This is part two of Karis’ story about life with depression. Read part one here.
We went around the circle, sharing something we were struggling with in the moment. When it was my turn, I couldn’t even speak — I just started crying. Snot and tears mingled freely as I gasped out the words — I had been feeling heavily depressed for at least the past week, had broken my New Year’s Resolution not to cut and had even contemplated suicide recently.
The hardest thing about this moment wasn’t how I felt like I was cracked open and spilling onto the floor, or how I felt hopeless — it was that it came after the hospital. (more…)
The is part one of Karis’ story about being hospitalized for depression. Follow this link to read part two of her story.
Let’s start off by getting the white elephant out of the room: I’ve been hospitalized twice. Not for any physical ailment, but for depression so thick and so bad, my doctors didn’t think it was safe for me to go anywhere else.
In 2013, the morning before Valentine’s Day, I was admitted to a hospital in Kentucky for Round One. Last October, I spent not one, not two, but seven nights (and six days) in a psych ward in New York City. That was Round Two.
Round Two soundly kicked Round One’s butt, truth be told.