Thursday, November 30, 2017


“I toss and turn and yearn for her warmth and lie there most of the night, eyes open wide, watching the shadows dance across the ceiling like tumbleweeds rolling across the desert. I sleep two hours if I am lucky and still I wake before dawn. This makes no sense to me.”

Noah Calhoun
The Notebook

The receptionist at the desk recognized me from my admission two weeks prior. I didn’t feel embarrassed at the time, but my body was exhausted. My soul felt deflated. I was again taken to triage where I sat on a bed, scanning the tiny area, waiting for a doctor to see me. All I could think of was my wife and kids. Tears gathered in the corners of my eyes and rolled slowly down my cheeks. I didn’t want anyone at the hospital to see me crying, so I wiped the tears quickly from my face. I had never felt more alone. My wife had left me with my parents, my parents didn’t want their 35 year old son staying with them, and I felt I had no friends. All of my crazy actions and decisions had been caused by depression and anxiety, but it was impossible for others to see it that way. My body had become a shell fueled only by the illness that was not only killing me, but destroying every relationship I had. I didn’t know if my marriage was going to survive after everything that had happened. The attending doctor finally opened the curtain and walked in, conducted the assessment, and asked who my psychiatrist was. I gladly gave her the phone number. She left the area. My legs shook from the anxiety that racked my body. The doctor eventually came back after calling my psychiatrist and said, “It doesn’t look like there is anything wrong with you. If it was up to me, you’d be out of here. However, your doctor thinks you need to be admitted and I respect his decision. So, hang tight and we’ll get you upstairs soon.” Her response was one I had heard before - You look fine. Why are you here? You should be living your life. - Thing is, I felt I had no life to live.

I was wheeled through the hospital hallways until I reached the psychiatric floor. I checked in and was taken to my room. The window inside spanned from one wall to the other. The view was both wonderful and tormenting. Many stories below was a giant patch of green grass encircled by leafy trees. Over the many days I was there, I watched as a child and father kicked a ball back and forth, an owner tossed frisbee with his dog, and a family leisurely walked about. Just past the park was an old, beautiful church. Seeing it brought back many memories. I remembered a time when I loved talking to others about Jesus and what He had done in my life. I remembered when I had once believed God was good and had my back through everything. Not even He was there in that hospital with me. I felt nothing. I couldn’t remember what happiness was. I had become a walking disaster; a pill-popping lunatic whose future was slowly being erased by an illness that no one outside of a hospital or psychiatrist’s office could understand.

I didn’t sleep much while I was there. I couldn’t. My medications had been changed, there were blood draws every morning at 4:30, and I couldn’t stop thinking about my family. I missed my son’s first birthday. I cried often, both day and night. I read, a lot, attempting to pass the time. I was evaluated for 14 days before I was finally able to leave. Still, my mind was broken and needed more time to heal.


  1. Thanks for continuing to share your story.... look forward to your posts

    1. Thanks for taking the time to read them. :)

  2. You are so brave for sharing your story! To God be the GLORY for His amazimg Grace.