THE BITCH IS BACK

This blog has evolved. Initially, it was about a single, middle-aged gay man’s struggles with living in a relatively isolated rural area. But, after a decade, I moved back to Vancouver, realizing too much nature and seclusion were detrimental to my well-being. It wasn’t as though rural existence triggered the onset of mental health issues; it just exacerbated them. Farewell, rural adjective. 

I was still a single, (older) middle-aged gay man. It should come as no shock that struggles remained. Not every problem is tightly linked to being gay either, but there usually is a tangential connection at the very least. And so, from time to time, I’ve stuck with my commitment to write honestly and without self-censorship to focus on dealing with depression. Maybe someone else will feel a connection. Maybe he or she won’t feel as alone in coming to terms with significant challenges.

Acknowledging my depression has been my second coming out. It has yielded remarkably similar experiences. In fact, the taboo over mental illness hasn’t been chipped away nearly to the degree that society has become more accepting of homosexuality. Nobody calls me a sinner for being depressed. Not even when suicidal ideation surfaces. No one has insinuated that I’m a danger to society. The shunning is subtler. For many, the gayness and the depression draw the same response: Can we just not talk about it?

I’ll be blunt. Depression’s a bitch. It’s a beast. It pulls you down. It goes away only to return as a most unwelcome surprise. Today I was discharged from hospital, eighteen days after being admitted. Unlike physical illness, they make a point of certifying you. I went in voluntarily, first consulting with my psychiatrist and then going home to carefully pack a few belongings before walking to Emergency. This was, after all, my second stint in a psych ward. (The first was three and a half years ago.) I knew I wanted my own bar of soap instead of having to squeeze gel out of teensy trial packages. A few books, too. (This time I'd be able to pass up six-year-old issues of Time and stacks of Reader’s Digest.) 

And extra underwear! I'd spend my stay in comfort!

As much as I felt I desperately needed to be hospitalized, I wanted out fifteen minutes after going in. Maybe it had something to do with having to remove my clothes as two security guards watched and then surrendering all my belongings. Had I been delusional about having a better experience this time? Alas, once again it would be no spa vacation. A hospital is not a calm, welcoming setting in which to recover from a breakdown. So much for my fanciful images of a pristine white mansion with green lawns where people spend their days playing croquet and trying to catch butterflies in large nets. This was much less a Merchant-Ivory film and much more Cuckoo’s Nest. I was immersed in rooms of chipped-paint beige and “soothed” by the sounds of doors that slammed shut every few minutes, a screaming patient pounding on the walls of his very own “quiet room,” and a public address system paging for housekeeping and announcing Code Blues. 

The objective is to get better in spite of your surroundings.

Generations ago, they treated some forms of mental illness with shock therapy. I’m not sure how much matters have evolved. I certainly experienced significant shock every day of my stay. In the end, I felt more broken, more defeated. And I am left with a higher level and frequency of anxiety than I’ve ever had before. Even greater than the anxiety that arose from my previous hospitalization.

So now I’m free. The wounds are invisible, but I can feel them. The real healing begins now. I don’t have a clear plan for recovery. I must continue to manage unpredictable tearful surges. I hope the chest pains subside. As I drop the survival cloak I shrouded myself in while navigating the psych ward, I know the depression will rise to the surface anew. This time I won’t have to deal with surprise and disappointment. It’s an unwanted houseguest, but I hope to meet it head-on, supported by my family doctor, my private psychiatrist and a new counsellor. Last time around, the sucker hung out for two years. Maybe this time I can limit its stay. Maybe I’ll develop better, stronger coping strategies. Maybe I’ll find the right people in society who will listen rather than donning ear plugs or offering naïve booster advice like, “Smile more” and “Can’t you just cheer up?”

My parting gift from hospital is a new set of prescription meds. The eighteen days in lock-up felt like an eternity. Still, the real journey begins now.