Standing at the top of this majestic lighthouse. Opening the door to the staircase, I notice that it is shallow, deep, and metal. I am bare-footed, so as I step down that first step, I feel the coldness of the metal, the roughness that is almost sharp and it surprises me. I stand there, on the top stair, getting used to the texture and temperature, preparing myself for continuing down into the warm depth of the lighthouse. Slowly, I continue my descent. Listening to the gulls outside, the crashing of the waves, and the blow of boat horns. These stairs seem to go on forever. I look to my hand on the railing. I notice how worn the wood looks. Smooths by the thousands of lighthouse keepers who have walked, run, and traversed as I do now; hands rubbing the wood and oiling it as a seal. I look to the walls and see photos of eras gone by. Then there is a window and I see the darkness of the night at sea for a moment. I look down and see that my journey down the lighthouse is almost to an end. The warmth of the fireplace fuels these last few steps as my body yearns to feel it's fiery fingers of warm caresses on my wary body. Finally I made it down the stairs, my feet almost missing the coolness of those sharp stairs. I take a deep breath and walk to the fireplace.
Disclaimer The following post shares a bit about one of the darkest moments in my recent life. I will be sharing some journal entries from my stay in the hospital this past May 2020 due to deep depression and PTSD symptoms. This in no way reflects how I am currently feeling, but my hope is that what I went through may help someone else who is or has gone through the same/similar feelings. This post may have some triggers, so I wanted to prepare you for the content.
May 28, 2020 Entry 1: Miranda Rights. Why does it say that "whatever you say can and WILL be used against you in a court of law?" Why not say that it will be used, either against or for you? For example, if throughout the investigation it is determined that the person is actually the victim, the info found wouldn't be used against them. Rather it would be used to protect them and find the real culprit. Wording is everything. Especially in intimidating situations.
Entry 2: Happy. I am still trying to discover what that word really means. I can "fake it" pretty well, but I would prefer not having to rely on masks to imitate emotions. But I still play pretend. Why? For the sake of others, or in hope that maybe, one of these times of "faking it" will translate to reality. Is that why the happy mask is so worn? Because I reach for it so often because I wish for it to adhere to my face? To be real. Real emotions. Really though. Do I put these masks on to hide? For the benefit of others, to put them at ease? Or to finally feel these emotions? That is the question. Meet smile with smile. Laugh with laugh. Emotion with emotion? I'm just a chameleon changing its skin to match others' emotions. I have no real substance. No depth. No range. Not really. Too ashamed and afraid to show my true self. Going through the motions. This makes me question if I have ever really felt happy. Have I? Is happiness as fleeting as putting on and taking off a mask? Or is it meant to last longer? Often I say that I was happy at certain occasions, but am I lying? Was it real? Why am I questioning everything? I'm even doubting emotions themselves. Spiraling into a sea of doubt. AM I really just the void? Is there more to me? Who am I really? Do I exist on the same plane of existence as everyone else? Or am I existing in a vortex. A bubble. A void. A pit with no escape. No exit. Just frustration, anger, and confusion that are all pointed inward to this failure that I am. I try to see positive things about me, but my mind is clouded. I need help but do not want to ask for fear that I am fishing for compliments. What is wrong with me? Why am I like this? Why is there no change? I feel alone even with all these people around. Alone in a sea of people.
This was my last day in the hospital. I am still in recovery and will continue with outpatient appointments. It is a daily battle, but one worth fighting. My next post will be a mindfulness activity I did in the hospital. I wrote it down so I could attempt to focus.
Disclaimer The following post shares a bit about one of the darkest moments in my recent life. I will be sharing some journal entries from my stay in the hospital this past May 2020 due to deep depression and PTSD symptoms. This in no way reflects how I am currently feeling, but my hope is that what I went through may help someone else who is or has gone through the same/similar feelings. This post may have some triggers, so I wanted to prepare you for the content.
May 27, 2020 Entry 1: The thought of going home, today, is meeting me with a mix of negative and positive emotions. There is the fear, shame, and guilt; but also excitement. It feels weird. Foreign. Unusual.
Entry 2: Today I will conduct an experiment. Will I fall between the cracks? If I stay in my room, will people look for me? Will they call me for meals? Group? Vitals? Doctors? Meds? Let's see if I'm worth it. A.M. Vitals - Check Breakfast - check Doctors - Check I told my doctors of the experiment, effectively nullifying any results I may receive. Therefore, experiment ruined.
Entry 3: Guess what I just started. My fricken period. The bane of the female existence. The constant reminder that I am not pregnant. The dread of feeling like I will never be pregnant.
Entry 4: I've written this countless times before, but still I must ask WHY? Why is it so easy for other women to get pregnant? Why are children given to mothers who hate them and never wanted them when I am here with open, expectant arms begging for a child I can love and call my son or daughter or whatever they identify themselves as? Why, when I have tried so many strategies to conceive, with the help of doctors, am I still empty handed and my womb barren? I hate myself. I hate my body. I hate that I can never do anything right when it matters most. I'm useless. All I want to do is love, yet I am not content. I feel empty. Like a broken cog in the machine that no one even knows is there, broken. I'm an appendix that can be surgically removed and the body will still function just fine.
