One of Those People

I’m one of those people.

I was recently discharged from a mental health treatment program through a hospital.

A psychiatric hospital. 

When I was a little girl in the Upper Peninsula, I remember my classmates joking about the "crazy people" in Newberry, referring to the Newberry State Hospital, also known as the Upper Peninsula Asylum for the Insane, a psychiatric hospital in Newberry, Michigan, that operated from 1895 to 1992. From what I gathered as a ten-year-old kid, that was the scariest place on earth, not only because of the residents, but because I couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to be confined to an “insane asylum.”

Did people just go crazy? Without any warning? Or were they born crazy?

For a long time, the only image of a “crazy person” I had in my brain was of Sybil, a movie character with multiple personalities, played by Sally Field. In my mind, that was the definition of crazy. Little did I know, I would become mentally ill in high school, not like Sybil, but with major depressive disorder. Sadly, at the time, these things weren’t as well recognized as they are now, and I wasn’t diagnosed with depression until I was married and in my 30s. 

Let me just clarify here that I wasn’t consistently depressed in high school. I have many wonderful memories from those days! How I wish I could go back for just a day! Sans depression, of course.

But looking back at my episodes in high school, I recognize that I was deeply depressed, since I experienced the symptoms as we know them today: feelings of hopelessness and persistent sadness, lack of interest in activities I used to enjoy, and changes in sleep, appetite, and energy levels. Another symptom I had was uncontrollable crying, but I didn’t always know what I was crying about. 

I haven’t told many people this, and I know it may freak my mom out, but sometimes I was tempted to self-harm. To avoid any confusion, please know that I was never suicidal, but the desire to self-harm often comes from a feeling of overwhelmedness or helplessness. For me, it felt like the only way to alleviate my emotional pain was to cause myself physical pain. I never followed through because it scared me enough that I even had those thoughts in the first place.

All of this is to say that I’ve battled depression my whole adult life. I’m so grateful that we are much more aware of how mental illness works, in addition to mental wellness. Many wonderful therapies, techniques, and medications have been developed since my teen years to give those with some mental or emotional health issues some hope and coping skills to live a healthy, adjusted life.

In addition to my regular bouts of depression, over the past fourteen years, I was slammed with several traumas, chronic stress, PTSD, anxiety, loss, and grief. With every trauma, every stressor, my burden became heavier and heavier. I suffered burnout multiple times over but still had to keep going. When Joy died, I was already struggling to hang on, but that completely broke me. Then, barely 18 months after Joy’s death, Al had the first of three more strokes, the last of which robbed him of everything but life.

I was a broken mess, crawling alongside my dear husband and clinging hard to any bit of strength I had left. Even so, I summoned up the last of what I had inside me in order to bring him home to care for him here for the last nine months of his life. His death was a relief for all of us because we had watched him suffer for so many years, and then we watched him die. I had a respite of sorts; time to grieve and rest. But soon life returned with a vengeance, reminding me I had no income and that I had to be creative and energetic about earning and saving money. But I had a progressive autoimmune disease and no healthy coping skills to try to start rebuilding my life. 

With every new trauma or challenge, I became more submerged in a relentless flow of mud. In April, the mud finally won. I became submerged in the sludge, and I gave up. I couldn’t see the point in continuing to try to dig myself out when obstacles rose up against me one after another. 

I spent endless days in my darkened room, watching TV or sleeping, and only venturing into the rest of the house to find food or maybe do a chore or two. I had no energy left, and life seemed hopeless because I still had chronic pain and fatigue, my financial resources were depleted, and my brain was no longer functioning enough to even try to figure things out. I stopped showering and brushing my teeth, and I even wore the same comfortable pajamas for days on end, long past when they should have hit the laundry.

And then came the thoughts of self-harm. Let me explain again that I wasn’t suicidal and my life wasn’t and isn’t in danger, but at the time, I couldn’t handle the emotional pain of being alone and no longer able to deal with the enormous mess of my life. So I told my therapist about my disturbing thoughts, and she gently encouraged me (i.e., forced me) to contact the psychiatric hospital in St. Johns. By that time, I had packed a bag and was ready to escape my little hellhole. After speaking with an intake specialist, however, we agreed that the partial program might be better suited for me. 

Partial hospitalization is an intensive program for 6 hours a day, 5 days a week. The benefit was being able to come home each night, and also to put some coping skills into practice in my own environment. 

