If this is your first time here, you might want to read in reverse order, from the beginning. "Testing Depression" is my true story about being hospitalized for depression.
A quick summary up to this point:
I arrived at the hospital in a police car. I was examined by the entry
nurse, and then by a doctor on the unit. I met two nurses, Meg and Dorothy, and two other patients, Charlie and Louisa. I was on fifteen-minute checks. I struggled to remember the causes of my depression. My only medication at this point was Ortho-Tricyclen (birth control pills).
August 8, 2005
We were the first ones in the dining room. The food was still covered.
Louisa led the way to a round table against the wall, on the side away from the window.
Other patients walked in and sat at other tables. Louisa watched the entrance of the dining area intently, as if she were expecting someone.
Then Charlie entered the room. He looked around the room, thinking about where to sit. Louisa was watching him. After some hesitation, he came to our table.
Louisa looked up at him. “Hi, Charlie!” she said. I said hello as well.
“You’re the new patient, right?” Charlie said to me, lightheartedly. I nodded.
August 7, 2005
A tall woman with long brown hair and an athletic build stopped by the room. Presumably she was one of the nurses, although she did not match the stereotype.
“Dinner is ready,” she said, and then she continued on to the next room to make the announcement. She walked briskly and eagerly.
“Let’s go!” Louisa said, excitedly. “We can sit together at a table.”
Happy that Louisa wanted my friendship, I smiled. (Yet I was still nervously antisocial and wanted to be alone.)
I got out of bed and quickly put on my shoes. When I looked up, Louisa was already standing at the door. I stood up and followed her out the door.
June 30, 2005
Louisa closed the door to our room. She then closed the mini-blinds that covered the small rectangular window within the door.
“I’m going to change into something nice for dinner,” she said.
She turned toward the wall and proceeded to change into one of the outfits that she had laid out neatly on her bed. Still in bed, I closed my eyes to give her some privacy.
A few minutes later, I heard the door open. I looked up from the bed and saw that Louisa was dressed in a white blouse and flowery pants.
“You look nice,” I said. Her eyes widened, and she smiled insecurely. “You think so?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I like the flowers.”
“Thank you,” she said, warmly.
May 18, 2005
(not part of the story)
Sorry for not posting for some time now. I have really been having a hard time the past few days, due to stress from work, from my family, and most of all from those horrible mood swings that come every 28 days or so.
Today’s post is a break from the story, because I just feel like talking about a very personal part of my current life. I think it might be helpful information to share. It’s a controversial, taboo topic, but I don’t think it should be that way because it strongly affects the mental health of millions of women.
Over the past three months I have been going through the most intense mood swings that I could ever imagine. I switched from using a non-hormonal method of birth control to using a hormonal method.
I was using a diaphragm before, because I knew that I was especially sensitive to hormonal methods of birth control. I discovered years later that the primary cause of my mental breakdown was my birth control pills, and I vowed to stay away from them in every form. I do not believe that my depression would have peaked so severely on its own.
Recurring urinary tract infections made me want to switch to a different form of birth control. The spermicide and the insertion of the diaphragm itself were causing irritation, and the resulting infections were unbearably painful.
Three months ago, I switched to NuvaRing, a hormonal form of birth control. It has the lowest (or one of the lowest) doses out of all the hormonal methods. I tried it in the hope that the side effects would be milder, compared with my previous experience.
For the first couple of months, life was awful. I went through frequent periods of deep depression. I often felt paralyzed by my thoughts and fears, and everything that caused even a little stress in my life became exaggerated. I also felt nauseous constantly, vomiting a couple of times. I hung on, knowing that it would get better. Doctors and friends told me to wait it out.
Now is the end of my third month. The side effects have definitely lessened, although they are still pretty bad. In particular, the week before my period has been horrible. I normally get depressed before my period, but with the hormones, the depression is magnified about a thousand times. The nausea keeps me awake at night, making things worse.
Why am I doing this to myself? you might ask. I feel that this month has been better than any of the months while I was using the diaphragm. I also am optimistic that later months will get better. If they don’t get better, I’ll stop using the ring, but I want to give it another couple of months.
Finally, I am doing this to myself because there is no other option. I cannot use an IUD because I have not had children yet. I am waiting for other contraceptive methods to develop, in particular the male birth control pill, though from what I’ve read, it won’t be available for another five years or so.
My psychiatrist never believed me when I told her that the birth control pills were one of the causes of my depression. My gynecologist didn’t believe me either. I stopped seeing my gynecologist and now go to Planned Parenthood, where the doctors, nurses, and staff are much more educated about contraception. I stopped seeing my psychiatrist, but that’s another story that I don’t want to go into right now.
Every woman should be aware that depression is a very common but frequently dismissed side effect of hormonal contraceptives. Many women on birth control who feel depressed are immediately put on anti-depressants, before other forms of birth control are even considered. Many doctors don’t believe that hormonal contraception can cause major depression, but it’s no different from how many doctors don’t believe that PMS exists.
