Rachel Rochon

March 2010

Every story has to start somewhere, but it is difficult to pin down any one defining moment in my life that I can point to and say, “That was when my depression started.” I was in high school when I first attempted suicide. Like many such attempts I made, no-one knew about it. I was raised to be a good girl, and good girls were sweet, agreeable, and cheerful. Expression of negative feelings (especially anger) was unacceptable, so I became expert at hiding those feelings. I adopted the role of people pleaser/servant. I developed highly sensitive antennae to gauge the moods of others and anticipate their needs. I became a chameleon, changing to suit those around me. By doing this, I managed to survive, but my spirit suffered greatly. Because I judged my feelings as being bad and shoved them down, I tended to project them outward and was drawn to people and situations that allowed me to play out those feelings. I was addicted to emotional drama, constantly creating chaos in my life. I was a walking, rumbling volcano waiting to erupt behind my happy facade.

When those eruptions occurred, I was often forced into contact with mental health professionals. Those encounters were frightening and disempowering and simply reinforced my need to better hide my feelings. My distress and vulnerability were met with often cruel disregard for my feelings or my dignity, not only by clinicians, but also by friends and co-workers. Their judgment served to compound my feelings of shame and self-hatred. My instinct was to run, and I did, retreating back behind my “everything is fine – how can I help you?” mask.

There were periods lasting many years when I was not visited by the intense lows of depression, but I continued to hone my skills as a servant/chameleon. I was comfortable in that role and afraid to move out of it. Certainly there might be something better for me, but what if I failed? What if I were wrong? The cost seemed too great, and being a servant relieved me of taking real responsibility for my life. Servants follow orders, put others’ wishes before their own, and always have a place in society. Working as a nurse suited that pseudo self perfectly; it also provided many opportunities for drama. I saw myself as a tragic figure, and waited for rescue by the hero who would see through my mask and save me. I eventually came to understand that no-one could save me but myself, but there were many more damaging beliefs I held that needed to be faced and dealt with.

In January of 2007, my world fell apart. I botched an intended suicide so badly I was forced to seek help. I had cut my wrists so deeply I could not use my hands and had lost a lot of blood. I lay on my bed waiting to die for two days, drifting in and out of uneasy sleep. I had no will to live, but my body would not die; for a long time afterward, I felt ashamed that I did not complete the suicide – but I knew that I could not lay there indefinitely, so I called for help. Making that phone call was one of the most difficult things I have ever done. In retrospect, I hold no regrets about what happened; those events needed to occur in order for me to reach the place I am at now. I have learned so much about myself and met so many people that have changed my life for the better. I think of it as a time of being broken open, not broken down.

The six months prior to this event were emotional agony for me. I isolated myself, and told no-one of my difficulties or my intentions. I could not see any way out of my situation without losing face. I would have to give up the mask, and I was terrified of doing that. I was afraid of the stigma of being diagnosed with a mental illness and people knowing that I had intended suicide, of being judged and found lacking despite all my previous accomplishments. I was admitted to the psychiatric ward of the local hospital where I was stamped with a label and given a computer-generated treatment plan. There were a few staff members who treated me with compassion, but for the most part they stayed behind the desk, watched, judged, and passed out medication. My peers were my salvation. They accepted me even though I considered myself a total failure as a human being. I found compassion and understanding with them. They were always willing to assist me with opening packages on my meal trays, opening doors, etc. Through the ten days of hospitalization and surgery to repair my wrists, I was in a state of shock. I was a robot, doing as I was told, so I was considered a good patient. Even though I had no use of my hands, the staff did not anticipate that I would require assistance and often refused to assist me. We were expected to change our own linens, and the beds required hand cranking to adjust. My mother had to bathe me and wash my hair. At age 47, that was a humbling – and humiliating - experience. After my surgery, I was treated like a drug seeker when I requested pain medication. After two days, I decided I would rather suffer the physical pain than the humiliation of begging for the medication my doctor had ordered. My suicide attempt and hospitalization were traumatic, a trauma I never had an opportunity to talk about or process until I attended training to become a Certified Peer Specialist. There, I met others who had experienced similar traumas.

After being discharged, I was referred to my local mental health service where, by an amazing act of grace, I had a therapist who was compassionate and respectful. If I had been treated with disrespect and callousness at that time, I doubt that I would be in recovery today. I was also surprised by the kindness and concern of friends and family, although care was taken to avoid speaking of the suicide event or my diagnosis.

In the two and a half years I was in treatment, I heard little about recovery. I encountered peers that had been in services for over five years, but still received significant supports from the agency. The negative messages were subtle and confusing, and although I felt on some level that something wasn’t right, I often could not identify or verbalize those feelings. I found myself falling back into the role of servant/people pleaser with my therapist, holding back my true thoughts and feelings to maintain my “most favored” status. I missed an opportunity for personal growth, but, of course, that opportunity presents itself again and again; each time, I make some progress. Simply being aware of what I had done was a HUGE step for me.

Anxious to win back others’ respect and to have a little pocket money, I decided to get a part-time job and go back to school to pursue a new career. I never doubted that I would rebuild a life; my greatest fear was that I would not be able to have the life I wanted, that I would retreat behind the mask and not be true to myself. The primary barrier to this was being clear about what I wanted; before I could determine what I wanted, I had to figure out who I was really. I needed to regain my self’s respect, learn to listen to and honor the urgings of my soul instead of allowing others to determine what I should do and who I should be. That has turned out to be a daunting task. Sadly, the mental health system does not support spiritual wellness, and I had to pursue this on my own. After entering services, I spent six months in despair, feeling like something inside me was defective. Then I received another dispensation of grace – a spark of hope. I began a daily spiritual practice and started sorting out what voices in my head truly belonged to me and which ones were from outside. Then I had to discern what voices worked for and which ones worked against my recovery. I have had to summon my inner warrior to give me the courage to show my true self and to follow my own path despite what others may think. I have found this difficult – it so easy to fall back into old patterns, especially during times of stress. But I am determined to persevere. My courage often fails, but that is okay; it is part of the process.

I have been out of services for six months and off medication for almost a year. I have worked to develop and maintain relationships that are mutually beneficial, providing me with support and pushing me to grow when necessary. I am learning to love myself, not in spite of, but because of my imperfections. I am challenging old beliefs that do not support my wellness.

I am taking responsibility for my new life, realizing that the best way I can serve is to take care of myself first. I have good days and bad days, but I remind myself to accept what is and take whatever action is necessary to move toward my goals even if I am shaking in my boots. Writing my recovery story and developing my WRAP (Wellness Recovery Action Plan) have been immensely helpful. Despite many obstacles, I have now completed my Associate’s Degree in social work and become a Certified Peer Specialist. I am proud of these accomplishments – before, I never believed that I could do it.

On my journey I have met peers who have amazed and inspired me, given me confidence and hope. I carry that flame of hope and will pass it along to anyone with a candle that needs lighting.

May you all be blessed beyond your wildest imaginings!

(I can be contacted at mobilecrys@hotmail.com)