A few years back, I found myself spending two weeks in a day treatment psychiatric facility. I know, I know—I probably shouldn’t be sharing this so candidly, especially online where anyone can see it. My in-laws have no clue about this chapter of my life, and I’m not supposed to tell them. Some friends have voiced concerns that this admission might haunt my future job prospects or political ambitions. So, if anyone wants to dig up dirt on me, here it is: I’ve been in a mental institution.
Sure, I fret about how people will perceive me. I dread the idea of this information shadowing me, particularly when it comes to my hopes of adopting a child. Social services assure me my history won’t be an obstacle if I have a letter from my psychiatrist affirming my stability, but that doesn’t completely ease my worries. Still, I refuse to be ashamed.
Statistics from the National Institute of Mental Health reveal that 3.5% of women aged 18 to 44—prime parenting years—experience “severe psychological distress” annually. That’s a significant number of mothers. During the same period, 5.5% of women deal with “major depression with severe impairment,” which translates to high scores on a scale measuring disruptions in daily life. I was one of those women, and my scores were more like 9s. Additionally, over 25% of all hospital stays in the U.S. relate to mental health or substance use disorders, according to the American Psychological Association (APA). So, I wasn’t alone in seeking psychiatric care.
Interestingly, the APA notes that while 57% of people think those with mental health issues are treated with kindness, only 25% of individuals experiencing 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 relate.
Most days, a mix of medications keeps the shadows at bay. But when my meds aren’t balanced, I find myself consumed with fear—the kind that makes me think my husband might meet his end on the way to work or that my kids might be involved in a tragic accident. I even worry about catastrophic events like asteroids colliding with Earth. Clutter and chaos, the trademarks of raising three children under seven, can send me spiraling into a rage. There are days I can’t stay awake, and panic attacks hit with a ferocity that leaves me breathless. When I was finally overwhelmed enough for my doctor to recommend a day treatment program, I felt like I was fighting a battle no one else could see.
In a society that often lacks the vocabulary for “I’m struggling, please help,” the APA suggests seeking support through community resources and support groups. More often than not, reaching out to family and friends may not yield the help we expect.
In the weeks leading up to my breakdown, my mother visited for five days, and a couple of friends took care of my kids. But beyond that, help was scarce. No meals were organized, no offers to babysit came flooding in.
Upon entering the facility, the staff was polite, if a bit bland. I completed mountains of paperwork before being ushered into group therapy. Research indicates that 57% of depressed individuals improve significantly after participating in cognitive-behavioral therapy in groups, and 40% experience full recovery. While effective, group therapy can be a lengthy and energy-demanding process. Sharing vulnerable stories fosters connections, leading to tears, hugs, and shared victories. I often glanced at a picture of my kids on my phone when I needed a boost.
During my time there, I had regular individual appointments with either a psychiatrist or a psychologist. The psychiatrist quickly identified that my problems had escalated after I stopped taking an atypical antipsychotic that caused unpleasant side effects. She switched me to a different medication, and boom—things started to improve. I was gradually lifted back to my usual self, but I still had to stick around for another week.
Most of my therapy consisted of learning coping strategies and adjusting my medication. Contrary to the stereotypes, my experience was nothing like the Hollywood depictions of psychiatric facilities. There were no long, sterile hallways or locked doors. The other patients were a varied bunch, all wanting to return to their families and jobs.
For many of us, the stigma surrounding mental illness casts a long shadow over our experiences. We face a choice: suffer in silence or seek treatment—a path often fraught with shame. It’s a tough spot to be in.
Now, I’m doing well. I spend a lot of time in group therapy discussing my kids. My psychiatrist understands that my primary goal is to be more than just functional; I want to be an exceptional parent. Every therapy session and medication adjustment is approached with that objective in mind. When I bore my therapy groups with tales of my Pinterest projects and homeschooling endeavors, I was trying to prove my worthiness as a parent. Those of us with mental illnesses often feel the need to validate our capabilities to counteract the stereotypes suggesting we’re unfit to care for children.
I manage a regimen of medications to maintain my mental health, but it’s fewer pills than many heart patients take. My medications simply help regulate serotonin instead of blood flow. I take care of my kids, write, and my husband has no qualms about leaving them with me. Sure, I still experience a flicker of anxiety about car crashes or asteroids, but that’s just normal anxiety that my time in the hospital helped manage. And for that, I refuse to feel ashamed.
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Summary:
In my two weeks at a day treatment psychiatric facility, I learned not only about coping strategies and medication management but also about the importance of support systems and community resources. Despite the stigma surrounding mental illness, I have emerged stronger and focused on being a great parent while managing my mental health.