I woke up to the disconcerting echo of a man’s voice reciting Bible verses over the intercom, giving my surroundings an eery post-apocalyptic cast as I took in my empty room. I shook my head lightly to clear the fog clouding my thoughts as I searched back through my memories, trying to piece together what had happened the night before.

A nurse walked in and asked to see my left arm to administer an IV. The cold of the needle piercing my skin shocked my nervous system, and my anxiety overtook me as I remembered I had been admitted into a hospital. Her footsteps echoed in the hallway as she carried a small tube of my blood sample away. I briefly wondered what her name was.

The day before

I woke up uncharacteristically happy that morning, hopping out of bed hyper and slightly manic although I didn’t recognize the signs of an episodic mood switch. I raced to my appointment at Parkland College to sign up for classes. I had decided to go back to school for a massage therapy degree after quitting my job. I hadn’t given the idea of starting up my own photography business much thought in several months, my longtime interest in the craft slowly fading as I became less confident in myself. I felt a wave of disappointment as I reviewed my spring schedule that I couldn’t quite place, and attempted to correct the feeling by reminding myself I was having a successful day. I was getting stuff done!

Due to my unusually high energy levels I was able to bring myself to make a call I had been putting off for months, and connected with a therapist. I was told that an appointment had opened up for 11AM, only half an hour away. So I hopped in my car again and drove to my appointment.

Suicidal thoughts were normal to me

I remember my counselor asking if I had been having any suicidal thoughts recently, and I told him it was pretty normal for me to think about it throughout the day. It wasn’t concerning to me, I told him, I’ve been casually thinking about it since middle school but had no plans to do anything for real. I’d been actively researching the best methods over the past week, so when he asked if I knew how I would do it I was able to quickly respond that my method would be a gun. But I didn’t own a gun, I reassured him, and I didn’t intend to do it anyway.

Looking for a way to kill themselves, including online research, is one warning sign that someone may plan to commit suicide. You can find a full list of warning signs here. Suicide Prevention Lifeline

The casual conversation quickly turned serious when he said that I should admit myself into the hospital that day. I shook my head in surprise and told him that it wasn’t like that, they were common thoughts, I hadn’t done it before and didn’t plan on actually doing it now. He tried to insist on calling an ambulance and my heart fluttered as I considered how expensive that ride would be if they made me do it. I agreed to drive myself to the hospital and admit myself when I left his office.

I walked to my car depleted and felt the wave of disappointment and sadness I had shook off earlier flood back into me. My unusually hyper mood quickly nosedived into violent darkness, and my heart gripped in loneliness as I cried in my van. On my way home I stopped by the gas station and picked up a 6-pack of beer and cigarettes, breaking my decision to quit both.

The Overdose

I chugged one beer as soon as I got home, and retrieved my “emergency bottle” of xanax from my bedroom drawer. 1 mg went down easily as I began drinking my second beer. I’m hesitant to describe these actions as “attempting suicide” because it never crossed my mind specifically that I would be killing myself. I’d never felt so empty, and as I continued to take more xanax and drink more beer I felt the effects magnify. I didn’t care anymore, I thought as I popped another xanax, I didn’t care if I died from this.

I can’t remember much else from that night. I don’t remember how I ended up in a chat with a suicide hotline worker, or what we talked about. I vaguely remember my boyfriend running into the bedroom, then sometime later my dad and step-mom showed up. From there it’s all black, as if I fell asleep.

Back in the hospital

The first day I slept. I wrapped myself in the thin hospital blanket and ached in sadness as I hugged my body in close to keep myself warm. The room was kept air-conditioned all day despite it being winter outside and the hospital gown they gave me in place of my clothing didn’t do much to hold in heat.

I was escorted to the recreation room by a nurse when it was time for dinner, and finally met my mental health ward mates. Dark purple ringed the bottoms of their eyes as they met mine, observing me distantly before quickly looking down. We sat in loneliness as we ate together.

A chipper woman maintained a stream of conversation starters at the head of the table. The ID badge pinned to her shirt identified her as a hospital counselor. Her happiness sounded fake and irritating to me as she talked about Christmas coming up in three days. I locked eyes with her just briefly and felt no connection as she tried to ask me what my favorite part of the holiday was, and noticed her lipstick-stained smile didn’t meet her eyes. Anger surrounded my heart and I looked away, unwilling to play good manners.

Junk food, closed windows, fluorescent lights and sitting: key parts of recovery according to this hospital

The activities available to me during my time in the hospital were to eat cheese-its and oreos, choose from multitudes of coloring books and crossword puzzles, watch whatever movie the nurses put on that day or sleep. I desperately missed my boyfriend, and didn’t want to do much besides stay wrapped tightly in my blanket to combat the freezing air-conditioning.