When I arrived on the first day, I was panicky, I couldn’t stop crying, I had tremors, and I couldn’t understand how the program was going to help me since I was so burned out, I could hardly keep track of the days. But I made it through the first session, and when I returned, the other participants welcomed me and asked how I was doing. With that simple connection, I felt like I was part of a tribe again, after feeling incredibly isolated for so long. I knew these people understood me, and I understood them as well. We validated each other simply by being there, seeking help, and supporting one another. We didn’t care as much about the reasons we were all there, no one was comparing their trauma or mental illness. More importantly, none of us invalidated each other’s experiences. 

It's a sad reality that mental health symptoms are frequently invalidated, particularly by those who haven't personally dealt with with serious or recurring mental health challenges. In my case, the physical effects of stored trauma and autoimmune disease only added to the burden. To outsiders, it can seem like people who suffer from depression and anxiety disorders just aren’t trying hard enough, when in reality, we’re often fighting battles that others can’t see, and We. Are. Exhausted!

Throughout the next two and a half weeks, I learned a range of mental, physical, and emotional coping skills. I set my life aside for a little bit, took a step back and processed my emotions while creating a new view of myself. We had time for guided physical movement which is more important than I ever realized. All of us carry stress in our bodies. A classic example is back pain or headaches. But getting reacquainted with my entire body was illuminating. I recognized pain and tightness all over my body that I never recognized as something separate from my rheumatoid arthritis. Learning to physically let go of the stress in my body was rejuvenating. 

Since I was discharged, I’ve still been battling some anxiety and depression because it's not the kind of thing that resolves quickly, but I’m more confident now that I’ve discovered some helpful skills in managing them. I have courage to move forward with the tools I have so I can hopefully prevent myself from falling into the depths of depression. 

Unfortunately, I experienced a major setback even while participating in psychiatric treatment - the rigorous schedule triggered a significant flare of my rheumatoid arthritis. Typically, my RA symptoms are chronic joint pain, swelling, stiffness, numbness, fatigue, IBS, and mental fog. A flare intensifies these symptoms and introduces new symptoms like fever, nausea, general malaise, pain that isn’t relieved by a change in position, and fatigue that keeps me in bed for days.

Here’s another example of a setback: I’ve long understood the value of movement and exercise, but I’m often sidelined by my limited physical ability. I started an aquatic arthritis class at the YMCA. I’ve loved swimming my whole life; I was a literal water baby. Getting into the water for exercise felt so good.

On the first day, the instructor reminded me several times to pace myself, which I did, and I exited the pool ten minutes before the class ended because I felt like I’d done enough for the day. When I got home, I lay down for a nap and slept for four hours. I was physically and mentally spent, unable to do anything productive or meaningful for the rest of the day. Similarly, when I used the treadmill at the Y, it felt great to move, but it left my shoulder aching and stiff for days because holding on the balance bar aggravated that particular joint.

What I’m trying to express is that every time I tried to introduce something positive and healthy, like exercise, it seemed to backfire. The setbacks I experienced afterward felt worse than any of the benefits the activity promised to bring. 

I could share countless examples of the setbacks I’ve faced, but that’s not the point of this post. And I’m not here to complain or seek pity. The purpose of this blog - and this post - is to give voice to what it feels like when life seems to work against you for years. I also want to reach others who might be experiencing similar struggles. If you can relate to any of my experiences, I want you to know I see you and validate your challenges.

For much of my life, I believed that I just wasn’t good enough or that if I only tried harder, I’d be able to overcome the weight of mental illness, trauma, burnout, and a degenerative disease. People often told me to “buck up” and handle life like an adult. That only deepened my sense that I was the problem, so I kept pushing myself toward what I thought was the road to health and wholeness, but only digging deeper into a hole I couldn’t escape. Every perceived failure became more proof that I wasn’t as capable or resilient as “normal” people.

For the longest time, I tried to force myself into happiness and health by creating rigid schedules I couldn’t maintain. I kept chasing ways to make money, only to fall short again and again, often repeating or refining the same approaches but getting the same disappointing results. Now, I understand Albert Einstein’s famous quote: Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.

After finally learning more about how deeply trauma has impacted my body and brain, I can now say, with growing pride, that I’m grateful for the development of comprehensive mental health treatments. I have more hope for the future because I’m building a more compassionate, sustainable approach to my health. I’m also learning to treat myself with greater kindness, to see my strengths more clearly, and to stop labeling myself a failure. Instead, I’m beginning to recognize that many of the challenges I’ve faced were not about personal weakness; they were obstacles beyond my control. And now, with healthier coping skills and new tools, I’m opening the door to healing, growth, and the ability to move through those obstacles with greater strength. 

