Currently resisting the urge to burst into a horrible rendition of Britney Spears’ Baby One More Time while sitting alone in front of my computer.

I want to preface this post by acknowledging the fact that I know there are so many people in my life who care about me and love me, whether we talk every day, haven’t talked in years, or somewhere in between. I’ve written a whole post on it before. I don’t want anyone who reads this to feel that they are responsible for the feelings that I am going to describe. Depression is the best liar, and I am constantly working on challenging those lies, but the feelings remain the same and that is what I am going to be talking about.

Making friends is something I’ve never been particularly good at or comfortable with, but have always managed to figure out just the same. I spent a semester in France at 16, going to school where I knew absolutely no one and only had moderate French language conversation skills with a very bad accent. I moved six hours away from home to go to university where the only person I knew was my best friend who came with me. I grew up in a small town so I’ve always been aware of how hard it is for “new people” to come into a place where people have grown up together, whose kids have grown up together. Yet I still decided to move out of the city, further away from my hometown friends and family, and now away from the new friends I had made in university, to the small town where the only people I knew were my coworkers at a new job. I am no stranger to feelings of loneliness, but have always managed to find a place for myself with people who love and care about me.

Looking back, I’ve dealt with social anxiety of varied severity for pretty much my entire life. I remember being terrified to start kindergarten because even though my best friend and I were in the same class, they were doing staggered start days and we were separated for that. I hated being the one to call my friends and much preferred when they called me first. I made my mom knock on doors and ring doorbells when I was still young enough that she would have to accompany me around the neighbourhood. Presentations in front of the class in high school were enough to make me cry. I never really thought much about it. I was always the quiet kid, happy to go along with whatever everyone else was doing. My first childhood best friend was loud and outgoing and always ready to take charge, and I was happy to follow in her shadow.

I had a taste of independence when I spent that semester in France, a completely new place literally across the world where no one knew anything about me. I had a chance to be whoever I wanted to be. This happened again when I went to university, luckily with my best friend by my side this time, where everything was completely new.

The social anxiety ended up getting worse at this time, and that’s what eventually ended up leading me to seek help for the first time. There were certainly plenty of chances when I could have decided to isolate (which would have had its own consequences obviously, but still less anxiety provoking). But despite always being the quiet one and dealing with extreme anxiety, I’ve always enjoyed being around people. So I pushed myself. I reached out to people in my classes. I joined some clubs. It was a constant battle of tears and nausea and forcing myself to go out, but I was always happy after I did. The same thing happened when I took this job in a small town. There was a lot of anxiety and being uncomfortable, but now I have some of the best friends in the entire world, and a family of coworkers who I know will always have my back, inside the hospital and out.

So things sound okay, right? Well you are right. Things are more than okay. The outpouring of support I received from my closest friends at first, and then from my coworkers and other friends once I decided to be publicly open about my struggles and hospitalizations was incredible. And I am so so thankful for it every day.

But… this post is titled loneliness. Since I was discharged from my most recent inpatient stay in November, I’ve been struggling with feelings of loneliness and isolation. I spent a few weeks at Christmas in my hometown where I don’t really have any friends anymore (although I did have a lovely visit with one of the most beautiful souls I know). I luckily get to spend four hours a week at dance with some amazing people. I know I have so many supportive friends and coworkers, but they are extremely busy with jobs and families and lives. Because I am still off work and still fighting to come out of a severe depressive episode which almost took my life, I have a very little amount of “life” outside of endless appointments and dance class.

The majority of my social life was my job. I work full time hours, and pick up a lot of overtime shifts. There are certainly times where I spend more time at the hospital than I do at home. Not having that has been difficult. Trying to coordinate schedules as adults is not easy so getting together outside of work isn’t always easy, but when you’re stuck together for 12+ hours a day, you find time to socialize around the busyness of an understaffed ER.

I mentioned before that depression (and anxiety) is an incredible liar. It’s exhausting to constantly challenge the lies my illness likes to tell me, so sometimes it wins. It loves to tell me that my friends are tired of me, that my illness is going to not only ruin my life, but theirs too. It tells me that I’m annoying, that people are only nice to me because they feel sorry for me. That once someone has to force charcoal down your throat in the emergency department post overdose, they’re not going to want to be your friend anymore. That your coworkers aren’t going to want to work with the crazy girl. That I should just stop bothering people. Constant nagging thoughts way worse than any of the bullying I’ve experienced in my life (and there’s been a significant amount, but that’s a topic for another day).

