Nine years ago today, April Fools day, I sat in a therapist's office with my mum holding my hand. It was April Fools day, surely they were joking. I didn't need to be put in the hospital. Remembering the look on my mom's face the first time I jumped out of the moving car made me flinch. Maybe... maybe they had a point. Maybe I did need some help.
Not 8 months before this point I had been diagnosed with Manic Depression. I'd go absolutely batshit hyper and crazy and insane, cleaning, drawing, playing my bass and drums and wishing I could do all at the same time. I'd run around outside until I thought my lungs would burst. This always lasted for a few days, a week if I was lucky. Then the depression would slap me across the face and jump on my back, weighing me down like an elephant on a mouse. I would cry, despair, and sleep. When I couldn't sleep, WOULDN'T sleep, I would write with such brilliance and clarity. I am very sad that I've since lost a lot of my best writing since then. I would take sleeping pills by the near handful. I would eat and eat and eat only to purge. I would starve for days. I would only eat a rice cracker with a slice of cheese. I'd eat and eat and eat and force myself to keep it because I deserved to be fat. I'd avoid my friends because I didn't deserve friends. I'd argue with my rather estranged father because I wanted someone to hate me.
Jumping out of the car actually started as a game, in my mind. Drive along as slowly as possible and see if I could just get out and walk at the same pace as the car. Then we'd go a bit faster. And then I was jumping out at speeds fast enough to make me fall and roll, with no warning to the driver. No matter who the driver. God I was selfish.
So, into the loony bin I went. They made me take out my piercings, they took away my makeup. I had to go to 'school' to be allowed to make phone calls or to be allowed visitors. If I didn't go to 'gym' or 'school' or take a shower, no one was allowed to see me. My mum came every day with gifts for me. She'd bring me clothes I hated. I wanted my big baggy black Harley Davidson shirts and my paint stained man-pants. She'd bring me white gauzy shirts with flowing sleeves and butterflies printed on them. She was my rock, completely.
They gave me a new drug to try, as I'd had no success with any other. I was 135 pounds when I went into the hospital, but the water weight... I ballooned to 170 by the end of my time there.
I was only there for a week.
A girl my age (who is still my friend to this date) was there for anorexia. A little boy was there, and every day he'd come up to me and say, "I'm going home today!!" and by the time it was lights out, it was hard to tell who cried louder, me or him. There was Robert the Pastor with thick bandages around his neck and wrist. There was Julie, the woman with eyes that seemed to always be red and watery who worked for a non-profit. And there was Eric, a boy who was constantly tied to his bed in the common area who would scream and scream and thrash and bite and scream if The Flintstones wasn't being played on the tiny television beside him.
I still hate the Flintstones.
It was 9 years ago today that I was admitted, and though no real 'healing' went on during my stay, it was that period that made me realize that I had a problem, and that no matter how badly I was hurting, someone out there cared for me and I didn't want to let them down.
Since that day, I've accomplished so much. I was the youngest graduate in my class, and I was at the top. I fell head over heels in love, I worked 2 jobs and made my way to Australia by the time I was 18. I got married and moved to Australia permanently. I'm looking forward to my 4th wedding anniversary to my darling husband for whom I would do anything. I've got two beautiful nieces back home in Canada that I miss dearly, and I am so proud of them both.
My life is not perfect, but it is mine and it is beautiful. My life is what I've made it through my choices and actions, and I would not change it for anything in the world.
