The Luckiest Girl in the World
The following is part love letter and part plea on behalf of those who aren’t as lucky as I am.
The phones for patient use on the psych floor are not turned on all the time. They only work during the evening for a few hours between dinner and evening meds. During the day they didn’t want patients on the phone instead of participating in the group sessions. In addition, part of the point of being in the hospital is to detach from those things in the outside world that might be contributing to one’s issues, so limiting phone contact with possibly unhelpful persons makes sense.
Most nights when the shift was changing and my pen had rudely been taken away, I all but ran to the phone and called my mother or my sister. Sometimes both. I was already seeing my dad regularly because he came to the hospital for visiting hours. And I did call my godmother to thank her for buying me wireless bras. Outside of those four people I did not have any contact with family or friends while I was in the hospital.
I knew everyone would be cool about it. I knew they would believe me. None of my family or friends are non-believers when it comes to anxiety, panic attacks, or depression. None of them are turdish enough to unhelpfully suggest that I “just calm down”. Never for a second did I doubt that I could trust them with what was going on with me. The problem for me was not a lack of support; the problem was that I did not believe I deserved the attentions I was receiving. I believed myself to be a burden on all of those around me and therefore, in the days I spent in the hospital and for weeks afterwards I was absolutely floored by the outpouring of love surrounding me.
Before continuing I want to be clear that I NEVER ONCE doubted that any of my people loved or cared about me. All of the following assumptions I made or things that surprised me stem entirely from my own belief that I was a burden and did not deserve everything that was done for me. I was raised in a “drop everything because someone needs help” type of environment, so none of the following should have surprised me in the least.
Before he retired, my dad was a very busy person. Full time ministry is a 24/7 kind of job. You are not only in charge of running the church administratively, financially, and spiritually, but you are also on call to walk with people through their greatest joys and most terrible sorrows. If the phone rings, chances are you have to go somewhere that wasn’t on your original schedule for the day. Knowing this was the reality for my dad, I honestly didn’t expect him to come see me every time there were visiting hours. The hours were every weekday evening and twice on Saturdays and Sundays. The hospital was a half hour from his house, so I figured I would probably see him most days, but assumed that a meeting or two might get in the way. I also figured that Daddy wouldn’t be able to get to the hospital for the Sunday afternoon hours because it was so close to when church wrapped up.
I was wrong. My dad was at the hospital every single time he was allowed to be there, including right after church on Sunday. He stayed for the whole time, every time. He listened to me babble, nervously talking through how I was doing and stuff I had learned in the group therapy sessions. When the group room got too loud and started to make me panicky, he went with me to the therapy room next door so that we could talk in the quiet. He brought me more clothes and dealt with all of the stuff with the social worker and hospital staff. I was aware of how much the whole ordeal must have been interfering with his calendar, but never once did he mention how tired he must have been, his stress levels, anything about work. He made space and time for me and what I needed. Looking back on this with a rational mind I can see that he never would have done anything less, but at the time I was surprised.
The thing that floored me the most about my parents reaction to all of this is that they talked every night while I was in the hospital. Divorced since the late 90’s, my parents don’t speak to each other. It isn’t that they can’t talk to each other, it’s just that they don’t have anything to say or anything in common except their children. (That’s what it seems like from my perspective anyway, but I’m not them.) I knew my dad would let my mom know everything that was going on, but after the initial call I assumed that details would be relayed either through my sister or that I would update my mom every night when I called her from the hospital.
Turns out I was wrong about that too. Every time my dad left the hospital, he called my mom on the way home. He gave her his perspective on how I was doing. They talked about whether or not Mom should fly out to New Jersey, but decided it made more sense for her to come visit when I was out of the hospital. This may seem small and like a common courtesy, but when I found out that my parents were actually speaking to each other every day because of me, it absolutely blew me away. I was just shocked that two people who do not speak to each other willingly got on the phone every day to talk about me. Again, rationally it all makes sense, but to my mind it seemed monumental.
Once I was out of the hospital I went back to my dad’s house. While I wasn’t working, life on the outside was still very overwhelming and I didn’t want to be alone. After a couple weeks my mom flew out to New Jersey to help me transition back to my apartment. She stayed with me for a week sleeping on an air mattress in my living room. She wanted me to sleep in my bed so that I could get used to everything as it would be once she went back home. While I went to IOP, Mom cleaned my apartment - a truly Herculean task on a good day, and even more so given how poorly I had been doing before being admitted. She cooked meals and we went shopping for stuff to help me better organize my apartment. In the evenings we watched movies and talked to my stepdad. She helped me hang up family pictures that had been sitting around in a pile for ages. She gave me yarn and a knitting pattern because #craftingheals. She made my home feel like a safe place again. When I dropped her off at the airport, I cried. She hugged me and told me with every confidence, “You can do this.”