It would be so easy to isolate. To stop reaching out. I’ve considered getting a new job. I’m comforted by the fact that I have a versatile career and skill set so if anything major did happen, I could move far away and start my life over again.

But I refuse to let this illness win. And that means challenging these lies day after day, no matter how exhausting it is, with all over the concrete evidence I have that shows me I am loved.

Thank you to the ones who make it easy. To my best friend who lives with me, who talks when we want to talk or is happy to just sit in silence in each other’s company. To my best friend who texts me every day and puts up with my constant whining and sends me pictures of her kids. To the ones who tag me in funny memes or send me silly Snapchats. To the ones who’ve stayed through it all.

I started writing this today because, honestly, my illness was winning. I wasn’t sure where it was going to go, and I’m not even sure how I feel about the end product. But it reminded me that my illness is lying, and that the evidence says otherwise. I am loved. I am cared about. I am valued. And I will continue to try and believe these things every single day.

(PS- I apologize in advance for my horrible grammar skills, endless use of commas, and nonstop run on sentences that no amount of editing can fix. English and essay writing was never my strong point lol).

Hello all! It’s been awhile. I have now officially been admitted for 3 months. While I never expected this admission to be so long, I am aware that I am still a ways away from being “better” (I say in quotation marks because if they waited until I was 100% recovered I’d probably be stuck here for years). I’m still unsure of what goals they’d like me to obtain before they’re ready to discharge me. I had a potential discharge date of October 17, which has clearly came and went and I am still here.

Honestly the majority of my hospital stay is fuzzy at best due to the second round of ECT I had from August to September, which unfortunately has really messed with my memory this time. I’m still having difficulty with making and retaining new memories but things are slowly getting better so I am hopeful. My doctor also believes the current and ongoing memory problems are due to the depression as well.

For the past few weeks, now that I can finally vaguely remember them, my doctors have really been encouraging me to “activate”. Behavioural activation encourages people with depression to approach activities they may have been avoiding. If we’re being honest here, that meant pretty much everything for me besides some basic coping/distraction techniques. I’ve done books and books of word searches and pages and pages of colouring, but rarely would leave my room except for meals and the occasional group. My doctors encouraged me to do some form of exercise during the day, as well as staying out of my room as much as possible.

I started with going for walks around the perimeter of the hospital in the evening with my mom when she would come to visit, mostly because she wanted to and I felt obligated to. Now let me tell you- this felt like running a marathon rather than a 20 minute walk. I would be exhausted by the end. Now I know my exercise tolerance isn’t superb to begin with but I was easily doing 30 minutes on the treadmill as a warm up when I was going to the gym prior to my relapse. My main nurse started to ask me to go for walks with her during the day as well, which helped with my activation but was also a time when I could more easily talk to her as opposed to sitting face to face.

I also started going to more of the groups offered on the unit. This would bring a lot of anxiety at first, but slowly I found that they were actually helpful and look forward to going to them. I restarted dance classes as well which I love. Unfortunately the memory issues have been causing me some problems with remembering routines and stuff, but luckily I have awesome teachers and classmates.

So here I am. Spending 80% of my day out of my room, either going to groups or just sitting in the living rooms and reading. Do I really think that it’s going to work? My rational mind says “yes, and there’s plenty of evidence to support it”. My emotional mind says “no way, this sucks”. I figure that if my doctor, who I like and trust 100%, is asking me to do it, there has to be some benefit in some way and maybe I can get out of here. And if it doesn’t work, no one can tell me that I didn’t try everything they suggested.

If you’ve managed to stay engaged this far, here’s my “exciting” piece of news that I wanted to share. Up until now, I would agree to go for a walk with someone if they asked me, but I would never ask someone or go on my own. Today my nurse was busy and my mom wasn’t coming in until it was time to take me to dinner. I’ve been incredibly exhausted all week. I could have easily said, I’m going to bed, I don’t want to do anything. And no one would have forced me to.

Instead, I thought I would do the hospital perimeter walk on my own. It’s not long, I reasoned with myself. I got my stuff ready and headed out. I stopped just inside the main doors and wrestled with my depression for probably about 10 minutes. I really, really wanted to just go back and have a nap. At this time, my roommate/bestie called me. As I was talking to her, I figured- I might as well just start walking. I talked with her for approximately half the walk, and by then I reasoned that I should just finish because going back would take just as long. And so I did it.