Every man should be aware of this too.
May 12, 2005
Louisa picked up her suitcase and put it on the bed. She bent over to unzip the suitcase, and then she opened it against the wall.
I tried not to watch what she was doing, but it was difficult in such an empty room. I turned onto my side and pretended to sleep.
I was kind of curious, though, so I opened my eyes slightly. Louisa was organizing her clothes. She would hold up a pair of pants, look at it for a moment, and then fold it up.
She had several small piles of clothes laid out on the bed. I could see that she was matching up outfits to wear.
An unknown woman entered the room and turned on the lights. “Oh!” she exclaimed as she saw me lying in my bed, on the right side of the room. “Looks like I have a roommate now,” she said, joyfully.
She was dressed in pink capri pants and a green shirt that was covered in flowers. It was soothing to see so many colors, since I had felt drowned in the whiteness of the hospital. It was also mildly annoying and out of place.
“I’m Louisa,” she said, her eyes wide and smiling.
I lifted my head and smiled back. “Hi, I’m Aurora,” I said.
Louisa was in her sixties, it seemed. Her hair was very fine, chin-length, and dyed a light shade of orange-brown. Her voice was motherly, yet it had the excitement of a young girl’s voice.
She seemed too happy to be in a psych ward. But people who seem that happy are often secretly depressed, I remembered.
May 11, 2005
Back in my room, I wondered whether I needed to continue with the birth control pills.
I had started taking Ortho Tri-Cyclen a little over a month before. However, I no longer loved the man whom I had been seeing, and I had no intentions to date anyone else during the next several months, let alone to have intercourse.
Part of my depression was due to the scars from that relationship. I dislike the word “relationship” but would hate to call it a romance or anything nicer, so I am forced to use that word.
I had been seeing a man named Gary. Gary was wonderful to me when we were alone, but when we were with friends, he would act rudely toward me. Often, it seemed as if he were ashamed to be with me.
Still, I had wanted to be with him, and after a few months our relationship had become intimate. He had suggested that I start taking the Pill, and I had scheduled an appointment with a gynecologist right away.
Gary had suddenly decided to end our relationship just a couple days before my doctor’s appointment, for no apparent reason. I went to the gynecologist anyway and began taking oral contraceptives, just in case Gary wanted to patch things up. But the days passed, and each tablet that I swallowed became a depressing reminder of the sour relationship.
In the meantime, the hormones contained within the contraceptive pills were wreaking havoc throughout my body. I would only realize a couple of years later that I was particularly sensitive to one of their worst side effects, depression.
Meg stopped by my room, on another one of my fifteen-minute checks. “Dorothy wants to see you at the nurses’ station,” she said.
“Okay, I’ll be right there,” I said. I lifted the covers and got out of bed. I bent down to retrieve my shoes from beneath the bed. It was easy to find them because they were my only possession. I slipped them on.
I walked down the corridor toward the nurses’ station. As I turned the corner, Dorothy called out my name from the window next to the nurses’ station.
This was the first time that I had seen the window open.
“Dr. Mossman found out from your records that you’re on Ortho Tri-Cyclen, and he wants you to continue taking it,” Dorothy said.
I had forgotten to tell Dr. Mossman that I was on the Pill. It had slipped my mind during our session because I had been trying so hard to remember the details of my depression. I felt embarrassed, but I was glad that he had checked my records after all.
“We’re starting you on a new pack of pills, but at the same point as in your old pack,” she said. “This is the start of your second week, right?”
“Yes,” I said. I was amazed at how they had gotten this little detail correct.
Dorothy placed a tray on the window counter with two little paper cups. The first cup contained a small round tablet, and the second cup had water in it. I took the first cup and tilted it into my mouth. I had never taken medicine from a cup before, but it seemed rather convenient. Then I took a long sip from the second cup to wash the tablet down.
“Good,” she said.
“Thanks,” I replied. She pulled away the tray and shut the window immediately. I headed back to my room.
May 6, 2005
I remained under the cold, dark covers for an hour or so, hiding and thinking.
Every fifteen minutes, a nurse would pop her head into the room through the doorway. Sometimes it was Meg, other times it was someone whom I didn’t know.
“Just checking,” they would say.
“I’m here,” I would respond.
And that was how I kept track of time during those minutes. The nurses’ fifteen-minute checks were my clock.
May 5, 2005
Realizing that this was the second form I had signed for them in a day, and that both times I had felt confused and helpless, I got back under the covers and turned away from the door angrily.
Why did I keep doing this to myself? It felt like a form of self-harm that I couldn’t escape. No matter what they wanted me to sign, I would always give in.
They could give me a lifelong voluntary commitment form, and I’d probably sign it, I thought. What was wrong with me?
I felt defenseless against the hospital staff, and I blamed myself.
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