I’m also deeply grateful that my dear friend and doctor recognized my depression and the need for medication over 20 years ago. It took me much longer to find the right therapist, but I’m thankful to finally have one and to now have an arsenal of coping skills that will help me move forward. For many, including myself, the combination of medication and therapy has proven to be a powerful and effective approach to managing mental health challenges.

I’d like to change direction here. I’m choosing to be completely transparent about my struggles because I know I’m not alone. I’ve compiled some facts about mental illness, PTSD, multiple traumas, and burnout. I hope that this will increase compassion and understanding towards those who experience these things.

To better understand how the onslaught of stress affected my body, I started digging. I’m not including any links to articles, etc. but many of these findings are almost universally accepted as effects of trauma and stress. You can always do your own Google search and let me know what you find.

How chronic stress affects the body:

• Chronic stress can lead to depression and anxiety disorders by impacting brain chemistry, reducing healthy coping mechanisms, and causing structural changes in the brain. 

• Chronic stress disrupts the production and release of the neurotransmitters serotonin and dopamine, which are essential for mood regulation.

• Prolonged stress elevates cortisol levels, which can lead to impaired brain function and weight gain. 

• Long-term stress can cause changes in the areas of the brain that are responsible for memory, stress regulation, decision-making, judgment and emotional regulation.

• Chronic stress can trigger inflammation in the brain, which can contribute to the development and progression of depression. It can also cause inflammation in the body, which is linked to several disorders: autoimmune diseases, cardiovascular disease, diabetes, IBS, and chronic pain conditions.

• Stress weakens the immune system, making individuals more vulnerable to infections and potentially exacerbating stress-related conditions. 

Immediate effects of (emotional) trauma on the body:

• Fight-or-flight: This is a natural physiological reaction to perceived danger or stress, triggering a cascade of physical changes that prepare the body for action. It involves the sympathetic nervous system and the release of stress hormones, such as adrenaline, preparing individuals to either confront (fight) or escape (flight) the threat.

• Hypervigilance: Individuals may experience heightened alertness and increased sensitivity to their surroundings, which can lead to muscle tension and fatigue. 

• Dissociation: Individuals may feel detached from their bodies or surroundings, experiencing numbness, confusion, or a sense of unreality.

Long-term effects of unresolved trauma:

• Chronic pain

• Digestive issues

• Sleep disturbances

• Immune system compromise

• Cardiovascular issues like high blood pressure and an elevated risk of heart disease

• Neurological changes leading to memory problems, difficulty concentrating, and changes in perception. 

• Trauma can also be associated with increased risk of obesity, diabetes, and other chronic diseases. 

Rather than present another bulleted list, I researched the impact of multiple traumas, and as one might expect, multiple/repeated trauma compounds the effects and severity of the symptoms listed above. 

One final note: Trauma doesn’t just live in our memories. It takes root in our bodies. Long after a painful event has passed, the nervous system can remain on high alert, and physical symptoms such as tension, fatigue, or even chronic illness can persist. This is why well-meaning advice like “Just think positive,” or the less sensitive, “Snap out of it,” can feel dismissive and hurtful.

With no irreverence intended, mental illness, like any physical illness, requires professional treatment. Just as I wouldn’t expect prayer alone to cure a serious physical condition, the same is true for significant mental health struggles. Prayer can absolutely be a source of comfort, guidance, and strength, but in my experience, it works best alongside appropriate care, not in place of it. 

(Let me make this distinction: If I am having a bit of anxiety over a specific issue - unexpected bills, a difficult relationship, a job interview - prayer can settle my mind and my heart. However, treating an anxiety disorder requires professional help. The same is true about temporary depression, which can sometimes be alleviated by praying and positive thinking. But a major depressive episode requires treatment by a professional.)

Positivity and prayer can be meaningful parts of healing, but they don’t erase the body’s deep, automatic responses to trauma. Real healing takes time, patience, and approaches that honor both the emotional and physical impact of what I’ve survived.

In closing, here’s what I’ve learned through my partial hospitalization and the support of my phenomenal therapist: Over the past 14 years, I’ve endured multiple traumas, chronic stress, and profound grief, which have taken a serious toll on my body and brain. Despite my best efforts toward recovery, many of the things I tried didn’t work the way I had hoped. But now, I’m finally becoming better informed about my health and making important changes. One of those changes is creating a support system - a tribe of safe people who understand my illness, support me without judgment, and give me the space to heal at my own pace.