This was never meant to be a travel blog, but as I really hit my stride behind the keyboard during our honeymoon road trip and then swiftly dropped off the map thereafter, to the casual observer, that’s all my blog looks like; a review of places to stay and things to do. And this just so happens to be another review of a place to stay and a thing to do. Only this one comes with a twist.
I posted last July about my tendency to sometimes slip into depression. But I didn’t touch on it again. Even though my depression was steadily getting worse. I think conveniently, I wasn’t noticing. I had a giant wedding to distract me and a road trip to look forward to. That’s the tricky thing with depression you see. High functioning mental illness can lull you into a false sense of security that you’re actually ok, when really you’re very, very NOT ok. When you can still get out of bed (most days), put your face on, get yourself to work, put in a (half decent) shift, go about your normal evening routine… everything feels a bit sluggish, there’s a greyish tint to the display, the sound clarity is a bit off, but you’re getting by. You’re not reaching for the razor blades. You’re ok. But you’re also not.
This was me for much of last year. Yes, even though my life, on the face of it, is perfect. Please, for fuck sake, do not remind me of the many, many reasons I have to be happy. I descended into the spiral that would eventually drop me off at rock bottom at the end of October. You also don’t need to point out that this coincides with my wedding. My therapist, psychiatrist and many friends and family members have already helped to point that out, but more on that in a later post (maybe). My psychiatrist, who I have been seeing for thirteen years now (yes, I single-handedly financed her children’s private school education) first recommended admission to a psychiatric clinic in early December. My first response was shock and denial. Surely I can’t be that bad? We hadn’t reached Cuckoo’s Nest, Girl Interrupted levels of crazy, had we? By mid-December I had moved from denial into bargaining. I couldn’t go into a clinic at Christmas.
I was hoping to feel better over the Christmas break. Then I could blame work and just get a new job (I say it like that would be easy, but it sure felt easier than going into a psych ward at the time). But if anything, the razor blades just started looking more tempting. But by the time my I saw my doctor again I couldn’t even contemplate admission because my mom was visiting from the UK and I couldn’t waste precious quality time with her in a place where they only allowed two hours of visiting every second day of the week. February brought a better excuse – my birthday – even better, it was my 30th. We were hiring a jumping castle. Hubby was making me a marble glaze ninja turtle cake from scratch. I had friends coming from another province.
But some days I also felt like pulling my car over into oncoming traffic; or accelerating into a brick wall. Or going into a really dangerous neighbourhood to see if someone might kill me for my cellphone like the stories you hear on the radio. Maybe I could swallow all the pills in the house, lord knows we have enough. Or do we? How many is enough? Or I could jump off a building? But how high is high enough? Knowing my luck, I’d end up a vegetable, in a whole new world of depression.
My birthday party was on the 11th of February. It was one of the best days of my life. I was surrounded by most of my favourite people, my favourite foods, my favourite music and I made some special memories. Most importantly, I decided I would go to the clinic for the 21 day programme that I should have gone for at least three months prior. Because those people deserve the best version of me. I deserve the best version of me. And I wasn’t going to get it by just muddling through.
And so, on Monday, the 13th of February, the day before Valentine’s Day, and six days before Hubby’s birthday, I checked into Crescent Clinic. Mum still had eight days left of her holiday.
Upon arrival, it looked like a hotel. I was instantly feeling simultaneously at ease with anxiety levels through the roof – a state of being I am all too familiar with. Once all the formalities were completed I was shown to my room. Now I had by no means been expecting five star living, despite the fancy furniture and fresh flowers in reception, but nor was I expecting the communal dormitory in which I found myself. Five beds. One bathroom. Gasp. Anxiety out of this hemisphere.
I arrived late in the evening and so my first day was just an underwhelming dinner, followed by meds, awkward chit-chat with the roomies and some reading before bed. I had a doctor’s appointment scheduled for the next afternoon at 2:30pm. In the morning, I was assessed by an occupational therapist who assigned me to the ‘blue group’ and gave me a time table of courses. Now this was something I could work with. Scheduled classes and group therapy sessions discussing a variety of topics and teaching healthy coping mechanisms centred around weekly themes. This week’s theme: relationships. The first class: boundaries. We were a match made in heaven.
I met with my psychiatrist, Dr Sheldon Zilesnick, a friend and former colleague of my usual psychiatrist, in the afternoon. He is a specialist in temporal lobe epilepsy (TLE) my primary diagnosis. Between them, they believed my symptoms were largely down to uncontrolled seizures. As soon as the epilepsy was under control, the depression would be under control. I didn’t have any clinical symptoms as such. There is nothing wrong with my life. I don’t have any childhood traumas. This is a chemical battle. But he would get me a psychologist to meet with during my stay as that was typical procedure.
I met with her the next day. Her name is Deirdre Hartley, and in short, she broke me. She both ruined and saved my life, all in one. In three short weeks, she showed me what was wrong with me and what was right with me. I have had more “Aha!” moments in her office than anywhere else combined. She ripped my world apart and is slowly showing me how to put it back together. She tipped my diagnosis on its head. My problem may have been chemical, but I am facing a very real internal battle and it is only just beginning.
Crescent Clinic both saved my life and changed my life. I found out that they have rooms that are less communal and that if you ask the nurses nicely they will change your room (after they find you cowering in a corner ugly crying). I found out that the food is very inconsistent, but if you’re not a fan of rice, you’re going to be very, very hungry. I found out that they can give you a day pass to go home to celebrate your husband’s birthday. I found out that drum circles can give you a natural high. I found out that I’m a blue and that it’s a good thing to wear a mask.
I found out that just because someone loves you with all they have doesn’t mean they love you the way you needed to be loved at that time in your life; and that that’s not your fault, or theirs, it just is. I learnt that as human beings we crave purpose and connection but that often we sacrifice our individuality for the sake of our relationships. Only through self-awareness can we accept ourselves for both who we are and who we are not and begin to act with conviction and assertiveness.
Right, that’s enough buzz words. What does this all come down to? Here it is. Life isn’t all sunshine and roses, but it shouldn’t be razor blades and overdoses either. You shouldn’t even have to settle for a fuzzy picture or slightly distorted sound. You deserve to live in HD. If you’re not getting the most out of your life, don’t let the stigma of mental illness hold you back. Don’t wait until you’re planning your own demise to ask for help. The rooms are comfortable, the food is tolerable, the healthcare professionals are outstanding, the programme is life-changing. Welcome to Crescent Clinic, enjoy your stay.