A Small Electric Light

From the dark and murky cave that entraps me, I can see a small light that shines with intermittent clarity.  I have been gagged, restrained, and tortured by the three syllable word so commonly used by psychiatrists: depression.  But now I can see a glimmer of hope, and maybe now I will be able to conquer this condition that holds me hostage.  In a couple weeks I will begin Electro-Convulsive Therapy (ECT) and my battle will begin.

My struggle with chronic depression emerged when I was a mere ten year old.  At the age of twelve I took my first psychiatric medication and by the age of fifteen I had tried them all.  Even though the various medications proved generally ineffective I continued to take some.  Now, at the age of 28 I take eleven medications regularly; over twenty pills per day.  My body's resistance to medication compiled by my body's desperate need for help led me, at the age of twenty, to my first session of electroconvulsive therapy.

At first ECT terrified me!  I mean, really, who wants to be put to sleep, electrified, then woke only to face the most severe headache imaginable?  The only thing I can say to this is: desparate times call for desparate measures.  As required by law, every part of the process, as well as all possible side affects was clearly described to me.  Various levels of memory loss, confusion and disorientation, head pain... the words were just white noise in the background; I needed help bad. 

I was first treated with ECT at Stanford Hospital which was later continued at Herrick hospital in Berkeley, CA.  To tell you the truth, I can remember barely nothing of the two years I spent as a human light bulb.  The headaches were bad but manageable, but the memory loss was both severe and tragic.  I was so taken aback by the damage that the help I received lay buried beneath tears of loss.  While my mother swore up and down that the ECT had saved my life, all I could focus on was the memories that were stolen and a now badly damaged brain.  While the ECT successfully kept me alive and safe from suicide, I struggled to mourn years of memories left behind.  99% of my childhood memories vanished and I would say around 60% of my older memories were gone.  In addition to the damage done to my long term memory, my short term memory was marred as well.  The only positive aspect of the memory loss was my new ability to watch and re watch fantastic movies as if each separate viewing was its first.  I eventually found the memory loss so severe I quit ECT altogether.

For the next five years I mourned the loss of my memories.  An analogy I would like to use is that of Johnny, a Vietnam war vet.  Unlike many soldiers he fought alongside Johnny survived, unfortunately however, an explosion left him without his legs and the ability to ever walk again.  Like Johnny, the depression did not kill me, but the ECT left me with few memories of the past and the inability to remember things using the photographic memory that once allowed me to excel in academics.  The brain that led me to study math and physics at UC Berkeley had been damaged.  While my sister was born with great looks and a body to kill for, I was blessed with smarts; and this gift, I felt, had been stolen.

So for years I fell into an even darker depression.  Unable to complete school, I drank alcohol and smoked pot in excess.  I wanted to die but was too scared of the repercussions that suicide would have on my family.  So I drank away the ideations and numbed myself with any high I could get.  I resented my mother for pushing the ECT onto me and blamed her for the memory loss that I was convinced had ruined my life.  For three years I wallowed in self pity; drinking, smoking, cutting... any habit that allowed me to forget what I had lost was welcome.

It was not until I reached the age of twenty seven that I was able to move past my losses.  I stopped drinking and began focusing on new academics subjects that were less dependent on memory.  Just like Johnny had the mourn the loss of his legs, I had to mourn the affected memory loss.  I can finally now accept the memories I lost and fear not any memories I may lose in the future. 

So now I return to the present.  I fear that the depression that now suffocates me may kill me, and I have too many people in my life to let that happen.  I have tried the new medications, but the depression just won't be beat.  And thus, ECT is the only option I have left, and this time I am ready for it.  My life has made me a stronger Michelle. Though I just might need to use lots of post-its and notebooks to aid my struggling memory, if I can do so with a smile on my face such consequences are worthy.

In a couple weeks I will resume ECT and I am ready to beat this depression that holds me hostage.  My loved ones refuse to give up on me, so I refuse to give up on myself as well.  I will beat this disease, even if I have to use electricity to do it. 

The Battle I Must Win

Aloha and welcome to apartment 206.

It has been many days; the depression that controls fights any and all productivity. Instead of living each day striving to catch those golden stars of progress, I spend my days full of anxiety, sadness, and death as a whole. This depression began following a discussion I had with my mother a couple of months ago in Seattle.

I have spent many years of my life dealing specifically with the sexual abuse I endured as a young child. I battled post traumatic stress disorder and the reoccurring flashbacks that haunted me for years. Following two years of intensive inpatient therapy I dealt with the abuse and by the time I left Island View Treatment center I felt relieved that I had finally put the past behind me – most specifically, the childhood trauma.

Following years of ECT treatment, not only had I put the past behind me, but the memory loss I suffered erased many memories of my past, both good and bad. It is hard to explain, but it feels like Michelle of the present is a different person than the Michelle of my past. Up until a couple of months ago I rarely thought about the events of my childhood and hardly felt a pang of emotion. Living a life split between the present Michelle and the previous Michelle, I drifted and further and further from any type of union the two parts might make. The feelings I had toward my past were unemotional and disconnected; so detached I started to wonder if anything ever really happened in the first place.

A couple months ago I went on a trip with my mother to Seattle. We visited my grandmother, uncle, and aunt. It was a lovely visit that commenced with a discussion that has since kept me hostage. I really don’t remember how the topic came about, but eventually my mother upon the history of a letter she received when I was away at high school in Connecticut. It was a letter written by our former live-in babysitter Carol – a woman I despised as a child. I remembered most how she would threaten to tell my dad lies in the intention that I would receive a spanking. I never liked her, but I never knew how much I really should have hated her.

