A couple of years back, I found myself spending two weeks in a day treatment psychiatric facility. I know, I know—this might not be the most conventional thing to admit, especially online for all to see. My in-laws are blissfully unaware, and I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to spill the beans. Friends have raised eyebrows, warning that it could tarnish my job prospects or my chances of entering the political arena. So, if anyone’s looking for dirt on me, here it is: I spent time in a mental health institution.
I sometimes fret about how this will be perceived by others. Will it haunt my future? And yes, I’m genuinely concerned about how it might affect my plans to adopt a child—though social services assure me it won’t be an issue with a supportive letter from my psychiatrist. Regardless of my worries, I refuse to let shame dictate my life.
According to the National Institute of Mental Health, around 3.5% of women aged 18 to 44—prime childbearing years—experience “severe psychological distress” yearly. That’s a significant number of mothers! In the same timeframe, 5.5% of women face “major depression with severe impairment,” which, on a 10-point scale, means scoring above a 7 in areas like home management and social interactions. I was one of that 5.5%, often hitting 9s. Furthermore, the American Psychological Association notes that over a quarter of all hospital stays in the U.S. involve mental health disorders. So, needless to say, I wasn’t alone in seeking psychiatric care.
Interestingly, while 57% of people believe those with mental health issues receive caring treatment, only 25% of individuals with mental illness feel the same way. As someone grappling with severe treatment-resistant depression, probable bipolar disorder, generalized anxiety disorder, and a sprinkle of ADHD, I can attest to this disconnect.
Most days, medication keeps the sadness at bay. But when my prescriptions are off, I spiral into anxious thoughts—fearing for my husband’s safety on the road or imagining my kids meeting tragic fates. Clutter—thanks to my three little whirlwinds—can spark a rage within me. I often find myself fighting panic attacks that leave me breathless. When everything came crashing down, as it often does for those of us with mental health struggles, my doctor recommended the day treatment program. Yet, when I needed support the most, few showed up.
Our society lacks the vocabulary for, “I’m falling apart, please help.” The APA suggests seeking out support groups and community services, as friends and family often don’t provide the help we expect them to. In the chaotic weeks before my breakdown, my mother visited for five days, and two friends helped with the kids. But beyond that, I felt alone; no meals were offered and no one volunteered to babysit.
Upon entering the facility, the staff was pleasant, though a bit neutral. I filled out endless forms and joined group therapy sessions. Research shows that 57% of people battling depression see improvements after participating in cognitive-behavioral therapy, with 40% achieving recovery. So, yes, it’s effective! But it’s also exhausting. Sharing intimate stories in group therapy fosters connections; we bond over hugs and tissues, celebrating small victories together. Yet, it can feel tedious at times. I kept a photo of my kids on my phone as my North Star, reminding me why I was there.
During my stay, I also had one-on-one meetings with psychiatrists. My doctor quickly identified that my struggles stemmed from a particular medication that I had stopped taking due to side effects. Swapping it out for another did the trick. I felt myself improving daily, but I still had to endure another week of therapy.
The atmosphere was nothing like the dramatic portrayals in movies—no long, sterile hallways or locked doors. The patients were just like me, eager to return to their lives and families. Stigma loomed large over us; we were caught between suffering in silence or taking the brave step of seeking treatment, which often comes with its own set of shame. It’s a classic case of damned if you do, damned if you don’t.
Now, I’m in a better place. Conversations in group therapy often revolve around my children. My psychiatrist understands that my ultimate goal is to be a good parent, not just functional. Every session and medication adjustment is tailored to that aim. When I share my Pinterest and homeschooling escapades, it’s my way of asserting my capability as a parent. Living with mental illness means continuously proving your worthiness to counter the stereotypes that suggest you’re unfit to care for kids.
I manage a regimen of medications, but it’s fewer than what many heart patients take. My meds target serotonin, not blood clotting. I’m actively engaged in my children’s lives and pursue my writing. My husband trusts me to care for the kids, and while I occasionally experience anxiety about car accidents or impending doom, it’s simply a part of my journey. The hospital helped me with that, and so does my psychiatrist. And for that, I carry no shame.
In summary, my time in a psychiatric facility taught me invaluable lessons about seeking help, the importance of community support, and how to navigate the complexities of mental health with resilience. The journey toward mental wellness is ongoing, but I’m proud of the strides I’ve made.