Women & Home

Ever been through a life changing experience?
Or know someone who has?
Email me juliam@caxton.co.za, with your inspirational stories and they could be published on the web

This week's inspirational stories

The Road to Recovery by Stephen Eastmann, Cape Town

A piercing scream woke me instantly from my drug induced sleep. I opened my eyes and saw my roommate advancing across the two metre floor space between our beds. Was he coming to attack me or was he seeking comfort in my bed? Either way, I was not going to wait to find out. I grabbed his arm and shook him awake. “Justin, it’s OK”, I said. “Go back to bed”. An instant later, two nurses rushed into the room, alarmed by the scream. Justin was now sitting on the edge of his bed, his hands clasped over his face. “It’s fine”, he said. “Just a nightmare”.

A nightmare indeed, I thought. How was it possible that I had landed up in a clinic filled with depressed; bipolar and nutty people? I didn’t belong in the clinic, a place that equally evoked memories of boarding school and the movie ‘One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest’. And yet I knew, as I drifted rapidly back to sleep, that I did belong there. It had been a long slow and insidious slide into severe depression that I had failed too late to recognise.

The next morning, having undergone the obligatory daily blood pressure test, I walked downstairs for breakfast. Thankfully, I was no longer accompanied every minute of the day by a cheerful but attentive nurse. Seemingly progress that the staff no longer considered me to be a threat to myself. Taking a seat amongst the other patients, I looked around at the eclectic mix of people. Some young, some old, some insular, some gregarious. A curious microcosm of everyday people, the only exceptions being that 80 percent were female and that one attractive young patient appeared heavily sedated. Her movements were slow, her eyes glazed and her speech slurred. She shuffled slowly into the dining room, tightly clutching a fluffy bear. “If I put money into the machine”, she asked pointing to the vending machine, “will I win anything?”

Today was to be my first day for group sessions. I had spent the first three days more or less alone, resting and reading in my room. On the evening I’d been admitted and my belt; razor and shoelaces removed, the only space available in Cape Town had been a hastily made up bed in the treatment room. The city, it seemed, did not have enough beds to accommodate those who desperately needed psychological medication and care. On the fourth day, I had been afforded a proper room, which I shared with Justin.

That morning, my group of four shuffled into a meeting room and, followed by a counselor, pulled our chairs into a tight circle. The ever present packet of tissues was placed on the floor between us. Our topic this morning was: ‘Trust, Risk and Share’. “Who has something to share?” asked the counselor, after asking each person in turn to state their name and how they were feeling in that particular moment. All eyes were cast to the floor and there was a long moment of anxious silence before anyone would speak. Finally, someone started the ball rolling and stories began to emerge: Tales of rape; mental and physical abuse; childhood deprivation; degradation and lack of affirmation. Voices cracked with emotion and trembling hands were tucked securely beneath thighs. It was good to share and to experience the realisation that we weren’t alone in the dark spaces of our depressive minds.

Following the first session, there was a tea break and all the groups filed into the dining room to make their tea. Conversation turned to everyday matters of rugby, clothing styles and beading. Being a non-smoker, I headed alone to the non-smoking lounge, as the others hurried to have a cigarette. A nurse was removing an untidy assortment of baggage from the front door. “She keeps thinking she is going home,” she murmured to no-one in particular. A while later, the vacant blonde woman followed me into the room and queried whether I had stolen her clothes. I assured her I hadn’t and she drifted away again, seemingly appeased.

Mid-morning sessions either comprised of larger groups where lectures were given, or art therapy and other participative processes took place. Topics dealt with subjects such as: dysfunctional and nurturing families, the inner child, dependant and co-dependant relationships, abuse, boundaries, assertiveness or spirituality. All were good and added insight and value. At the lunch breaks, where a healthy two course meal was always provided, the conversation usually centered on the morning’s sessions, or ordinary everyday topics.

The two afternoon sessions were usually reserved for more lectures or for people within their smaller groups to read aloud their 10 to 25 page life stories. These sessions usually proved to be the most harrowing. Patients started to share their lives in great detail, from their abused childhood to their troubled adulthood. Stories emerged people had never shared with anyone before and some had even refused to acknowledge to themselves. Tears frequently flowed and yet, we all felt better and somehow cleansed by the experience.

The days were full and in between sessions, were daily visits by the psychiatrist to monitor the effects of prescribed medication and the mindset of their particular patient. Three weekly sessions were held with an individually appointed psychologist and visitors were allowed to visit between 6:00am and 8:00pm each day. Then there were the community sessions, where patients were allowed to air any grievances toward the nurses, the catering staff, the clinic itself or against each other. This was designed not to be critical but supportive and patients were picked for various reasons such as: intellectualising too much, isolating or fraternising.

On Friday afternoons there were farewells for patients who had completed their three or four week stay and were ready to face the real world once again. There were speeches of encouragement returned with speeches of hope and gratitude. Emotional goodbyes were given to newly acquired friends and the vacuum left by the departing patients was immediately filled with new patients.

Dinner at 5:00pm consisted of a hearty two or three course meal and this was followed at 8:00pm by Milo and sandwiches. Evening conversations concentrated on comparing one’s mental state or medication with another patient. Seldom did patients share similar symptoms, or the same medication. The variety of depression medication was astonishing. A little later in the evening, a straggly line of patients would form outside the nurses’ station dutifully collecting and swallowing their anti-depressant tablets and sleeping pills.

I missed the excitement one morning at breakfast when someone lost control and flung her dinner plate and her cutlery at other patients, who in her opinion, were talking too loudly. She followed up by pouring her coffee over one of the ‘offenders’ before leaving the room. I happened to sit next to this lady at dinner that same evening. She calmly explained to me she was psychotic and could fall into a rage at the slightest provocation. I remained exquisitely polite to her for the duration of the meal.

So, where had it all begun? It’s difficult to say because the slide into severe depression is a gradual, creeping process. The potential to be depressive increases in circumstances where there’s a family history, which was the case for me. The brain’s biochemistry is a major factor and individuals with severe depressive illness typically have too little or too much of certain brain chemicals, called neurotransmitters. Significant loss, strained relationships, work, or financial stresses contribute, and about one third of depressed people suffer some form of substance abuse.

I was a classic example of someone who could fall into depression. A natural worrier, recently and acrimoniously divorced, I was trying to sell my house as agreed in the consent papers. My mind and concentration was fragmented by thousands of (inevitably negative) thoughts. Worse than anything, I worked 10 hour days and Saturdays and was always under severe stress. I struggled to get to sleep at night and would wake at 3:00am worrying about the day ahead. I had also lost seven kilograms in a matter of a few months.

I had had suicidal thoughts for some time but had no intention of acting upon them. I was in a new and supportive relationship and I had wonderful family and friends. I couldn’t imagine hurting these people and letting them down. However, I woke up one day feeling completely exhausted and overwhelmed by life. My self esteem was at an all time low and I took the decision to end my life. But, despite a serious and prolonged attempt, I failed and ended up in the clinic under 24 hour supervision.

So where to from here? Medication has stabilised my mood. Psychiatric and psychological intervention has taught me to view the positive and live in and appreciate the moment. My partner and my family and friends have been incredibly supportive. I’ll need to be on anti-depressants for at least two years but I’m doing well. I still experience tough times and I’m looking for a new job. But, I have no more suicide thoughts and I tackle each challenge as it comes. I now know how to cry for help before it’s too late. I count my blessings that I’m alive, healthy and loved.