I’ve struggled with my mental health for as long as I can remember. I attempted suicide several times as a teenager. During that time I avoided inpatient treatment, always insisting I wouldn’t do it again. My parents didn’t look kindly on mental health care in general and wouldn’t commit me.

In fact, when I was eighteen and inpatient alcohol and drug treatment was suggested, my father noted that if I went to “that place” I would not be welcome home again. I still chose to go. I had been trying to get a handle on my drinking for two years at that point, and my use was pouring gas on a fire. I couldn’t stop. I was sick from an overdose and my kidneys couldn’t recover because of the amount of alcohol I was pouring into my body. When I had started drinking it was a useful tool in controlling my anger; now I was just mad and drunk, a combination that led to trouble.

When I checked into rehab I was suicidal, and the team debated whether I should instead be transferred to the state hospital. Could the treatment center keep me safe? They hatched a plan where I would have constant supervision and kept me at the facility.

I haven’t had a drink or a questionable drug since I accepted help and went to rehab. I continue to be involved in Twelve-Step fellowships and give back as much as possible. I love being sober.

But my sobriety is just part of my story. The Twelve Steps – as central as they are to my continued recovery – have not cured my mental illness. I still struggle with PTSD, depression, episodes of psychotic symptoms, and near-daily suicidal thoughts. But the tools I’ve learned in sobriety have proved useful on my mental health journey too – especially, to ask for help. I don’t have to do it alone.

Eight years ago I appeared to be on top of my game. I was working a professional job at an Ivy League school, serving on two government commissions, and was an officer for a non-profit organization. On the outside, things looked pretty good. Inside, though, things were falling apart, and the worse things got the more I threw myself into work, desperate to prove that I was ok.

I wasn’t, and things continued to unravel, in part due to hormonal shifts from perimenopause. Finally, I wasn’t sure I could keep myself safe one more minute. I called my psychiatrist and was admitted to my first inpatient psychiatric unit.

Of course I was terrified. This was a new situation, and I had no idea what to expect. The nurses and counselors were kind, though, and the patients were friendly. Days consisted of therapy, art, educational sessions, medication distribution, and recreational time.

In that first hospitalization I did not respond well to medications, and we finally opted to try electro-convulsive therapy (ECT, aka shock therapy). I had the power to choose whether to try ECT – it wasn’t forced on me. It was explained that I would be under anesthesia and not remember the procedures. I might have a headache after, and perhaps have some memory issues.

At this point I was so low. Medications were not helping, and after weeks of being inpatient I was in worse condition than when I arrived. Why not try ECT? So I did.

My first round of ECT treatments (some inpatient, and later outpatient) absolutely saved my life. They stopped my fall into hopelessness, and started moving me in a different direction. I started feeling better. Within months, I was back to work, but without the additional volunteer commitments.

And then things began to unravel yet again. I found myself inpatient a second time, with more ECT treatments. I wasn’t as responsive this time, and found myself cycling in and out of various inpatient wards.

On one unit I was reintroduced to Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) – a form of cognitive behavioral therapy that was created primarily for patients with borderline personality disorder (BPD). DBT is a skills-based therapy that helps with emotional regulation, interpersonal effectiveness, and distress tolerance. It was suggested that I access DBT through my local community mental health center, and I threw myself into it. I still go to a DBT alumni group therapy that helps me keep applying the skills that I learned.  

Another hospitalization gave me time to focus seriously on completing a Wellness Recovery Action Plan (WRAP) – a plan that addresses what I can personally do to improve my mental health in various stages of wellness. This includes everyday activities (for me this includes meditation and other forms of self-care), what to do when things start to come undone or when I am in crisis, and what interventions I want to use or to avoid. I went from cycling in and out of inpatient care to a three-year period of relative stability once I completed (and used) my WRAP.

Whether it is medication, ECT, DBT, or other treatment, therapy does not mean I don’t need hospitalization on occasion. Last year I reacted to a medication and required inpatient stabilization. Most voluntary stays are very short (my last one was less that a week) and designed on coping better upon release.

I’ve learned that inpatient care is not the end of the line – for me, it’s a measure that allows me to remain safe when I can’t manage my mental health in the moment. Inpatient care offers me a chance to get back on my feet moving in a better direction.

Hospitalization is nothing to be ashamed of. It takes courage to ask for help, and can be a life-saving proposition.

If you or a loved one is having suicidal thoughts and needs help, call or text the National Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 9-8-8. Clinical providers are available 24/7, and can help you manage a crisis or seek additional interventions.

This is the fourth of a four-part series celebrating Mental Health Awareness Month.