When I write a personal blog, I always tell myself that I don’t have to share it and it doesn't matter if people read it. Oh, and that it's too long. My posts are ALWAYS too long.
I don’t have to share this one either, but it’s the first time I’m writing a post thinking some people should read what it says. Not because I think my words are important, but because of what happened.
I have Bipolar Type 2. It's not the type of bipolar disorder you're probably thinking of, because there are two types of the disorder. Type 1 is what people usually think of when they hear the term. Anyway, Type 2 means I get amazing bursts of creativity, productivity, and energy. It also means that I can be depressed for long periods of time. Because I'm a woman, I'm more prone to depression-- and when the depression goes untreated, it gets worse and worse.
I’m cringing with shame as I type this. Not because it's a secret, but because it still makes me feel like I’m less worthy of many things. Love. Acceptance. Friends. I know that’s nonsense, of course. I’ve told many friends who struggle that they are strong and amazing humans who should never be ashamed.
But we hold ourselves to a higher standard sometimes, don’t we?
I’m going to be painfully honest with you right now.
Early last month I called the mental health crisis line. I wasn’t suicidal, but I wasn’t okay and I knew it. I’d only ever called the crisis line one time before. I used to think it was only for those who were struggling with suicidal thoughts. But when I spoke to several people in the mental health profession who were giving me tools to help myself—they told me to never be afraid to use the help line. So, I took them at their word.
I would retweet when Eastern Health posted the number. I’d mention it to friends—telling them to never be afraid to call if they were in a crisis and didn’t know where to turn. It was important to me to remind people that it was an option.
Still. It was my last resort.
So on the night I called, I was definitely in rough shape.
Over the last year and a half I’ve become extremely self aware of when I’m about to tip into a crisis. I’ve taught myself to catch the signs quickly. I used to live in what they would call "suicidal ideation." Living that way is gone, but sometimes the thoughts creeps back and I usually try to fight back as soon as possible.
So when I felt the panic and what I can only describe as darkness and fog creep in that night, I was scared. I had medication on hand for emergencies, and for the first time since the death of a close friend, I knew to take it. I swallowed the pill. I figured I had about 20 minutes until it kicked in.
I climbed in bed and weighed out my options. There's one thing I know I need more than anything when I’m about to decline-- and that is to talk to someone and be distracted. It was late at night and I didn’t want to bother anyone. Still. It wouldn’t stop. I didn’t know what to do. Desperate to not let my brain win, I picked up the phone and dialed the number.
“Hi.” I said. I felt so awkward. Calling the help line is the worst. It means I’ve hit rock bottom and I never know how to approach it. Usually I try to laugh and be brutally honest. So, as my voice shook with nervous laughter, I told the person on the line that I was not suicidal. However, I also told them I was not okay and that I needed to talk to someone while I waited for the pill to kick in. If I did that, it was more likely that I wouldn’t go into a panic and spiral downwards because I do have the tendency to be.
There was a funny silence on the other end. And my stomach started to twist in knots. I tend to talk light-heartedly when I’m really bad. I knew I’d told the person I wasn’t okay, but what if they didn’t believe me?
“So you’re just feeling anxious, are ya?” Their voice sounded disinterested and the knots in my stomach got bigger.
I stuttered through my words. JUST anxious? I was so much more than that. I didn’t know what to do. I tried again, probably failing miserably in making them understand.
There was a long pause.
By now I was confused. Why in the world were they being so quiet? Did they hang up? Were they listening? “Are you there?” I finally asked.
“Oh yeah.” They sounded distracted and slightly annoyed.
I gulped. I’d made a mistake. So I told them to forget it and that I should probably go to bed.
They seemed confused. “You gonna be okay?”
I almost laughed out loud. Of all the things I might have failed to communicate, I had told the person that I was in fact, not okay. But I didn’t want to bother them. I felt as though I’d interrupted someone watching a movie, sleeping, or something else.
“I will be.” I added my goodbye, and hung up the phone.
And that was the truth. I wasn’t okay that night. I wasn’t okay the next day. I wasn’t okay the day after that.
But I was okay in the end. My brain has been consistently clear for a month. I haven’t even entertained the thought of wanting to be dead. Things are tough, but there's no darkness and fog. I'm SO thankful for that.
But the thing is that after the call ended, it immediately crossed my mind that had I been suicidal, had I been ready to take my life, I would have hung up and gone through with it.
Were they tired? I don’t know. Were they burnt out? I don’t know.
But they shouldn’t have been on the phone that night. Never has someone sounded like they cared less. I wasn’t even sure they heard me. I’d felt stupid and like a bother.
I hate complaining. It didn’t occur to me that I should complain about what happened that night because I've received more help from the system than I feel like I deserve. I felt bad for calling. But when I mentioned it to a few people, they told me that I probably should tell someone because it might happen to others.
That scared me. A lot. What if it had been someone else? What if someone had called that night with a gun to their head? Would they have felt just as much of a bother and gone through with it?
So I emailed Eastern Health. I got one response asking me for a name. It was okay if I didn’t have it, they said; they would still follow up. I’d given dates, times, and anything I could remember about the voice on the other end of the line.
Silence.
So I sent a follow up email.
Nothing.
I sent another follow up email. This time I said I was worried about needing to talk publicly about it.
Nothing.
So I’m writing this. Not because I think the person on the other end of the line was a terrible person. My inclination is to think that they were tired and burnt out. Not even because I'm mad at Eastern Health. I know how busy things are. Maybe they will get back to me.
But because of what happened that night, I'm scared to give the number out. I can't retweet the number thinking that it'll always be helpful. I’m scared of how they would react to a call like that.
I’m writing this because if it happens to someone else, I don’t want them to give up when they get off the phone
Since I was a teenager, I have struggled with mental health. I wasn’t diagnosed until I was 26 years old. And you know what happened when I got answers? I got better. I credit a lot of that to people who work for Eastern Health. I have a family doctor who fights for what I need. The doctor who diagnosed me is someone I mentally thank each day when I take my medication, because I know what it’s like to enjoy life. It makes me sad that people will focus on this one bad experience when I'm grateful for the help I received before this. I used to want to die all the time. Now those days are very few and far in between.
Even when the depression creeps back in for a short time, I know I will get better. I know how to prepare for the next storm. Bipolar Type 2 is something I will always have, but I live a wonderful and stable life now. I’m so thankful for the answers and help given to me by the mental health system.
But the crisis line scared me that night.
So if you have a call like that, please don’t give up. Answers, help, and hope will always be there eventually. I know it doesn’t feel like it, but they will. After years of not understanding and not knowing what was wrong with me, I was given a second chance on life.
I want you to have that. Asking for help is so scary—and if you call asking for help, please don’t stop trying if the call goes like mine did. I can’t lie to you and say it’s easy to get better. It’s not. It’s hard work that comes with battles that might never go away. But it’s worth it.
I don’t know who you are. I can’t tell you I love you, because I’m not sure if I do—but I want you to know that your life is so valuable. You bring something to this world that no one else can. Your pain? It’s valid. It’s okay to not be okay.
BUT: I want you to be okay.
And if you have a phone call like I did, please don’t give up on that hope. That person on the other line might not be okay either.
So this isn’t exactly a complaint. It’s a warning. It’s a caution. It’s making you aware that there are other ways to get help in case the first place you reach out to fails you. It's asking you to try again. The next time you call it might be someone who can listen and help.
Please, whatever you do, please don't stop fighting.
Update:
I finally had a call from someone regarding what happened to me. They promised to send an email to the staff that worked the night I called. I want to say I'm to say that I'm thankful for them responding and the fact they are hoping to alert how damaging a bad call can be.