My maternal great-grandmother was one
of the most beautiful women I have ever beheld. But even in the
earliest photograph I have of her, at age twelve, there was a deep
sadness in her beautiful dark eyes which I instantly recognised. The
beautiful girl grew into a beautiful woman, graduating from a
teacher's college in Iowa in the same class as her dashingly
handsome, rather shy future husband. But even in this photograph, of
a happy occasion, the deep sadness is present. Later, there is a
causal photograph of her with her sister and her first two babies;
the younger, an infant, being my grandmother. In this, her head is
bent 'like the stem of a broken lily', to use the Pre-Raphaelite
phrase, and the depression is very clear. Later on in her life, she
was swamped by this depression, and after much soul-searching, the
family decided to admit her to an asylum, where she would receive
electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). I remember keenly with what great
emotion my grandmother told me of her poor mother begging her and her
brother, 'Please don't send me to the Snake Pit!' - a reference to
the 1946 book and 1948 film with Olivia de Havilland, which I had
seen as a preteen, being enamoured of old Hollywood movies. So, I got
the reference, and it was with horror and great sadness that I
thought of that poor beautiful women undergoing such an experience.
My grandmother said that the ECT 'cured the problem' but there are
photos of her still-beautiful mother in great age, and the sadness is
there. And I thought, but have never voiced until this moment, 'no,
she only hid it, because she never wanted to go back to that horrible
place.'
Depression, anxiety, and -based on
behaviours of certain ancestors – probably bipolar disorder run on
both sides of my family. The Celtic Curse. I myself have been anxious
since I can remember (age two) and depressive since I was age seven.
I have had varying levels of post-natal depression. As child, teen,
and young woman, the worst part of this situation was being made to
feel as if my mental health were a character flaw, in addition to all
the symptoms. I was supposed to just pull myself together, bootstrap
myself into normalcy and get on with it. None of this was
investigated or treated until I was in my 30s, and then, having no
health care, I made do with St. Johnswort, the Bach remedies, and
various homeopathics. To say that these were not enough to forestall
deep recurring depressions, general and social anxiety and panic
attacks would be a gross understatement. When I finally did have
healthcare through a long-term job, the plan with the least expensive
copays was still too expensive for me.
But late in 2013 I was reaching a
breaking point eclipsing any I had previously experienced, due to job
stress and multiple health issues. Without real investigation,
because I scored very high on assessment forms, the D.O. Wrote a
script for a low dose of Paxil and sent me off to a counsellor (not a
psychiatrist) in the Psych department, who recommended a meditation
class and participation in the anxiety group once a week for six
weeks. My boss complained about this inconvenience of missing two
hours a week, and the HR department did not allow the therapies to
continue, as the counsellor recommended. The Paxil helped take the
edge off, but I was in a downward spiral of job stress, ill-health,
and a problematic landlady. Throughtout 2014, my physical health
worsened and landed me in the ER. Not getting much help or
understanding from various doctors, my boss or HR department, I felt
it was quit or die. But this also meant losing my health insurance.
We moved to the woods, near my
siblings, expecting that the quiet environment would help. But the
financial scene was bad, and my physical and mental health continued
to deteriorate, even taking pregnenolone, inositol and taurine. After
a lot of run-around from temp and employment agencies, I began the
application process for disability (for which I have three qualifying
conditions), but that is a long road. High doses of inositol were
only asbout as effective as Paxil had been, taking the edge off, and
I was regularly freaking out, crying uncontrollably, having panic
attacks, and barely able to drag myself around. 'Passive suicidal
ideation' (just wishing to quietly die) was constant. I did have
'plans'. I have had 'plans' since I was in my late teens, none of
which involving anything messy or illegal. My understanding is that
all people with such ideation have thought the matter through. I have
always figured that a suicide in the family is bad enough; it oughn't
be ickily traumatic as well.
I went through the long process of
getting Medi-Cal, but due to bureaucratic cock-ups at the state end
of things, my appointment with my Primary Care Provider was delayed
for six weeks. If I had been able to be seen when I was originally
supposed to be after the paperwork was 'expedited', I would not be
telling this story.
Evenings for me have always been the
worst, and a few weeks ago when my fellow was out at his restaurant
job, I felt myself crashing and it all closing in. I needed help. I
needed talking down, someone to be there and tell me that it was
going to be all right. So did what we are always enjoined to do and
called the National Suicide Hotline. Much red tape and misunderstood
answers later, I was connected with someone 'local' (100 miles
away!), who insisted that as I 'had a plan' and had 'taken something'
– which was not the case – he was calling the police and EMTs and
having me admitted to the local ETS (Emergency Treatment Services),
which happened to be in Riverside, 70 miles away. I had a panic
attack because my fellow had no phone, no house keys with him,
wouldn't know where I was, and who would take care of our pets? I
begged him, no no no, and hung up, in the grip of the panic attack.
The local police, fire, and ambulance
all came roaring into our quiet little neighbourhood, banging on the
door, rushing in, taking over the house like a SWAT team, demanding
answers from me like MI5 interrogators of an 'Irish terrorist' in the
Bogside, until I was hysterical on top of it all. Great bedside
manner, guys, with someone with anxiety. Just saying. My fellow
luckily came home in the middle of this. The police deputy told him
(and me) that I would be given meds and 'looked after in a nice quiet
environment'. He believed this. I did not.
It took three hours to go the 70 miles,
because I had to be 'taken into protective custody', wait for another
ambulance, and then they drove 25 miles an hour down our mountain
road via the longest route possible. When we arrived at the
prison-like establishment, I thought, 'Well here it is. Welcome to
the Snake Pit.'I thought of my poor great grandmother. I thought 'I
will never leave.'
All possessions and human dignity were
removed. I was shown a straight hard chair in the brightly-lit, small
cold crowded room with psychotics, schizophrenics, the violent, as
well as the 'merely' depressed. Blankets, when they arrived in dribs
and drabs, were 'first come, first served.' After several hours a
doctor escorted me over to a card table in the corner and asked me
what happened and why the police were called. I told him. That was
all, no discussion of circumstances, history of depression, prior
meds. Certainly no nice quiet dim restful private room with kind
nurses and helpful meds. I could not sleep, but sat in that chair for
a couple more hours before a nurse came and took me into a private
room to fill in the admittance paperwork – because it had not been
done before. She said that I would be 'released soon' and did my
fellow know to pick me up. A woman who had been sitting near me
earlier told me how to get an outside line on the phone. She who was
given whatever drugs she wanted every ten minutes, rattling off, 'I
need this, I need that', while I was struggling with all my strength
of shut down my mind and appear simply catatonic, which wasn't far
wrong, having had no sleep. I was in the anxious 'tired-wired' state
– exhausted but hyper-vigilant. I phoned my fellow, who came
directly, and then had to sit out in the waiting area for five mortal
hours before they got around to actually releasing me. The only
'help' they offered at discharge was the telephone number for the
county mental health services office, which I could have got from the
phone book or the internet.
Finally, finally, a week after the
experience in the Snake Pit, I was able to see my doctor, who took a
very thorough history and made thorough examinations. I was given
Lexapro and Xanax, which do help, though I am often dopey and
lethargic and after the first doses slept for 15 hours. The next day
-joy- was the examination by the psychiatrist required by the state
for disability; a truly kind and sympathetic lady, for which I am
grateful.
This is the state of our mental health
system, and the ability or inability of doctors of every description
to pay proper attention. Those with mental illnesses are still
ignored, undertreated, or if they do ask for help, treated like
cattle or criminals.
There is a better way.