The fluorescent lights were aggressively bright and gave me a piercing headache as we met for group therapy. I pulled deeper inside my mind in self-defense as the fake-happy counselor attempted to open us up to talk about our feelings. Her pseudo-positivity scraped inside my ears and made my stomach feel sick, and I resented her for asking me to open up as she wore a mask. Her eyes looked slightly bloodshot, which made me wonder if she had trouble sleeping the night before.

The doctor met with me each morning, waking me up to go down a line of questions he held on his clipboard. His assistant jotted down my responses without ever looking up. These meetings were less than three minutes each, and I felt deep despair as I listened to their footsteps echo in the hallway as they carried samples of my feelings away.

Leaving the hospital

I asked to be released the day before Christmas Eve, and had to wait a few hours before I was finally given a bag with my belongings and a packet of suicide prevention tips with my discharge papers. The nurse unlocked the hospital ward doors and I walked barefoot with my boyfriend to his car, apparently I didn’t put on shoes before leaving the house. I hadn’t seen the sun in several days, which wasn’t necessarily uncommon during my bleak shut-in winter depression. The cold, fresh air outside surprised my lungs and seemed to clear the cloudiness from my mind that had hung there since I woke up in the hospital.

The days following my release weren’t special. I was told that I would have a follow up appointment with the doctor in a week to go over my test results and discuss treatment options. I spent my days playing Skyrim, eating junk food and feeling sad. At least I am warm, I thought, as I turned my space heater up.

The day before my doctor appointment I called the hospital to find out where I was supposed to go, and found out nobody had ever scheduled me for a visit. I felt sad as I hung up the phone, but wasn’t surprised. I’d never met with a doctor that made me feel cared for, it made sense they weren’t trying to follow up with me.

I got a job cleaning houses to help me pay for the hundreds of dollars in bills I had racked up over my 3-day excursion. The experience left me seriously distrusting the healthcare system, and I begrudgingly paid my monthly bills for a service that did nothing for me.

Yoga & Recovery

I began to feel slightly more energized as the weather warmed up, and decided I would try yoga again. During this time, I was also given the opportunity to begin teacher training. I won’t reiterate the struggle I went through getting the courage to begin (or how I nearly dropped out of the program), but I will say that my mental health began drastically improving as I slowly introduced yoga into my lifestyle.

In order to graduate, we are asked to complete a “Karma Yoga Project,” where we teach a free yoga class to a group of people that don’t commonly have access. My thoughts immediately went back to my brief stay in the mental health hospital, and how unhelpful the conditions were for my healing. I decided I would try to bring yoga to others who had been admitted or are struggling with their mental health, to give them at least some of the peace yoga has given to me.

I struggled to know where to start, and felt the familiar feeling of seasonal depression creep up on me as the weather got colder. I barely had enough energy to balance work with school, and pushed the project to the side without giving it another thought.

The Universe showing me the way

A few weeks ago I attended a birthday party for a woman I work for. After dinner, we headed out to attend a play, and I decided to carpool with a woman I had met at the party. I smiled at the serendipitous moment as this woman explained that she worked in a group called NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness. She chatted about their plans to put together gift bags for people who would be in the mental health wards in surrounding hospitals over Christmas. When I told her that I was hoping to provide free yoga classes to these people. she was ecstatic.

Karma Yoga Project: Bringing yoga to those struggling with their mental health

We are still in the first stages of this project, but I plan to hold my first reoccurring class at the end of January. My hopes are that with my story I’ll be able to connect with the people that come and give them hope for their own recovery. I intend to be real with them, and honestly show them that I’m not fully recovered from depression. But I am alive, and moving, and so much healthier than the person I was just one year ago.

I wanted to share this story to highlight what yoga means to me. It has played a huge role in who I am as a person today, and done so much more than the American health system ever has. I know there are tons of doctors out there who genuinely care about their patients. But it’s incredibly hard to get the treatment you need when you’re unable to fight and care for yourself.

I realize that I wouldn’t have been able to get to where I am without the amazing opportunities lended to me by my peers. And there are many who simply aren’t in a position in life that would lend them the opportunities I’ve had. I’m grateful for everything that’s happened to me so far, and take what’s been given to me very seriously. I know it’s all for a reason.

I look forward to sharing with you my journeys moving forward. I hope to continue using this blog as a platform to show what yoga can do for those struggling with mental health, and will do my best to be as open and honest about my own struggle so others can relate.

If yoga has helped you in any way, I’d love to hear about your experience in the comments below!