Do Not be Afraid, by Melissa Gardocki

So, I have had many inquiries about why I was recently hospitalized, and I have given mostly vague answers to everyone. It happened the day after my 30^th birthday, and I will now never be the same again, not because I turned 30 (which seemed tragic in itself) but because of what I learned and began fighting. I went in lost and afraid and came out strong and brave, and that is why I have chosen to share the little story of my “birthday party,” or what I have referred to as my “coming-out party.” Not the kind you’re thinking about, but the kind where you step out of the shadows. I guess “coming out” applies to either one. Anyway, here it goes.

I have decided not to be ashamed of my disease/disorder because—just like diabetes, asthma, high blood pressure (which I have and which contributed to my hospital stay)—it is a disease/disorder in which medical intervention is necessary. I know that many people out there believe that mental illness is “all in your head” (well, it kind of is), or that you should be able to just “snap out of it,” or that you are possessed by demons or something of the like (which is super ridiculous). My point is that there is such a huge stigma that still exists. This is true even after recent scientific evidence has linked most, if not all, mental illnesses with genetics and “mis-firings” of the brain, and/ or too much or not enough of one, two, or multiple neurotransmitters being released or not being released in the brain. But just like people who are gay, people with a mental illness are often looked at as attention-seeking, crazy sinners or something….

So, my hospital stay. Yes, get on with it, right? I went into the hospital the day after my birthday, October 11, because I got in my car after my lab at school and literally did not know where to go or what to do. I felt lost in such a familiar world and I was terrified. Thoughts of driving as far as I could or into a wall (eek!) raced through my mind. I called my mom, hoping for some consolation or comfort, but the thoughts continued racing through my head. I had let all the insane things that have happened over the past few years—or my whole life, really—build up inside of me until I cracked. I was trying to be strong, but that can only go on for so long. For those of you that think “being strong” is the right thing to do, you may be wrong.

The only thing that I could think to do, for the sake of my boys (who are 7 and 5), husband, family and friends, was to drive myself to the hospital, not only because I was cracking but also because I literally felt like I was going to die. I got to the hospital, where they immediately got me back in a room (probably because they didn’t want me scaring other patients…I was hyperventilating, crying, you know, your typical, good old panic attack). Anyway, my blood pressure was something like 195/120, so they immediately IV’d me and loaded me up with Ativan. It really didn’t do very much, but they tried. Then the doctor came in with papers and started talking about signing myself into the psych ward for further evaluation. Now, you can imagine my reluctance at this point. “You want me to do what now?” I mean, I knew I needed to do something, but the psych ward did not sound appealing at that moment. After a nice talk with the doctor about how I could voluntarily sign myself in, or they could get a court order to have me involuntarily signed in, I took the high road and signed the damned paper.

When I got up to the ward, I was scared as hell. It was your stereotypical psych ward: people wandering the halls, yelling, talking to themselves, etc., and all I was thinking was “holy sh**,” for lack of better words. That night I saw a psychiatrist, and I begged him to let me out of that hell hole. He said I would have to stay for no fewer than three days. I was not a happy camper….at all. But I stayed strong, held my head high, and walked into those group therapy sessions. I waited in line to be handed a food tray for meals, I smiled at the nurses who had to check on me every 15 minutes, I attended group recreational activities, and I even danced the “Tootsie Roll” with some of my fellow “inmates.” In the time I spent there, it felt like prison, a day care, and summer camp all rolled into one. I actually met some of the most caring, loving, fun, inspiring and brave people I’d ever known. It was quite the experience.

After four days of being monitored and retelling my “story” about 500 million times to doctors, psychiatrists, social workers, nurses, nursing students (which made me feel like an idiot when I was like “hey, I’m a nursing student and I’m getting right back to it when I get out of this psych ward here”) they came up with a diagnosis of Bipolar I disorder with severe anxiety and hypertension. Oh, plus a seizure disorder. Can I get a new brain please????? Well, obviously and unfortunately that is not an option as of today, unless I just use my cellular device and let Siri do my thinking and talking….hmmmm…. that’s probably not a feasible option, so I have to take the steps and follow through with my ordered progressive plans and…..take a bunch of meds.

It is not easy to be diagnosed with a mental illness because it’s not something people like to talk about and it makes some people uncomfortable, but it is a serious illness and I feel like not many people get the treatment they need and deserve. I was on a roller coaster and started doing some reckless, stupid things during my “manic” phases, as the DSM (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) so suitably named that part of Bipolar, and in the “depressed” phases I would barely get out of bed and felt completely worthless and guilty for the things I was doing during those manic, hyperactive, reckless phases. I didn’t even realize until I took that “time out” in the hospital just how serious I had let this illness become and how much it was not only affecting me, but my husband, my kids, my whole family and my friends.  

Well, to sum things up, I’m crazy and proud of it! No really, I would just like to be a voice for mental illness that says “it’s ok, there is nothing to be ashamed of!” The people I met and had the pleasure of being a “nut” with, were probably the strongest people I’ve ever met because they were in there to admit they needed help and they were getting it, without shame, and without embarrassment. For the first time in my life I did not feel judged! It was truly inspiring and I have actually started writing a book about all of this that I hope to finish one day and maybe even get published. It’s always good to have goals!

In the end, I just hope that anyone who reads this and maybe feels like they or someone they know may have a problem whether it be severe depression, anxiety, thoughts of suicide, noticeable ups and downs, and/or addiction, please, please, do not be afraid. You are not alone! Some of the most artistic, brilliant, creative minded people in history have been known to suffer from mental illness. So, maybe it is not an illness or a curse, maybe it is gift..?

Thank you for reading and thanks to those of you that have stuck by me through this…I appreciate all of you and life now more than you will ever know.