Coming home didn’t end up feeling as good as I thought it would. I think I had some delusional fantasy that if I went home all of my mental and physical issues would just go away. Unfortunately, that was not the case.
Halloween weekend was coming up, and I was already thinking about where I wanted to go to school in January or next Fall. I was thinking of pursuing a business degree, and had an interest in going to Laurier. Two of my friends from high school were in residence at Laurier, and it just so happened that my friend Hailey was going to visit her friend at Laurier as well. She gave me a ride so I could have fun with my friends and check out the school.
That weekend was hazy, I remember fitting into jeans from a “smarties pants” costume that fit me when I was in Grade 9, and feeling ecstatic. I remember partying and drinking, and feeling so cold when we were walking outside that I ran into a random apartment building, and my friends had to find me. I remember walking around a costume store looking for things and feeling like I was going to faint. I remember eating way too many goldfish while drunk one night and feeling horrible the following morning. I looked in the mirror and thought I was going to die. I paced up and down my friend’s hall, as I reflected on what I’d just done and what was happening to me. I was embarrassed and ashamed. I felt so bad about eating so much that I resolved to skip breakfast. My friend Hailey pleaded with me to eat something, and she sat with me at Starbucks as I tried to eat oatmeal. On my way home from that weekend trip, my friend Hailey sobbed. She gave me a protein bar to eat, and was upset because she knew what it felt like to feel like I was feeling. Her heart broke to see me battling such an evil disease.
When I arrived home, guilt, shame, embarrassment, and sadness enveloped me. I believed that all of this was my fault. I started eating less, exercising more, and caused myself this hell. I’m the reason I had to leave school. My only identity was school. I was so smart, and had so much potential, and I’d ruined it. I was nothing without school. My brain ruminated on this constantly:
Laura, you are such a f**king idiot. How could you be so stupid? How could you let food get in the way of academics? School is the most important thing, you are nothing without school. You are such a failure, a waste, an idiot. So so stupid. You are worthless. You don’t matter. There’s no point in anything. You’d made a massive mistake and you will never forgive yourself. Idiot.
This was in a loop in my mind, and I couldn’t stop it. I had trouble falling asleep. My parents couldn’t leave me alone, so my Dad took time off of work to watch me. The following Monday we went to my family doctor to explain everything going on, and I heavily emphasized how depressed I was. I begged for anything to take the thoughts away. My doctor gave me a prescription for antidepressants and benzodiazepines. I was supposed to take Cipralex (antidepressant) daily, and the benzodiazepines when I was extremely anxious. However, I was told that they were habit forming so I was wary of using them. I also stopped taking the birth control pill because it was thought that it may have been messing with my mood.
I was sincerely hoping that the pills would make me magically feel better. One morning I got so anxious I curled up in a ball on the hallway floor, acting like a three year old. I got so anxious I thought I was going to throw up, and remember my vision going black as I sat in front of the toilet. The antidepressants gave me weird side effects, like a tingling face and nose, and made me very lethargic.
I remember my dad staying home with me, going on short jogs with me, and going out for coffee with me. I considered going to McMaster the following year because it was close to home. I remember waking up one night, and feeling unable to stand still. I felt the need to escape, to get away. I walked down the street at 2am, and eventually my parents caught up with me.
I didn’t use my phone at all, and completely ignored my friends. I was silent on social media. I spent most of the day ruminating about how much I hated myself.
After taking the antidepressants for a few days, I still didn’t feel much better. I was disappointed because I thought it would magically make me feel a lot better, and it didn’t. I wasn’t willing to wait 6-8 weeks to see improvements. So I told my dad that I needed to go to the hospital.
My mom worked in Hamilton, and knew a bit about the hospital system there. She knew that St. Joseph’s Hospital had a specialized psychiatric emergency department, so she told my dad to take me there. I remember walking up to the registration desk, and the man asking my dad how old I was. When my dad told him I was 17 years old, he told us that we had to go to McMaster Children’s Hospital, because I wasn’t 18 yet. My dad tried to explain that I was a few months away from being 18, but we were ultimately told to just go to McMaster.
So my dad drove me across the city to McMaster. I don’t remember much of this encounter in vivid detail, but I remember seeing the triage nurse and being weighed. I remember waiting for a very long time, and speaking with a doctor and a social worker. In my head, I desperately just wanted to be put to sleep. I didn’t want to be alive. I mentioned that I’d take a bunch of pills if I had to. I knew I was messed up and I wanted to be in the hospital, I figured that by going to the hospital I’d somehow get better. After hours, I ended up just going back home. Since I didn’t have a specific suicide plan and my parents were supportive, they didn’t deem it necessary.
I returned home. I remember having trouble concentrating on watching television because of the negative thoughts. I don’t know why I did this, but I drank a bit of wine hoping that it would numb me or at least maybe make the medication work faster. I didn’t drink wine at this point in my life.
A Mind Warrior 