Having a panic attack and a depressive episode rolled into one bad trip I had no intention of taking in the first place. My depression has now shifted into Major Depressive Disorder (MDD), and I basically told my therapist, "I'm done. I don't want to do this anymore."
"This" meaning dealing with things in my life, in general.
So my husband took me to a psychiatric hospital. And I voluntarily checked myself in. I was put on a ward where every woman had a different story, a different severity of symptoms, and yet we were in the same boat. First of all, if you're thinking something along the lines of Girl, Interrupted (I was), none of it was like that. And if you're thinking about places celebrities go to be pampered back to health, it was not like that either.
We were a group of a dozen women with different stories, yet these stories resonated with me, and we somehow all became a sisterhood. We GOT it. We had group therapy and I remember one woman talking about her marriage, her children, her life, and a huge flood of relief came over me. I wasn't alone. I wasn't weird or high maintenance. My concerns and feelings were valid.
And because we were all there for each other, supporting one another in it all, I went up to that woman afterward, looked into her teary green eyes, and thanked her wholeheartedly. I told her how much her story meant to me, that we were together in our emotions and thoughts. We hugged.
Y'ALL. WE HUGGED.
I am not a hugger. But I gave the most, and most sincere, hugs, that week. And before I went home, I hugged her again. She was older than me, and I told her that she helped me so much. I appreciated her and the fact she was willing to be there for me. There are not many times when I can think of someone really being there for me. There for me in a way that helped, that calmed, that supported.
I hope we can still be in each others lives. Que sera sera.
If my husband didn't hate tattoos that would be my next one. That is something I want to know, deep in my bones.
Que sera sera.
