(Editor's note: This week's Lenten story chronicles the ongoing struggle with emotional illness by a Catholic woman who lives in Schenectady. The article is condensed from journals she kept.)
February 16, 1996 -- I am a 28-year-old woman, married to a wonderful, loving man. I was once a dynamic, strong, driven career person. I was a good friend and fun to be around. My faith was important to me, and I was active in my parish.
Then, overnight, my life was taken away from me. I have always feared horrible things like war; or losing my parents, siblings, or husband to an early death; or suffering from a terminal illness. My life has been taken from me by something I could never imagine having to fear. It was taken away by my mind.
I was raised by two parents in quiet suburbia. I attended Catholic schools, which I enjoyed and credited for providing me with the skills needed to make it in life. I had, by all accounts, a good childhood, a picture-perfect life.
I graduated from high school as student body president and a cheerleader, with awards. I graduated from college on the Dean's List and also having received awards for my writing. Every job I've held I did well. Now, the mere mention of a deadline sends my head spinning. The sound of a phone ringing is like a frightening screech that jolts me and leaves me trembling for what seems like an eternity.
I am afraid of people, except for my husband. I cannot choose clothes to wear, cannot plan my day. I can't distinguish between things I thought or dreamed and reality. I find myself telling my husband the same things over and over again. I cannot walk without fear of falling, and my sleep is un-restful and filled with bizarre dreams which I mistake for reality.
I'm not exactly sure when my downward spiral began. It came to a head last Wednesday night when I came home late from work overwhelmed, and then suddenly felt my chest constricting, my temperature rising. I was unable to catch a breath, and I paced like a caged animal.
Strange thoughts blew through my mind like a tornado ravaging a quiet Ohio town. To get these thoughts to leave, I began hitting myself in the head and trying to pull out clumps of my hair. I cried for what seemed like hours. My husband told me the whole episode lasted a half-hour.
The next morning, I was inconsolable and began having another attack, this one worse than the previous evening's. I was smart enough to know that I needed to see a doctor. I was diagnosed as suffering from panic attacks and having an underlying major depression.
I have lost my sense of time. The days are neither long nor short. But they are filled with fear, despair and self-torture. I have begun to scratch myself, leaving behind deep red trails on my hands and arms. I have also taken kitchen knifes to do the same.
I have been depressed before, but these feelings I am feeling are so different from anything I have ever experienced that I have doubts that I will ever be well again. The doctors say it will take time. I don't know how I will get through this -- the fear, the trembling, the sense of no time, the loss of my ability to make decisions.
February 23, 1996 -- I have been admitted to the hospital as a mental patient. I'm afraid of what's going to happen to me. I just want to be well. I want to be happy.
I am not allowed any glass or metal in my room. If I want to shower, I have to be supervised. I have no electricity in my room; the nurses control the lights. I don't even have a mirror in my room.
February 24, 1996 -- It's a perfect day to be in a mental institution: It's rainy and gray, and all of the snow is gone. I'm sitting now in the community room with a bunch of adults watching cartoons. Hasn't anyone ever heard of "The Today Show"?
February 25, 1996 -- I received communion today. It was sad. The Eucharistic minister didn't want to be on this floor. She looked as if she would have preferred to toss it to me rather than come near me. When I was in the hospital before for physical problems, the Eucharistic ministers prayed with me and talked with me. This time, she just gave it to me and then got off the floor as quickly as she could.
February 28, 1996 -- Yesterday was filled with a lot of visitors, more flowers and mail. My grand total of flowers is now seven arrangements. There are people here without even one visitor, let alone a flower. Here I sit in my Victoria's Secret pajamas, my fluffy terry robe, and there are people here who literally have nothing: no home, no visitors, one set of clothes, no friends.
In some ways, I feel guilty. But in other ways, I think it serves as a good example of mental illness. It can happen to anyone, even someone like me with friends, a good marriage and a job. Yet to the public, it happens only to the friendless poor.
I've met some really interesting people, who truly believe in God. It's amazing how they can recite Scripture. They've really made God the center of their lives.
There are some frustrations being in here. Everyone is treated as if they are the same, with the same exact illness and the same needs. Right now, every nurse expects me to play Bingo. If one more person asks me to play Bingo, I may scream!
February 29, 1996 -- Today is the day I get out. The hospital uses the term "discharged," but all of us say "get out."
March 11, 1996 -- Despite listening to the doctors, counselors and nurses who said just because I was getting out of the hospital doesn't mean I'm 100 percent better, I still thought being out of the hospital meant being well. Even though I planned to take things slowly and create a new life for myself, I went back to being the same over-achiever I have always been.
I guess in a lot of ways I still don't understand, and I am concerned. I don't understand why I have this or how long it takes to feel better. I'm concerned for the effect this is having on my marriage and career.
June 10, 1996 -- Right now, I'm sitting on my back deck, citronella candles are burning, a breeze is blowing, and my dog is at my feet. Today, I have worked on a writing assignment, did research on another, picked out new bathroom tile, fertilized my roses, and put a coat of primer on the bathroom walls. I'm certainly feeling much better. I still get tired, and have a hard time waking up, but I'm happy.
September 27, 1996 -- I'm not doing well. I feel like crying and I'm also angry. I'm angry this happened to me, that it's happening so early in my marriage, and that it's taking time out of my life.
Right now, I'm having problems believing my feelings are real and making decisions and choices for myself. Today, I was immobilized by indecision.
December 26, 1996 -- I did it. My husband and I had a sit-down Christmas dinner for 19 people without stress. Everything was perfect, including the food, the table and the music. In fact, my husband and I got a round of applause, and everyone kept commenting on how well it went.
March 17, 1997 -- A year has passed since I first became ill. Since that time, my husband and I have bought a house. I've started a new job and enrolled in a part-time graduate program. I've learned to deal with the misconceptions people have about mental illness, and I'm more patient when well-meaning people suggest I just need to snap out of it or exercise more rather than taking medication and going for therapy.
I am making progress, although sometimes I fall backwards. Now I know that getting well takes time. I regularly see a counselor to discover what lies at the root of my problems.
At times, I've asked, "Why me?" but now I see this illness as a gift. I've learned to slow down and enjoy more. I've seen my faith strengthened. I've met Christ in the faces of others living with mental illnesses and have seen my life enriched.