Now I know that may not sound like much to some of you, but to those of you who know, either personally or professionally, know that something as small as a 20 minute walk can be like climbing Mount Everest when you’re deep in a depression. I shamelessly sent out a few excited Snapchats to a few people. This is the first time I’ve done something on my own, because I “wanted” to, without someone else encouraging or “forcing” me to. Although it may seem like a tiny achievement, this is a huge step in my recovery, and hopefully a couple steps closer to being able to go home.

So for all you warriors out there- don’t let anyone tell you that your achievements are lame or not good enough. Anything that you do despite depression telling you not to is impressive to me, and deserves to be recognized.

I wake up. For a moment things are okay. I take a few breaths, savouring the few seconds of peace. And then it starts. An overwhelming sense of impending doom. About what? Who knows. Definitely not me. My body feels like it’s vibrating. I can’t sit still. I pace around the unit, trying to exhaust the feeling inside of me. I can’t concentrate on anything.

I wake up. I can feel it already, deep inside of me. Getting out of bed feels impossible. Even breathing feels impossible. I go through the motions, hoping that something will pull me out of the darkness. All I want to do is lay in bed. Every little thing causes me to start crying. The tears won’t stop coming. I can’t concentrate on anything.

I wake up. Take the pills like a good patient. It doesn’t take long afterwards for the numbness to start. I feel like I’m trapped inside a glass box and everyone else is on the outside. I don’t feel anything. I stare out the window for hours. I fall asleep sitting up. I can’t concentrate on anything.

I’ve officially been inpatient for 3 weeks now. Above I’ve described three different scenarios that I’ve felt on a daily basis for the past three weeks. I’m either anxious/agitated, depressed/crying, or, for a few days, completely drugged to the point where I would literally fall asleep sitting up. I’ve been through this before. I know that this is my body/brain reacting to the medication changes, but it still feels out of control.

Over the past 3 weeks, I’ve seen 11 different psychiatrists/residents. I’ve had to relive and re-explain the worst parts of my life to 11 different people. It’s been incredibly emotionally draining. I’ve been to three hospitals, two emergency departments, and three mental health units. I have been told multiple different plans, and my medications have been dramatically changed since I was admitted. I’m currently on a mood disorders unit with (hopefully) my final team of professionals and a solid treatment plan.

I’ve rediscovered that being a patient is extremely difficult for me. Most of the time I’ve felt like I had no idea what was going on with my care, which causes a lot of anxiety for me. Luckily with my current team, they understood this and have told me the current plan, however there are still many unknowns- when will I be discharged? Will these medications work? When will I start to feel better? I recognize that even the physicians don’t have these answers, but it is still difficult for me. I realize that this is how my patients may feel a lot of the time, and hope that when I return to work I will remember these feelings and change my nursing practice accordingly.

Thank you to the friends and family who have tolerated my mood swings, whining/crying, and constant texting. Thank you to those who have taken time out of their busy schedules to come and see me, or even just to respond to my texts or snapchats. This experience has felt incredibly isolating and lonely by time, so I am thankful for those who have made it a bit more tolerable.

Unfortunately discharge doesn’t appear to be anywhere in the near future, but I am trying to work with my team to get better so that I can return home healthily and safely. Thank you for sharing this journey to mental wellness with me, as always I am more than happy to answer any questions.

Love, Katey.

Unfortunately I’m writing this blog post from an acute mental health ward. Recovery is up and down, and these past few weeks have been a steady decline leading to a steep jump off a cliff (figuratively, that is).

I will save you the boring (and possibly triggering/upsetting) details; however feel free to message me if you’d like to know more, I am more than willing to share privately. A suicide attempt on Friday night landed me in the ER where I work, where I received excellent care from my amazing coworkers and one of my favourite ER physicians.

On Saturday I was transferred to a, let’s say, less than ideal mental health ward where I spent the weekend under an involuntary admission. I was discharged on Monday morning after speaking to a psychiatrist for approximately one minute, and telling him that I was still having suicidal thoughts.

At the request of my parents, roommate/best friend, and other friends, I agreed to come to another hospital with my mom on Monday afternoon. This is the hospital where I was admitted for three months last fall. On Tuesday afternoon I was transferred from psychiatric emergency services to the acute mental health ward.