Carol wrote a letter to my mom that would later shake the foundation on which I stood erect. As a recovering alcoholic, part of the twelve steps is atoning for behaviors that drinking and drugging often led to. So in Seattle I was told of this letter. She wanted to apologize for the incidents that occurred when her boyfriend at the time was around. While I am unclear whether it was soles the boyfriend, or if Carol was involved, she admitted to physically and sexually abusing me. I was shocked when I heard this news. For years I had dealt with this unknown abuse. I dealt with the flashbacks and the shame of sexual abuse that sucks the life out of your soul. But I felt I had finally won – regardless of knowing the people involved or the exact circumstances – I had put it in the past, and in the past is where I expected it to remain.

When I first heard about this letter I thought it would be the last leg and completion of a very long race. I thought the news would finally let my abused past disappear behind the new Michelle who focused on the future and how I would get there safely. However, not too long after I noticed that a dark cloud was hovering just west my apartment and I knew it was headed for me. As depression slowly seeped back into my life, I also experienced extreme self-hate and a specific shame that made my skin crawl. Fully embraced by this new depression I write to free myself. Only by facing my present depression will I ever fully get through it and grow strength that will crush any daring depression in the future. This depression is more focused on death than any before it and is strongly considering a return to the ECT that robs my memory blind. I have fought too long and too hard to just let this depression take me away forever. While my past will always be fuzzy, one thing I will always remember is fighter I am.

I want to get better so I can love the people who stand behind me and chase the dreams that were once thought impossible. And this I'll do.

A Dark Blanket

Aloha and welcome to Apartment 206!

So I finally got out of the apartment for the first time in five days. Sometimes depression comes and suffocates me like a thick wool overcoat. Bombarded by thoughts of sadness sometimes I don't know what to do but lie in my bed and wonder what the hell to do with myself. While the sun shines beyond the drapes, I hide in my darkness hoping that with time my thoughts will pass. So today I finally got out.

Benny

Belmont Hills Hospital

October 19 – November 3, 1995

Benny had a large sore the size of a silver dollar in the middle of his forehead. The doctors had him wear a baseball cap, or other type of hat, as an attempt to restrain him from his harmful compulsions. Benny was at Belmont Hills Hospital because he had Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. He had been at Belmont longer than anyone else. Two months was a long stay since Belmont has not considered a long-term treatment center. Most of the patients were at Belmont for suicide attempts. After such an attempt, the patient is put on a 72 hour hold, and then it is not usually long before they were released. But Benny was not at Belmont for suicide watch and was not packing his bags to leave when I arrived.

Benny's sore was a result of his obsessive rubbing. He tried to explain to me as not being able to stop doing something once he started; his compulsions created an inability to restrain himself. Benny had to be accompanied by staff when he showered, brushed his teeth, or even just washed his hands. Without staff intervention he might end up washing his hands for hours. The availability of Belmont staff was not generous, and so when I arrived Benny had not showered in five days.

On first meeting, Benny and his sore had quite an uninviting character. It was easy to feel agitated or nervous just watching him obsessively pace or count ceiling tiles. Sometimes I just wanted to grab him and shake him in an attempt to rid himself of his jitters. But Benny was not a difficult person to avoid. He kept to himself and was uninterested in involving himself with the group. Like most other residents, If found myself, at first, not purposely avoiding him, but just making little effort towards engaging myself with him. It was during a Friday night movie when our two separate worlds would unexpectedly collide.

It was Friday – the beginning of another exciting weekend full of mandatory and monotonous movies. Don't get me wrong – weekends were the best days at Belmont – but still we were caged. I definitely felt that watching movies was a better waste of my time than sitting through redundant therapy sessions. Unable to any longer sit on the maroon carpet watching the stories of other people's lives in an attempt to defocus myself from my problems, I walked out into the main hallway. The alternative to watching movies was hanging out in front of the nurse's station – just where Benny always paced during movies. I watched him assume his nervous movements as he attempted to rub his pussing sore – my idle eyes seemed to dance his him. This strange boy, and the ideas that filled his head during hours of walking, suddenly intrigued me.

I'm not exactly sure how our conversation began, but it would last for over an hour. As I conversed with Benny, I realized he had some of the most incredible insight on his and other people's lives. His words were full of expression and clarity reaching much deeper than the shallow whispers shared by other residents. He shared with me his sadness and frustration from being transferred from hospital to hospital. Unlike me, he really wanted to get better and felt he was willing to jump through any hoop to do it. Due to different facilities understandings of OCD he had been sent from place to place in an attempt to place him somewhere where he could be helped. He was hoping to get transferred to Stanford Hospital, but was currently struggling to find payment since his insurance was unwilling to cover it.

I found myself opening up to this strange boy. I shared with Benny my fears and hatreds of being away from home; and Benny truly listened. While we talked, he did not pace and kept consuming eye contact. My conversation with Benny was the first I had had at the hospital where the main topic wasn't drugs.

From that day on, and until I left, Benny grew to be my one friend at Belmont that I truly trusted. I did not fear that he spoke to me through selfish motives. I spoke to him when I was upset, when I needed someone to listen, or when I needed to speak not a word. Benny taught me that a friend can be just a welcome away. The day I was discharged from Belmont Hills Hospital, Benny was still pacing the same hallways.