Darcey and I have struggled with infertility for as long as we have been married and it is difficult. We see friends and family welcoming babies into their families and we are happy for them, but also find it extremely difficult as our own home is empty. This has been one of the stressors that feeds my depression with each passing month.
Disclaimer The following post shares a bit about one of the darkest moments in my recent life. I will be sharing some journal entries from my stay in the hospital this past May 2020 due to deep depression and PTSD symptoms. This in no way reflects how I am currently feeling, but my hope is that what I went through may help someone else who is or has gone through the same/similar feelings. This post may have some triggers, so I wanted to prepare you for the content.
May 26, 2020 Entry 1: How am I today. I am not sure. I am missing Darcey's birthday which is sad. I am not sure beyond that. I guess... maybe apathetic? or... blah? Nothingness? Not happy, not angered, not frustrated, not in the pit of despair... maybe a little lonely. A little apathetic. A little apprehensive. But it is one of those days where I seem to be almost a blank slate. Neither positive nor negative. We shall see if this blank slate swings one way or the other throughout the day, or if it proves to be impervious to outside or inside forces.
Entry 2: I am wondering how much I will us the phone today to call Darcey. My intention is to call him at least 10 times, but as I seem to be a slave to my emotions lately, I am curious what I will actually do.
Entry 3: Everything is rainbows, puppy dogs, and unicorns. Not really, but I figured I would see if writing that made me happier or if it would have any positive effect on me at all. It didn't. Experiment complete.
Entry 4: Well, I succeeded in calling once. So far. I promised to call once more at least, but I will try my hardest to call more than that. It's for his benefit, not mine, so I should be able to do this for him.
Entry 5: Home. It's where the heart is, right? Then why is my heart not "in it"? It doesn't seem to want to be "in" anything. Sure I want to hug and be hugged by those I love and those who love me. But I don't want to at the same time. Again, I ask... Why?
Entry 6: I've decided either Thursday or Friday to go home. Though my body has its typical fear response to the anxiety I'm feeling, I do think it is about time for me to try. For Darcey's sake. I think, maybe, also for my own sake. Therefore, I will focus on things that I would like to do WHEN I get home: Play with my dogs hug people Sleep in my own bed Groom myself Talk for hours with my mom Games call/text friends play piano and guitar caffeine!!
It was today, on Darcey's birthday, that I learned that the doctors thought I might want to start thinking about going home and what that all may involve. As I had tried to ignore the thought of going home due to feeling sick each time it was brought up, I was anxious. There were so many unknowns and that scared me. BUT I knew Darcey needed me. So I promised the doctors that I would consider it and chew through what I thought it might look like.
Disclaimer The following post shares a bit about one of the darkest moments in my recent life. I will be sharing some journal entries from my stay in the hospital this past May 2020 due to deep depression and PTSD symptoms. This in no way reflects how I am currently feeling, but my hope is that what I went through may help someone else who is or has gone through the same/similar feelings. This post may have some triggers, so I wanted to prepare you for the content.
May 25, 2020 Entry 1: I feel weighted down. Like I am pinned to the hard, rough surface of Earth by a boulder too heavy for anyone to move. The boulder's weight pushes and presses me to where each breath becomes harder and more labor intensive. The points and edges are painful. It is hard to catch my breath. Try as I might, I'm stuck. Others come and go, each attempting to help or simply judging me for not being able to move the boulder, ad it is suffocating. I begin to feel hopeless and like it is my fault this boulder is slowly squishing the life our of me with each breath. Should I give up, or keep trying? All of my strength is gone so what hope is there for me? I know what the Bible says, but I find it difficult to believe.
Entry 2: Helping others, what does that even look like? I try to be there when others need assistance, or I will try to be preemptive, but what if all of my trying is not appreciated, then what?
Entry 3: My life is like holding tight to a frayed rope. The longer I hold on the more frayed it becomes. The hard part is that this frayed rope often rubs against rugged surfaces, damaging it even further. Sometimes I am too tired to hold on, so I slide down a bit and have to struggle to climb back up.
Entry 4: Am I losing my intellect and memory?
Have you ever felt like there was a boulder that just wouldn't budge sitting there stubbornly on your chest? It is suffocating and seems like it will always be there causing excruciating pain. BUT there is hope. You can find help. People will listen. All you have to do is admit that you need help.
Disclaimer The following post shares a bit about one of the darkest moments in my recent life. I will be sharing some journal entries from my stay in the hospital this past May 2020 due to deep depression and PTSD symptoms. This in no way reflects how I am currently feeling, but my hope is that what I went through may help someone else who is or has gone through the same/similar feelings. This post may have some triggers, so I wanted to prepare you for the content.
May 24, 2020 Entry 1: I am a disappointment. I am disappointed in myself. I would say I hate myself, but that word is too harsh (so people say). So I strongly dislike myself. I'm weak. Falling into this pattern of relying on the void and masks to get me through the day.
