How grace pulled me from rock bottom and placed me on a mountaintop of joy
Justin Alan describes how was diagnosed with one of the most misunderstood mental illnesses, Part 1 of this piece is here.
By September 22nd 2017, the weight of living had pulled me to rock bottom. The new antipsychotic medicine was mostly handling the voices and delusions that made my life a living hell, but my mind was still in shambles from the crippling depression of accepting my illness. Schizophrenia. What God would let this be my fate? How was I supposed to live when I couldn’t trust my own mind? I felt doomed by my diagnosis, sentenced to a life of constant misery, hallucinations, and depraved insanity.
I knew that my depression was gathering strength when I stopped wearing my contacts and glasses. I no longer wanted to see the world I lived in. I was too scared. I saw no point in noticing the beauty of what surrounded me, especially since my mind was so quick to warp and demonize all that made my life liveable. I knew that beauty was not meant for me. I had talked to my psychiatrist, and he hesitantly brought up the word that had always haunted me: hospital. I had been through it once, and did not want to endure it again, for fear that they might not let me out. When he told me if the symptoms of my depression continued, it would be up to me to make the call, I nearly broke down crying. How could I possibly make such a decision? The white, blank walls, the harsh lights, the small beds, the gaping hallways, all of the images of a psychiatric prison flooded my mind and fuelled my nightmares. I would rather die than go back to that zombified existence, but then again, I would rather have just died anyway.
Only a matter of time.
I was walking my family’s dogs in the backyard, which extended to a wide, flowing grassy field, touched by the September sun and deep blue skies, the gentle wind swaying the tall, green trees. I had always found this field beautiful, but on September 22nd, I didn’t recognise it anymore. I didn’t want to be a witness to this meaningless beauty anymore. I didn’t want to see the sky anymore. I genuinely wanted to die and leave it all behind. I then made one of the hardest decisions of my life. Hospital.
Upon walking back into the house, I called my mother and told her it was time. I no longer felt safe with myself, and I needed help. She quickly understood and came home. I called my girlfriend and she did the same. For the next hour, phone calls were made to my father, my family’s insurance company, my psychiatrist, and my job. I’ll never forget my psychiatrist saying he was proud of me for doing what I had to do. I was baffled. What kind of person would be proud of a young man so sick and broken?
My parents and girlfriend took me to the emergency room, where they conducted some tests to see if I was under the influence of any drugs and if I was capable of rational thought. I answered all of the verbal tests, which included saying the date, who the president was, where I was, and counting from 0 to 100 by multiples of 7. To my knowledge, I think I passed, as the man testing me seemed impressed. My girlfriend sat with me the whole time, laid with me on the hospital bed, and caressed my face as she and my parents stayed so strong and held their breaking hearts together for my sake. They all breathed sighs of desperate relief when we found out I was admitted, and I nearly sobbed with hopelessness. With a few pairs of clothes, shoes with no laces, and a toothbrush already packed, we drove to the psychiatric facility, where I was certain I would be exiled to for the rest of my waking life.
As we walked into the lobby, with my suitcase in my hand, the admissions worker greeted us and waited as I said goodbye to my loved ones. No words could describe the pain that drowned my heart as I hugged my parents and girlfriend goodbye. I began to cry on my mother’s shoulder, a little boy again who needed comfort and shelter from the agony and despair. I kissed my girlfriend, trying to be as strong as a broken soul could be in front of her, and waved as I followed the admissions worker who processed my paperwork and welcomed me. Words could not describe the sinking numbness I felt. This is what losing all hope felt like.
I was screened to make sure I had nothing against the rules in my possession and was finally led to my bed in a room that I shared with an older man who was about to fall asleep. As the lights turned out, I laid in my bed, staring at the dark ceiling, listening to the quiet, trying to grasp the answer to the question, “What the hell have I done?”
I barely slept at all, and I listened to all of the tech workers in the hospital in charge of pacing the halls every 15 minutes, peering into our rooms to make sure we were still alive. At one point I heard a couple of them talking outside of my room. “New patient in here?” “Yeah, Barber.” “Voluntary?” “Yeah, suicidal ideation.” Tears filled my eyes when I heard those words. What the hell have I done?
The next day, I sat mostly by myself in the activity room as everyone ate their breakfast. I hadn’t gotten my nightly dose of the antipsychotics, so I was on edge and ragged from the paranoia and lack of sleep. I could swear they were all looking at me like new meat. The voices broke in, mocking and taunting me, “Welcome home.” A couple of other patients asked me basic questions to try and include me, and I gave one-word answers. Yes, I’m suicidal too. I dragged through the group therapy activities, picked around at my food just enough so I wasn’t put on watch for not eating, and did everything I was told to do for the sake of wellness.
The first phone calls I was allowed to make were painful but wonderful. Hearing my girlfriend’s voice was beautiful and soothing as she sounded so excited to hear from me. Visitation hours were that evening, and my mother, father, and Breanna all showed up and sat with me and held my hands and comforted me as I sat like a ghost on a foreign planet. They stayed as long as they were allowed and told me how much they loved me and when it was time for them to leave no words could describe the desperate longing I had to just run from everything and escape with them.