So that’s the past few days in a nutshell. I am so incredibly lucky to have the family and friends that I do. I am so appreciative of the ones who have made the trip to visit me already and for the ones who have supported me via text. I could not do this without the love and support of the amazing people in my life.

I think I’ll keep this post short but sweet, and update at a later date. I apologize to everyone that I may have upset over the past week. Please know that after a lot of reflection, I regret doing what I did but it felt like the only way to escape what I was feeling. I am dedicated to getting back on track with recovery by staying here as long as my physicians deem necessary to get the help that I need.

Thank you again to everyone who has reached out- you have made this experience way less crappy.

I have decided to use this set back as a reality check that recovery is not linear, but relapse doesn’t erase all of your achievements thus far.

Love, Katey.

My alarm goes off at 0430. Normally I ignore it at least four times but not today. Today I’m too anxious so I’m wide awake right away. Today is March 11th- the day I’ve been waiting for for the past six months.

I hop in the shower, brush my hair, and pull it back in to my signature, two neat braids. I already know which scrubs I’m going to wear- the purple ones (my favourite colour, so it has to be good luck, right?) I pack my lunch. I’m ready wayyy too early but I mustn’t be late on my first day back.

I sit down on the couch and there’s a million thoughts racing through my head- “What if I forget how to do my job?”; “What if everyone thinks I’m completely nuts and they don’t want to work with me anymore?”; “What if I physically can’t do it because I’ve spent six months laying in bed doing nothing?”

And then I stop myself.

I’ve got the skills for this. I’ve spent five+ hours a week for seven weeks learning how to deal with these thoughts and emotions when they come up. Check the facts. Practice grounding and mindfulness. Do some quick TIPP skills for distress tolerance. Turns out it was a good thing I was up so early so I could “get my shit together” and get my emotions regulated to start the day off in a good place.

The first day was largely uneventful. I specifically planned my return to work day for a day where I wouldn’t have to triage (cue anxiety level 1000) and for a day shift (when management/extra support would be around if I needed it). I asked for an orientation day meaning that there was an extra person there.

The first day back was fine. The days that came after it, though, were exhausting. It turns out that doing absolutely next to nothing for six months and then jumping back into a job where you’re on your feet running for 12 hours is a huge shock to your system. I automatically assumed I would be fine to go back to full time hours right away- even when I was in the depths of depression hell I was still working full time with a second part time job meaning I worked almost every day. I was definitely wrong. It took me a solid 2.5 months (and another short stint in a different psych ward) to get back into a routine where I felt energetic and not constantly drained from working a single shift, let alone my normal rotation or picking up any overtime.

As I mentioned briefly above, up until I was hospitalized, I was working my full time hospital job as well as a part time clinic job. This meant that I was often working seven days a week, sometimes working both jobs in one day (upwards of 20 hours in a day by time). Looking back, I was doing this to avoid the inevitable thoughts and feelings that would arise when I would be alone and wouldn’t have work to keep my mind occupied. In fact, I worked the morning of the day that my roommate made me go to the hospital and I ended up being admitted.

When I was discharged and finished my outpatient programming, my physician would only agree to let me go back to one job. Unfortunately I had to resign from my clinic job because, although I loved it, my hospital job was full time with benefits, a pension, and paid sick/vacation time. I promised my family and many friends that I would be more responsible with my work hours and develop a better work/life balance. I still pick up the occasional overtime shift but I am no longer working every day of the week or more than 16 hours a day maximum.

So, here’s a few tips I’ve learned from my return to work experience:

• Return gradually on a modified schedule if you’ve been off on an extended leave, even if you don’t think you need it. Trust me. You probably do.
• Don’t be afraid to ask for what you need. Whether this is extra re-orientation, a few quick minutes in the break room to regroup and ground yourself, or help with something you can’t remember how to do. I promise your coworkers won’t think less of you for it.
• REMEMBER YOUR SKILLS. You didn’t waste seven weeks (or whatever your program was) of your life to forget everything when it really matters.
• Take care of yourself first.
• Don’t overwork yourself.

As always, I am so thankful for my amazing coworkers! I would not have been so successful in my return to work adventure if it wasn’t for your kindness and support in my journey. Thank you for taking the time to answer all my questions. Thank you for your constant reassurance. Thank you for giving me time when I need it to chill out (especially when I’m at triage). I am so lucky to have such an amazing team.

Love,

Katey