Entry 2: Everyone here tries so hard to help the patients here, but here I am being a failure. People think I am feeling better, but all I am doing is reaching for my worn and cracked mask that just looks like i am a success and happy. But I am tired of reaching for that mask that is always within arms length. Why am I not getting better? At this rate, I won't get home in time for Darcey's birthday. He will be sad. I might not even get back before M and V leave. Why am I letting so many people down? It would have been better if I never got involved with people. Maybe I should just disappear so I no longer have the capability of hurting and disappointing others.
Again the fingers of worthlessness and feelings of being a failure and burden to others was plaguing my mind. I felt that even though my outside showed a happy Watson, my insides were proving treatment a failure. It is a slow and painful process, but worth getting the help I needed. Now I can look back at these down days and notice how much better I am currently feeling. God is good and he has gifted so many doctors and nurses with the ability to help.
Disclaimer The following post shares a bit about one of the darkest moments in my recent life. I will be sharing some journal entries from my stay in the hospital this past May 2020 due to deep depression and PTSD symptoms. This in no way reflects how I am currently feeling, but my hope is that what I went through may help someone else who is or has gone through the same/similar feelings. This post may have some triggers, so I wanted to prepare you for the content.
May 23, 2020 Entry 1: Is sleep my enemy? Why do good and positive emotions seem to seep endlessly through the cracks in my being? What about the negative emotions? Is the void so sticky that it lingers and festers to the point of decay? Decay that poisons the soul and damages the psyche. Again I ask: What is the point? Does the void keep me awake or is it just one more thing that I am not good at? If I could sleep, I would feel the master of some aspect of me. As it stands, I have no point. But I should not be thinking such things.
Entry 2: Everything is perspective.
Thankfully, now I am on sleep medication and getting enough sleep has certainly helped my mood. Not so much my energy levels, but I think that will come with time. Again, one step at a time.
May 22, 2020 Entry 1: Cockroach. Thinking about that word and what that bug looks like is gross. Gag me. (There were a lot of roaches when it rained, I became known as a roach killer hero).
Entry 2: Life in the mental ward. Up early for breakfast. Three groups a day. Lunch. Dinner. Snack before bed. Weight check every week. Vitals twice a day. Medication. Nurses and doctors. Patients needing everything from scrubs to soap to water to crayons. Bed shaped like a "U". Velcro shower curtain hooks. No personal electronics. Landline with a short cord. Electric piano with a stuck key and no power. TV always on. No visitors due to COVID-19. Card games. Origami. Art. Pacing for hours. This is my life now.
On this day, I tried to stay away from writing about my emotions too much in an attempt to distract myself. Sometimes distractions are your best friend, but it is always good to face the emotions and deal with them instead of letting them fester only to later explode.
Disclaimer The following post shares a bit about one of the darkest moments in my recent life. I will be sharing some journal entries from my stay in the hospital this past May 2020 due to deep depression and PTSD symptoms. This in no way reflects how I am currently feeling, but my hope is that what I went through may help someone else who is or has gone through the same/similar feelings. This post may have some triggers, so I wanted to prepare you for the content.
May 21, 2020 Entry 1: Today I will try something new. I will say good morning to people because I wish it to be a "good" morning. For others and, God willing, for me.
Entry 2: I have completed over 100 origami pieces and over 100 drawings...
Entry 3: Today, well, really yesterday, I remembered how much I enjoy doing crafts and teaching others how to do them too. It may be all the positive reinforcement and encouragement I have received while here, but I think I may want to be a therapist or guidance counselor or recreational therapist for special needs children. Food for thought.
People here are also saying that I am good at writing. It is nice to get words of affirmation from someone other than my mom.
This is where my new dream was born. I want to use my degree to be a recreational therapist. It is nice to be able to dream again and participate in things I am passionate about.
Disclaimer The following post shares a bit about one of the darkest moments in my recent life. I will be sharing some journal entries from my stay in the hospital this past May 2020 due to deep depression and PTSD symptoms. This in no way reflects how I am currently feeling, but my hope is that what I went through may help someone else who is or has gone through the same/similar feelings. This post may have some triggers, so I wanted to prepare you for the content.
May 19, 2020 Entry 1: I should just end it. I am a burden and a failure not worth keeping around. There are many ways in which I could give up. Some slower, some more painful, others quick. All these thoughts circle and create a vortex in my mind; consuming all that could have been good. I'm at the point where it feels like there is no point in continuing. I've lost the ability to "fake it". My masks are shattered. I've failed those who are trying so hard to help me. I'm a burden of a person, being told when to eat, when to try to be positive, and that I should keep trying to get better. But can't they see that I'm not worth it? Just let me fade away into nothingness. I am the void after all.
Entry 2: Should I fortify the masks of emotions, or should I try to break the habit of reaching for them? Is "faking-it" a bad thing? Sometimes it could be beneficial. But lately, I have not been able to tread water long enough. I can smile, laugh, and participate for a short while, and then I need escape.
Wow. That was dark and sounded hopeless. I am so glad that I am feeling better now. I do still reach for those masks, but I am not feeling that I should disappear, nor am I feeling that I am a failure. One step at a time is enough.
If you, or someone you know, is going through something like this, please, PLEASE ask for help. There is no shame in needing help.