My depression initially began when my grandmother and uncle died within months of each other. At the time, I was working as an registered nurse, and was proud to say I had saved every patient under my watch. It devastated me to the point that I could not save my uncle from cancer and I could not save my grandmother from sepsis, although neither were my actual patients. Soon, I was deemed mentally unfit to practice nursing and had to go to counseling and take medications. It was ironic because I used to be the mental health registered nurse who encouraged patients to comply with medication regimens and even taught classes on medications and mental health disorders.
I went inpatient for five days and had to see a psychiatrist for almost 18 months until he released me.
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I just give up.” As I lay there, my hair got matted to my head, I didn’t bathe, and I didn’t remember the last time I had eaten. When my spouse would ask if I had eaten, I would reply yes, but I was only putting food in the trash to make him think I had eaten the majority of some meal.
I called my doctor’s office with a knife to my wrist and asked for help; I told them I needed to see a psychiatrist. They told me that the next appointment available was in four weeks. I hung up the phone.
The only thing that kept me from hurting myself and relieving my family of me was my daughter’s face flashing before my eyes. I put the knife down. This was a Friday. The next morning, I called the hospital and I said I need help, I need a bed. I am depressed, and I had thoughts of killing myself. The hospital stated they had a bed, and that I could have it immediately, but I requested to enter that Sunday so I could spend time with my daughter before she went back to college. I remember trying to Christmas-shop online, but I was so mentally discombobulated, I couldn’t even read. I was seeing things move in the bedroom that I knew were not