Mental Health Hospital Patient……….. Me?

In 2014, one of my worst fears came true. I found myself in a mental health hospital. It wasn’t like before when I had visited patients for my job in social work, this time I was the patient. I had come to the end of myself; anxious, depressed, feeble, weak and suicidal. I could barely care for myself, let alone care for my three young children.

Scared silly, I walked with the nurse to my room. The walls were white and drab. Two beds, a small desk and chair; that was it. No window, no TV, not even the white dry erase board with my nurse assignment written on it like you see in a typical hospital room.

Then the unthinkable happened, the nurse told me I needed to strip so she could make sure I had nothing on me to hurt myself. Out came the string from my hoodie and my bra with underwire was confiscated. The only contact I would have with people outside the hospital was via the community payphones in the hallways. I might get a few minutes on the nurses’ phone if I was truly desperate.

This post first appeared as part of a Gratitude Series featured at Continue reading this post at

To read more about my mental health journey check out the following posts:

Anxiety: A Silent Killer

Depression: A Silent Killer

Depression: A Silent Killer Part 2