Getting My Laces Back

Do I need someone here to scold me
Or do I need someone who'll grab and pull me
From this four-poster, dull torpor
Pulling downward
For it's such a long time since my better days
I say my prayers nightly this will pass away
Like the Weather - 10,000 Maniacs

In February of this year I checked myself into the "Waldorf-Hysteria" - a/k/a the Mental Health Unit of the local hospital.

It went something like this: for weeks on end, I'd been crying a lot. When I wasn't crying, I was burying myself in a book or TV show trying desperately to distract myself so I wouldn't cry. And while I've suffered from garden-variety depression in the past, this was something much, much worse. This was unrelenting darkness, oppresive and portending violence at any given moment. It was like living with a mean drunk, tip-toeing through a room where they're on their third drink and are starting to get that look in their eye; the one that you know means all hell is about to break loose.

The day I checked myself in started like most others, waking in the morning and feeling the weight of my gloom crush me before I even lifted my head from the pillow. Still, I hit the shower, got dressed and headed to my job as an insurance representative. (Yeah, insurance. No wonder I was depressed.)

I don't remember the next few hours after that, although friends have been kind enough to piece it together for me. By 8 am I was at my desk on the 6th floor. By 9:30 I was at my friend's desk, crying but saying very little. Shortly after noon, another friend found me sitting not at work, but down the street at the public library. I was staring blankly ahead, and if I was seeing anything it all it was residing with Buckaroo Bonzai across the Eighth Dimension.

Somehow this friend got my attention long enough to take me by the hand and walk me to the hospital, where I signed the paperwork that would make me a guest of said facility for a minimum of 48 hours, possibly more.

I "came to" so to speak as the intake staff were eyeing me and discussing my clothing choices as if they were Joan and Melissa Rivers and I was walking the red carpet instead of a white hallway.

"Belt!" said Exquisitely Dressed Male Nurse, snapping his fingers imperiously. Immediately, two other nurses descended on me on removed the apparently offensive item. I'm sure it did offend them, I'd gotten it on sale at K Mart.

"Shoes?" inquired Male Nurse, in a tone that implied that since I was from rural Washington county, I probably wasn't wearing any. Well, ha ha, yes I was! And best of all, they were leather LL Bean slip-ons, and did not have any buckles or laces. It took me a few minutes, but I finally figured it out. They were relieving me of any article of clothing I could fashion into an instrument of my own demise should my stay prove, uh, therapeutically unsuccessful. I shudder to think what would have happened had I been wearing my BBW thong.

After several minutes of this ritual undressing, I was led to my room (private - thank god we pay for the good insurance) and left to my own devices.

I'll fast forward through the 4 day blur that was my stay. I don't remember much of it anyway, except that in my brief time there I earned the nick-name "Artsy-Craftsy Girl". I pretty much passed the entire time holed up in the therapy room, painting pre-cast ceramic bunnies, fish and vases with environmentally-and-incarceration-friendly non toxic paints. If I recently gave you a hand-crafted, non-dishwasher safe item as a housewarming or birthday gift, this is where it came from.

Four days after my arrival, I was given the all-clear to return to my normal life. I had a diagnosis: Antepartum Depression. Ever the over-achiever, I am not content to wait until after the baby is born to have a hormonally-induced mental disorder. Nope, I'm part of that less-than-one-percent who plummet off an emotional cliff in the first trimester. Yay, me!

As I was leaving the hospital, relieved and yet scared to go back to "normal", the nurses presented me with my belt, my purse, my cell phone... all the things I'd had to surrender on the way in. As they were waving goodbye and wishing me well, the youngest girl said "Brenda, did you get your laces back?" I looked down at my slip-ons, and smiled my first real smile in weeks. I guess I had gotten them back, so to speak.

Two Months Later...

Signing yourself into a mental hospital is scary. Going home is terrifying.

I was thankful for the little things, like a bathroom door that locked, metal utensils, and a bedroom that smelled like lilacs instead of disinfectant. But the question haunted me for weeks. Had I truly "gotten my laces back"? I greeted each morning skeptically, cautiously. Open one eye, then the other. How does it look? What will today bring?

Fortunately, I responded quickly to treatment. My days began to mirror the ever-changing reality outside my window. Winter gave way to spring. Warmth replaced the chill, and the balance tipped, favoring daylight over darkness. Until yesterday, when my worst fear came to pass and I found myself feeling depressed.

I almost fainted, the dread was that overwhelming. But I took a deep breath, and let the feeling wash through me. And it soon dawned on me that this was my old "garden variety" depression. I wasn't falling off a cliff, I was having a bad day. I hadn't gotten much sleep, and I was so busy I hadn't bothered to eat. After a few calming breaths, I was able to go about my day. I wasn't aglow with joy, but I wasn't sobbing, either. I just.... was.

I woke up this morning feeling my normal, optimistic self. In a little while I'm going to go outside and get some fresh air. I'm going to throw on a sweatshirt, jeans and running shoes. And just as a precaution, I'm going to tie the laces tight... and knot 'em for good measure.