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      If you have read my blog about Lindsey, you would understand that I fell into a horrible depression.  I just could not believe that no one believed her and there would be no justice when it came to her father’s actions.  Because I had previously suffered from severe depression (during my college years), I knew I needed help badly.  I was down to 96 pounds.  I ended up on the psychiatric floor of St. Mary’s Hospital.  I felt terrible telling my young children I was going away for a while.  My mom had polio and was in the hospital for a year and a half when I was three, so I knew how it felt to have your mom go away.  I had to surrender my children’s care to God.  Lindsay was also hospitalized on a different floor, but for the moment, we were not allowed to see each other as we both had to heal.

     The day came when I was supposed to go home, and I was in my room with my suitcase waiting for the doctor and nurse to bring in discharge papers.  My husband was on his way to pick me up.  All of a sudden I froze.  I couldn’t move.  All of me knew I could not go home.  Something was wrong.  I ended up standing on a chair in the room.  When the doctor and nurse came in, I said, “You must help me.  I need Thorazine (a drug I knew from my past) right now.  I cannot go home right now”.  The doctor said something to the nurse who left and he proceeded to try to talk me down.  He said it was okay and they would get me some medicine and I could lie down and rest for a bit.  He said I didn’t have to worry, that I wouldn’t be going home yet.  The nurse came in with medication and I laid down and passed out on the bed.  They had said they would talk to my husband so he would know what was going on.

     The next morning several doctors came into my room together including my physician.  They asked me how I was feeling. They asked me to describe a picture that was hanging on the wall.  I remember them asking but I wasn’t sure why.  Thorazine is a drug that can prevent a psychotic break and I know they wanted to make sure I was okay.  The group left so that my doctor and I could talk.  It was almost time for Group Therapy, and I told my doctor I couldn’t go in that room … that it just was too full of pain.  It turned out I had a condition where your brain takes on all the pain it perceives around it.  I was carrying the pain of many other patients.  We met daily in the group therapy room and discussed what was going on in our lives.  I had absorbed everybody’s pain.  I was told I would no longer be attending Group Therapy but would continue my therapy.

      As the days went on, I continued medication and therapy and learned how to use biofeedback to help my anxiety.  I was busy making a macrame shelf hanger in Occupational Therapy which seemed to calm my nerves.  I saw my children and my husband once a week when we had a picnic outside.

      The Lord was with me every day as I worked towards recovery and could get back to being me.  I know he sent Dr. Hansen (my physician) to help me.   My doctor remained my therapist on an outpatient basis for many months after I went home.    

      My biggest regret was that I missed Julie’s (my youngest daughter)’s first day of kindergarten.  When I finally got home and her bus would come, she would hold on to my hand and cry as the bus driver took her other hand and pulled her into the bus.  The pain was overwhelming for both of us.  But when the bus came home, she would run into my arms, sometimes knocking me over and we would laugh together.

      We have a wonderful loving God.  I don’t know why His plans for me included this troubling time, but He was with me all through it so I never feared that I would not get better.  He’s never let me down.