I had no idea what checking myself into the hospital for a psychiatric issue would look like, but I was certain nothing could be worse than what I was experiencing. I had never had a mental health issue like this before, save for a few bouts of anxiety that mostly affected me at night. The only person who called back was my therapist, who said, “If you get desperate, you know you can always go to the hospital.” I tried to get in touch with my psychiatrist, and when I didn’t hear back, any psychiatrist. It was a holiday weekend and I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to reach a doctor, but I started making calls.
All I could do was get in bed and pull the covers up over me. When we got home, my kids turned on a movie. I tried hard to focus on breathing, but it didn’t relent. I knew I was in the throes of a full-blown panic attack. I kept driving, desperate to make it home, but I could barely feel my body. I was utterly depleted by my overpowering emotions that were unlike anything I’d ever experienced before. We went to a museum and I trudged around, fighting back tears. I didn’t want to die, but the panic had tricked me into believing I might. It was the end of a long holiday weekend at home with my kids and I knew we had to get out of the house - anything that might offer a distraction from the overwhelming sadness and racing anxiety that I worried would kill me.
My sobs felt uncontrollable, a reflex I couldn’t turn off. F or five days in January, I was caught in a grueling depression that felt bottomless.
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