My sister is a public school teacher and during the school year I believe she is one of the busiest people on the planet. We used to go weeks to a month or so without speaking or even texting. No news was good news. When everything happened, suddenly I was in desperate need of people to talk to, and there she was. If I didn’t call her every night when I was in the hospital, it was almost every night; she was my go to person when they took the pens away. Even though she had no time at all, she made time to talk to me, as neurotic as I was at the time complaining about not having a pen to do my puzzles.
I spoke to my grandfather soon after coming home. Mom had kept him updated as I requested, but I had been hesitant to speak to him (or anyone) because I was scared that telling the whole story would set me back. But Grampy was always good in a crisis and knew exactly how to listen and not push me to speak about things I wasn’t ready to talk about. And he reminded me how loved I was. Grampy had this ability to say that in a way that got right to your heart. He said it and it was like my heart grew three sizes in a Grinch-like manner. I felt that love in my bones.
I also spoke to my uncle a day or so after the hospital. I had asked my mom to keep him updated, but requested that they not tell my cousins what was going on because I didn’t want them to worry. I wanted to tell them after the fact when I was out of the hospital and on the mend. But on the phone Uncle Phil confessed that my cousins knew because the youngest, Abigail, is Jessica Fletcher reborn. She knew as soon as my uncle got off the phone with my mom that something was going on and immediately asked, “what’s wrong with Megan?” (Should have known I’d never get anything past her; I love her for that.) But the biggest thing my uncle said to me on that call was that he was proud of me for asking for help. Again, I was floored. Even though all evidence from my whole life indicated that my aunt, uncle, and cousins all love me deeply, I was just shocked that they took the time to express concern and reach out to me.
There are innumerable other examples. I received lots of cards in the mail from family members. My stepsister wrote me a letter sharing her own struggles and inviting me to call her any time I wished. Some of my coworkers sent me flowers which, because I was not home at the time, I’m pretty sure my neighbor stole. My closest group of friends from work came up to visit me twice, once when I was still at my dad’s house and once back at my apartment. They brought me food and more craft projects. I met friends for meals or called them on the phone to fill them in and was again shocked to find that they were deeply concerned for me, asked follow up questions, and told me they loved me.
I am ashamed of how blown away I was by all of this love. This embarrassment of riches that I found myself buried in had been there all the time, but I didn’t see it. Sometimes I still struggle to believe that I deserve the love I receive, because somewhere buried deep in my brain is the core belief that I am a burden. People do not actually want me around and any time or attention they give me is out of obligation, or so my wicked mind tells me. All evidence points, and always has pointed, to the contrary. But as I’ve said before, that is the thing with anxiety - it is not always rational. And I hope that acknowledging the selflessness of my family and friends here in this small way makes up for the embarrassing way I was surprised by them. I hope I love them back at least half as well as they have cared for me.
I do feel quite embarrassed and ashamed of myself for ever expecting less than what I received. But in the more than three years since I have realized that it is a far better use of my time simply to be grateful. I have at my disposal a small army of people, any of whom I can turn to and say, “I’m not doing great right now. I need (fill in the blank).” Whether I need to talk, be distracted, or to get out of any given situation, I know I will be understood and that I will receive the help I need. Undeserving as I may believe myself to be, I am in fact the luckiest girl in the world.
This is not the case for everyone. In fact, I’d say this is not the case for most people in similar situations. While I was in the hospital and IOP, I encountered many people who where on their own entirely. One young woman told me that her dad tried to talk her out of going to the hospital, saying, “You don’t need that, just sleep it off” as if her mental health issues were a hangover. My roommate was there for respite care, recommended by her doctor because she was a caregiver and her home life was so stressful and depended entirely on her to function. I was almost always the only person on the phone, one of the few people who had someone supportive to talk to outside the hospital. Some people were alone during visiting hours. Others were visited by friends because their families were not supportive or did not believe their struggles. And some people were quite simply alone because there was no one else left in their lives who cared.
These examples do not include the countless people who would benefit from help, but never seek it because they are constantly told that their problems are fictional or it’s too expensive or it’s too embarrassing to need help. Mental health issues are most often not visible, and are therefore discounted. People worry about their pride being wounded by being related to or friends with someone who is “crazy”, so they distance themselves or belittle the person in need.
I do not like to imagine what might have happened to me if this were the reception that my pleas for help received. Already believing myself to be a burden and then having that confirmed by everyone around me would have been devastating to say the least. I can all but guarantee that I would not be as well as I am today were it not for the big fluffy clouds of support and love that enveloped me when I needed them the most. See above re: me being the luckiest girl in the world.
If you find yourself in a situation where you can help someone who is struggling, do it. Listen to them, believe them, offer to drive them to the doctor or the therapist or wherever they need to go. Be an advocate for them if they are unable to do so themselves. Buy them dinner. Watch a movie with them. Offer to help do their laundry. Be supportive in any way you can, even if all you do is send a card to let them know they are in your thoughts. Every little bit helps and you never know - you might be the only person fighting in their corner.
