Sunrise

October 19, 2010.

"I want to die. I can't keep living like this."

That's one of the few things I can remember thinking the day I was discharged from Royal Victoria Hospital's mental health ward after a four-night stay.

Almost everything else from that time is black.

I had driven myself there straight from a full-blown meltdown at work. I had been sitting in a meeting with about 30 other people and an overwhelming feeling of doom descended on me. I had been struggling for months to keep it at bay.

I was failing.

I had started a running program -- not the one I started last summer and have kept up to this day -- but a half-hearted effort to try something, anything, to stop the depression I was in from deepening.

My anti-depressant medication had already been increased to the maximum recommended daily dosage and my medical team -- my mental problems being so significant I actually need a team -- had started me on anti-psychotic medications. For reasons still unknown, they can work as augmenters, making the anti-depressants more effective.

I tried Abilify and Olanzapine. The first turned me into a zombie, the second into an anxiety-soaked basket case.

I had just started a third one, Seroquel, but it hadn't reached therapeutic levels yet.

So the darkness deepened.

I fled the meeting and hid out in the back of the lunch room, curled up on a sofa, trying not to completely lose it.

That's when the thoughts started racing through my mind.

"You've suffered far too long. This is no type of life to live. People will understand."

Thinking like this seems entirely rational to someone in the depths of depression. That's because it acts as a filter and distorts everything -- everything -- in your life, making it all seem so desolate, desperate, despairing.

I was able to reach deep down to an area of my brain not completely saturated by the negative thoughts to realize I was in serious trouble.

I made my way to my car and drove myself directly to RVH.

When they asked me why I was there, I explained my history of depression and that I was thinking of hurting myself -- something mental health care providers refer to as "suicidal ideation." It means you're thinking about ending your life because of the pain you're in but you haven't planned a method or taken steps to carry it out.

Next up was a psychiatrist who asked me some questions. I learned later that he rated my Global Assessment of Functioning (GAF) score at 20 out of 100. According to the GAF index, a score between 11 and 20 means "Some danger or hurting self or others OR occasionally fails to maintain minimal personal hygiene OR gross impairment in communication."

I was presenting with most of the signs of major depressive disorder.

Difficulty speaking. Irrational and racing thoughts. Thoughts of hurting myself. Flat affect. Loss of enjoyment of activities I would normally enjoy doing. Anxiety. Moodiness. Short temper. Overeating for comfort. 

And on and on and on.

The psychiatrist and counsellor both agreed I needed to be admitted. My dosage of Seroquel was increased.

Before I was sent upstairs, my mom and dad arrived with a bag Paula had packed for me -- a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a book or two. I remember the look on mom's and dad's faces when they entered that little room in ER -- they were scared. We all cried. They told me I was making the right decision before it was time for me to go upstairs.

Since the ward was full, I had to spend the first evening in one of the locked "safety" rooms. It is monitored by camera 24/7.

The first night I slept 12 hours before my psychiatrist awoke me, annoyed none of the nurses had done so earlier.

"You need to get up and take part in the group activities," he said.

That was the last thing on earth I felt like doing. But I didn't have much choice in the matter so I shuffled, stooped over, to the activity room. Even though I was only 40 years old, I now had the posture and gait of an old man. There were mornings I had to literally crawl on my hands and knees to get from my bed to the bathroom in the morning.

The activity we had to do was to go through old magazines -- some dating back to the 1980s -- and cut out words that we wanted our future to look like and turn them into a collage.

All of us cut out similar words.

Words like hope, family, health, happiness, joy.

I wish I could remember more of my time there but most of it's lost.

A few of the things I do remember:

I remember talking to Paula on the communal phone (5-minute limit) on the second night and bursting into tears when she said her and Claire were having a pizza and movie night. Tears of sadness that I was missing it, tears of rage for all that depression had stolen -- and would continue to steal -- from me.

I remember sitting in an armchair and staring into space for what seemed like hours at a time over the weekend because there were no group activities.

I remember seeing a young woman who couldn't speak because of the strength of her depression. She would stand all day near the nurses' station and stare at everyone with eyes wide with terror.

I remember feeling something resembling happiness when I was ruled stable enough to leave the locked ward for 30 minutes so I could get a coffee downstairs. No caffeine is allowed on the psych ward floor. 

I was eventually discharged after four days and although I wish I could tell you I was on the mend, I actually had further to fall before I was able to climb. I spent the next month at home, struggling to do jigsaw puzzles I had borrowed from mom just to keep my mind from spinning out harmful thoughts. My brain was so sluggish I would stare at the puzzles for hours on end, trying to make sense of them. I felt like I was losing my mind.

But slowly, ever so slowly, the sun began to dawn on my shattered, blackened brain.

The medication started working again. Almost two years of therapy gave me new insight and new tools to help fight back the depression.

I started running last June and am closing in on 1,300 kilometres run, basically the equivalent of running from my front door in Barrie to the waterfront in Halifax.

Because of the fight I've fought and the help and encouragement I've received from my family and friends, I've managed to take off the lenses of depression that made me not want to live another day two long years ago.

Today when I was out for my run, I marveled at the air moving in and out of my lungs, the power of my legs as they kept a steady pace, the fog over the rapidly melting ice of Kempenfelt Bay, the warm wind hinting at a promise of spring, the thought of Paula and Claire waiting for me at home.

Today was a good day to be alive.