would make the call.

The hot water caressed me like a gentle hand but my tears were mingled with the bubbles that swirled to the drain. Would I ever feel any different? Was it possible to cry yourself to death…to weep so many tears that I would just turn inside out and die? When my shower was over I knew it was time so I pulled out the phone book and looked for help. Somehow in my depressive fog I found the number of an in-patient wing of a nearby hospital. I dialed the number waiting for someone to answer.

A gentle male voice greeted me. I fumbled with a greeting then hesitated not knowing what to say. Finally, a simple question sprung from my lips.

“What are the symptoms of depression?” I asked, not wanting to know the answer.

The gentle voice began to give me a list. When he spoke the first two, I broke into tears, completely undone. He asked me kindly if I needed a ride to the hospital. I told him I could get there under my own steam. He gave me the directions and told me he would be waiting.

I made it to the emergency room leaving my name with the receptionist. What happened after that is unclear. Someone told me to go home, pack a bag, make arrangements for my kids and my animals because I would be admitted and would spend at least a week in the hospital.

I drove myself home, called my mother who came immediately to help. She would take my youngest daughter. My oldest chose to go back to my ex-boyfriend. I left a terrible mess for my mom to deal with. I ran an animal shelter on the property and there were quite a few mouths to feed.

When all was done we made our way back to the hospital where I sat in the waiting room for 7 hours before being admitted. While I sat I watched patient after patient stream into the emergency room, get treatment then go out again. I don’t know why I stayed through that hellish wait. Anyone else would have left in a snit. But I guess I just knew that this was something I needed to do…no matter what it took to get there.

Finally, I made it upstairs where I was given a comfortable room with two beds. The other was occupied by a young girl who was very pregnant. She greeted me with a nod and a knowing look. It was clear she knew what I was going through. She discreetly left the room as the psych nurse helped me go through my things taking anything that someone could use to harm themselves.

I would spend a month in that place. They started me on medication, gave me group therapy, ran blood work to rule out physical causes, and saw a psychiatrist.

There is a sigma attached to psychiatric units. Old movies show them as scary places where people are held like prisoners, bound in beds and chairs with straight jackets, given shock treatments without their permission and tortured by cruel, hateful staff. Once they are admitted they will never be released, living their lives out in dark cage-like rooms. But nothing could be further from the truth.

This unit was light and cheerful with warm and caring doctors, nurses and social workers. No one was bound and no hellish cries were heard from some far away place. Instead, patients were given free rein to sleep, or spend time in peaceful contemplation in their rooms, or if feeling more social, could join the others in a brightly lit common room with tv, games, crafts and snacks. Meals were tasty and always served on time. Certain times were blocked out for group therapy, doctor’s visits, family nights and educational classes on appropriate topics. We were even given several breaks throughout the day to go outside either to play a game of some kind or just sit and bask in the healing sunlight.

Oddly enough, I felt at home in this place. I was surrounded by people who were just like me…felt the same things I did, struggled with the same things I did and dealt with similar family woes. There was a strange camaraderie. We felt protective of each other as we learned of their problems often identical to ours. When we watched some abuses toward a fellow patient we would support and encourage them. Being in there was like being in a womb…warm and protected…the outside world with its stress and strain was cut off from us. It was a great place to get well.

Of course no matter how badly we fought it, we would eventually be forced back to the worlds we had come from…back to the life that seemed so unmanageable. It was frightening to think of going back to overdue bills, family trials, bad relationships and crummy jobs…all the things that had driven us there in the first place. Though we leave this place on our own, we would no longer have to deal with our lives alone. We would take with us a psychiatrist we had come to know and trust while hospitalized. We would have the help of medication that would help balance the chemicals in our brains. And we would have a social worker who would keep in touch with us and lead us to the resources we would need in the future. One of the best things we would take with us was the courage we gained from finding out that we are not alone in our pain. We are not crazy!