A bipolar depressive episode brought me to the hospital, but what I found there helped me begin again.
Some years ago, I was hospitalized again for a severe bipolar depressive episode. It was deeply discouraging, to say the least. It had been two full years since my last hospitalization — then the depression came crashing back. With my counselor’s support, I decided to admit myself to an inpatient psychiatric center.
I say “decided” as if I were checking into a spa, but in reality, there was no real choice — it was necessary and life-saving. Things had gotten to the point where I could no longer physically care for myself. I was also experiencing constant and severe suicidal thoughts. Admitting myself was what ultimately saved my life.
When Rest Becomes the First Step Toward Healing
During the first few days in the hospital, I mostly slept. I think I got up for a few meals, but otherwise, I stayed in bed. I slept and slept, as if my body hadn’t rested in days. My soul felt utterly exhausted.
Before I “decided” to enter the hospital, every single task felt impossible — soul-sucking. Taking a shower seemed monumental. Eating became difficult. Simply existing felt too hard.
But in the hospital, I was finally able to rest. To sleep. Gradually, I began to take stock of what my life had become. Within a few days, I started getting out of bed by mid-morning, just in time for lunch. Eventually, I began eating small portions again — taking the tiny steps I usually took for granted when I was well.
I spent 13 days in the hospital, my longest stay yet, as I note in my mental record book. I left feeling more hopeful and less depressed.
Yet returning to my daily life as a functioning adult was daunting. The world expected things of me, and I wasn’t sure I was ready.
Building Life Back Slowly — and Redefining Success
At first, all the expectations of returning to my life after the hospital felt overwhelming. To be completely honest, they still can be sometimes. So I learned to break everything down into smaller, more manageable pieces.
- Start off slow. I started slowly when it came to what the world expected of me, though even that was a big leap from what I’d been doing in the hospital. I had to draw on everything I’d learned over the years through counseling and recovery: Take it one day at a time. If that’s too much, one hour. Or even one minute. I can handle one minute.
- Shift your perspective on what success looks like. Each day, I make a list of the tasks I hope to accomplish — from big things like returning to work to smaller things like taking a shower. No task is too small to deserve a place on that list.
- Create a ‘celebration log.’ Someone once encouraged me to keep a “celebration log” of all the things I manage to do in a day — big or small. At first, it felt silly and pointless to my overachieving, perfectionist self. Honestly, sometimes it still does. But I tried it. And to my surprise, I found some relief. It helped shift my perspective. Now my goal is simply to make it through the day and to feel grateful for whatever I manage to do. That sense of gratitude doesn’t always come easily, but it’s worth striving for.
Holding On to Hope, One Day at a Time
I have good days, but I still have bad ones — days when the smallest things feel overwhelming and impossible to accomplish. I know those days will always be part of the mix. When they come, I remind myself: Just get through this day. Just see it through.
I’ve also discovered the quiet magic of a good night’s sleep. Sometimes one full night of rest can shift my entire perspective, lifting a bit of the heaviness from my chest — bringing a sense of relief that seemed impossible the day before.
Progress can feel painfully slow. I still get frustrated and discouraged easily. But when that happens, I try to remember those early days in the hospital, when even getting out of bed was too much to ask. Compared with then, I can see how far I’ve come. The heaviness is slowly lifting. I can go stretches of time without suicidal thoughts or that suffocating depression.
This is my journey. It’s not a race. I remind my self-critical voice to quiet down and focus on progress, not perfection — a phrase from my recovery group that’s both profoundly true and incredibly hard to live by.
But today is a good day, and that’s worth celebrating. I believe each good day makes room for an even better one tomorrow. There are people who love me and need me, and that gives me reason to keep going.
So I keep fighting — one day, one hour, one minute at a time. And right now, in this good minute, I’m thankful to still be here, breathing in this beautiful air. I’m celebrating this moment, this hope, this life.
UPDATED: Originally posted May 8, 2019