The next day I saw the weekend psychiatrist. After asking me some basic questions, she stopped looked at me and simply asked with sincerity, “Is there a specific reason for your depression?” Searching for words to say and forming “um’s” to fill in the long silences, I confessed that I felt like a failure. I felt like a disappointment. My illness had beaten and drained me, and I had lost the will to live. I would rather not be on this earth than live with the torture of the psychotic strangers in my mind. Casting a concerned, understanding look right into my eyes, she said “You know, it’s really awful sometimes how young people fail to see the amazing potential they have. You really are doing so well in your life and you have a lot to be proud of.” I looked up like a sad dog who had just received a soft cooing compliment after being scolded. The words “hope” and “potential” amazed me. A doctor sitting across from me really uttered those words even after looking at my dishevelled face and gazing into my empty eyes. She recommended an additional medicine to take for the depression, confident that it would work fast, as she had seen it work “miracles” for other patients.
Over the next few days of taking the new medication along with my antipsychotic, the miracle burst through my whole being. I quickly made friends, and could barely stay away from the activity room, where I would talk all day to all of my fellow inpatients and would lend them my ear at all times, always there to encourage and help as best I could. I couldn’t stop telling my parents and girlfriend over the phone and in visitation how it was just like night and day. I was glowing. I smiled so genuinely, it was as if I had never known how to smile before. I had become everyone’s buddy, always saying hey and checking in on them. These were my comrades, my brothers and sisters, and we all understood each other. I finally found the group therapy useful and not pointless. I actually made contributions in discussions and took every opportunity to thank everybody for being there with me and listening. I noticed I had my glasses back on, and I would look out the windows at the sky. It was deep blue, and God did I love it.
After seeing the regular psychiatrist, my progress and complete change of demeanour had apparently been noticed and they all remarked that I had really shown amazing work and noted that they saw wonderful hope for me. For the first time in as long as I could remember, I actually agreed. I was proud of myself. I was normal. I was happy.
I was discharged the next day and said goodbye to all the friends I had made, thanking them for all they had gone through alongside me. I even prayed with one girl who had been struggling especially hard. She was a recovering meth addict and was doing everything she could to regain functionality in a life where sobriety was a misunderstood concept. It dawned on me that so many people in society saw her as the “tweaker” and the “meth head”. I saw a sweet girl who was just lost and trying to find her way back to a regular life. Another friend was recovering from drug use and learning to cope with bipolar disorder. Society saw him as an unstable criminal. I saw a strong man who just wanted to provide everything he could for his family. I did my best to give last words of encouragement to all my friends, and finally waved goodbye to them as I left the place where I was once certain I would never make it out of.
I embraced my father as he picked me up, and rode with him in the car, staring with newly opened eyes at the mesmerizing colours of the world around me. There was no more fear, no more pain. Nothing was warped by my mind, and everything was completely gorgeous. Breanna met me at my parents’ house and ran as fast as she could to me and squeezed me tight, shouting with joy at my return. I could finally feel warmth and comfort, and I knew without a doubt that I really loved her. I truly loved her and knew she was the one.
The rest of the day was spent absorbing the soothing aura of being home. I played with the dogs and relished it, I talked to my sisters and cherished it, and I breathed outside and was grateful for it. I walked the dogs once again in my favourite field in the backyard and smiled at the rolling green grass. I closed my eyes and turned up toward the sun to let it bathe my face in warmth. The fresh aroma of a wondrous world rode on the wind and the trees danced with it. I was thankful to bear witness to the wonder of the amazing world that surrounded me. My soul was rejuvenated and I finally felt like all the destinies of my life belonged to me.
The next morning, I woke up in my own bed, and I was immediately moved by how happy I was to be awake. I slowly walked downstairs and glided through the sunlit rooms, marvelling at the new day. Overwhelmed with thankfulness, I laid down on my parents’ bed and a song came to my head. While I had been in the activity room in the hospital, a music channel on the television had played the song “More Than Words” by Extreme. I recalled how my friends and I quietly sang along as we sat at our table, looking around surprised that we all knew the words. I played the song on my phone and laid there quietly in the sun and listened. Every breath I took was full of joy. Every chord refreshed my soul. I could feel the scars of my mind healing with the downpour of blessings raining on my heart and I witnessed glory with my eyes closed. With tears streaming down my face, and my heart overflowing with love, I smiled and thought, “God, I’m so happy to be alive.”
This article first appeared on Medium.
Help information
If you need help please talk to friends, family, a GP, therapist or one of the free confidential helpline services. For a full list of national mental health services see yourmentalhealth.ie.
- Samaritans on their free confidential 24/7 helpline on 116-123, by emailing jo@samaritans.ie
- Pieta House National Suicide Helpline 1800 247 247 or email mary@pieta.ie – (suicide prevention, self-harm, bereavement) or text HELP to 51444 (standard message rates apply)
- Aware 1800 80 48 48 (depression, anxiety)
If living in Ireland you can find accredited therapists in your area here: