finding belonging in a psychiatric hospital

tw: depression, suicidal ideation. i’m keeping it light, but please proceed mindfully. close this for today, if you feel too sensitive.

this is not professional advice nor guidance of any kind.

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intro

I wanted to tell this story for a long time.

Most friends I have today don’t know this about me. It’s not something you would introduce yourself with or casually drop into conversations.

In 2016, I voluntarily submitted myself to a psychiatric hospital for 10 weeks.
It has been the most important decision I made in my life so far.
I don’t think I would be here today otherwise.

I’ve been plagued on and off with depression and suicidal thoughts since childhood and at my third year in university it reached a point where I needed to make a choice between life and death. The suffering had become too unbearable.

I offer my success story to those who need to hear it:

It’s possible to wake up one day without hating yourself or fantasising about ways to end this life.
It’s possible to feel alive and joyful again, vital in your body, laugh and find friends who want your best.
It’s possible to feel optimistic about your future. To find a purpose and reason to live.
To be fundamentally happy again.

I cannot promise anything.
Only sharing my experience, hoping it lights up someone’s day.
I’ll touch on some of my symptoms, struggles and life’s circumstances back then, but this isn’t about trauma dumping or telling a dramatic tale.
Nor is it psychological or spiritual classification or a how to guide.

This is for all who need to know they are not alone.

My heart goes out to you.
Keep going, warrior.
🤍

depressive days at university

I was raised in a strict Chinese household in West Germany and moved out to study electrical engineering when I was 17.

Suddenly, I found myself making up for all the years of freedom and fun I wasn’t allowed to have.

Study-wise I did the bare minimum, while socially I was thriving.

Having been an outsider my whole life, I was positively overwhelmed by all the invitations to house parties, endless bar hopping nights, new friendships and of course interests from men.

While I quickly adjusted to my new environment and new life, eventually my past also caught up.

I carried a darkness with me since childhood which manifested itself in depressive episodes and suicidal ideations. Self-loathing as in never ending thought spirals around why I’m worthless, why I cannot trust anyone, why my existence is a burden to people around me were a constant in my life. Loneliness, social anxiety and misery were my baseline I kept coming back to at the end of the day - no matter how many moments of positive experiences I’d collect.

I wasn’t able to get rid of the dark filter that would cloud my whole perception of the world.

After two years at university, I wasn’t able to focus on my studies anymore, panicking just at the sight of a text book. I failed exam after exam, to many of them I simply didn’t show up as I was caught in a feeling of complete overwhelm and numbness.

The high pressure setting of the elite university was only a trigger for all my unresolved, repressed pain to fully emerge to the surface.

I did have friends, was part of many social circles, but felt that no one would get me.

Craving close bonds, while keeping people at a distance.

I kept experiencing states of depersonalisation and derealisation, oftentimes unable to differentiate between dream life and waking life.

Some days I would lay in bed the whole day, completely exhausted and tired doing nothing. Paralysed while my mind spiraled into dark holes. I would cry, hate myself, feel sadness, unknown grief and desperation.

On good days during depressive episodes, I would even be able to get up, brush my teeth. Maybe even go shopping and make myself something to eat. Or even take a shower.

Taking care of my basic needs felt like running a marathon.

I continued to beat myself up for not being able to function normally.

Full of shame and confusion, I had no one to talk to and pretended the best I could that I was fine.

These episodes would come and go in unpredictable patterns. I suffered immensely from this loss of control.

When an episode ended, I showed myself to people, and put on my happiest mask. I laughed, participated in conversations, went to workouts and parties. played happy nina.

But nothing could ever silence my internal self-destroying monologues that perpetually crushed me like a waterfall.

What worried me most were the intrusive suicidal ideations and contemplations on death against which I felt absolutely helpless. I never harmed myself (physically), but I didn’t know how long that would last.

decision for life

At the end of 2015, two years after the start of my studies, I found myself at a crossroad.

Despite my mind being muddy most of the time, I knew one thing with clarity:

I couldn’t bear this suffering any longer.

I only saw two options:

1. end my life
2. seek help

The phrase ‘suicide is a permanent solution to an impermanent problem’ resonated deeply with me back then, so option 1 wasn’t an option anymore.

I needed to look at the scary alternative option which was to seek help. I used to tell myself, full of shame, that paying someone to listen to my ramblings was worse than having no friends to talk to.

The mind can come up with all kinds of weird stories.

One of my friends started therapy at some point and finally something snapped. If he was worthy of help, why not me? I was way less functional than him.

(Not that suffering is a comparison game. No matter if people out there are starving, enduring war, or if there are people more ‘privileged’ than you - your suffering is valid, so please seek help if you need help🙏🏽)

Awareness is the first step to change.

I went through the torturous search for a therapist, called endless numbers, put myself on all the waiting lists, until after three months I got an invitation.

Which is considered fast.
I’m not going into the irony of the fact that expecting a depressed person to find help is akin to expecting a physically injured person to climb a mountain.

I remember promising myself if I chose option two, I’d do my best to live the most joyful and adventurous life possible.

All or nothing.

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I cried during every single therapist session in the first six months.

Sometimes, I’d arrive in the office and before I even started talking, the tears came uncontrollably. Releasing myself from suppressed emotions of a lifetime.

My therapist provided a calm, trusting environment for me and I was able to address many burdens I have been carrying.

However, talking for one hour once a week wasn’t enough for me.

I wanted more support.
I wanted intensive care and to be in an environment where I couldn’t hurt myself one day, when I was spiralling really bad.

It may sound very logical and clear as I’m writing the story now, a decade later. But back then it took many agonising days and nights with some haphazardly lucid moments and an immense amount of courage to arrive at this conclusion.

To get in touch with this desire, the need, in the first place. And actually taking steps towards it as someone who was conditioned her whole life to be an obedient daughter, not to lose face and not to step out of line.

But for me this was about life and death.

I said f you to all the shame, guilt, and fear.
I took a vacation semester and dedicated it entirely to my mental health.

I wasn’t going to finish my studies any sooner anyways and I actually really wanted to live.

Taking a break from my studies lifted an unsurmountable weight and looking back I wish I had done it sooner.

At first, I told no one about it.

For months, I went through all the rabbit holes, and researched about psychiatric hospitals.

Back then, the internet was not as saturated as it is today and mental health more stigmatised, but eventually I found quite a few positive experiences from people staying at those hospitals, which gave me a lot of hope.

I sent out some applications and shortly after, was invited for a four-day trial to one of them, which left an uplifting impression on me.

It would take a few more months until they finally offered me a spot for a proper stay.

message of salvation

In Summer 2016, without the anxiety around my studies for that semester, my good days started to outweigh the bad ones.

I invited around 50 people for my 20th birthday, out of which the majority came. I went on a short summer vacation to China with family.

Of course, all my symptoms didn’t disappear all of a sudden, but I allowed myself to feel some joy and relaxation, knowing that I would get proper help soon.

During that summer vacation, I received the long hoped email from the hospital:

I could start my stay!

Exactly two days after I’d arrive in Germany after the vacation.

And then, German bureaucracy almost ruined it all, because in some mysterious ways, the referral I needed from my doctor didn’t arrive at the hospital, so once I landed in Germany, I had one day to sort out the problem.

Of course, that day, my doctor was already on vacation herself. I had to go to the emergency office hour of another doctor who once prescribed me anti-depressants. Well, turned out, that doctor was also on vacation.

I was sent to her substitute, cried my eyes out, trying to convince her that I NEEDED to go there like my life depended on it. Because it did.

And then, finally she gave me the referral I needed.

I absolutely have no idea, why this needed to happen in the most desperate moment of my life, but I thank all my angels to this day for giving me the strength and one-pointed focus to sort it out…

daily life at the hospital

Located in a spa town in Western Germany surrounded by many forests, the hospital accommodated around 100 patients at a time. I shared a room in a two-storey house with two stations.

It was an open hospital, meaning everyone was voluntarily there and we could come and go freely during the day.

When I arrived I was handed a schedule containing the weekly structure: twice-weekly check-ins with the head therapist, two individual therapy sessions, one group therapy session, and a range of fun accompanying therapies such as boxing or art classes. There was also a communication workshop where we did role plays and learned basic communication.

Being away from the stressful university environment was all I needed. Looking back, the isolation and loneliness I experienced in my student life were the worst. Here, I finally found a haven where I could look at the darker parts of my psyche without being misunderstood or judged.

Even though I was shy in the beginning, I quickly connected with the other patients, who later became friends. We were united by our shared suffering, and the liberation of not pretending to be fine was immense. I was met everywhere with empathy, curiosity and humour.

Everyone came with their own story, and I couldn’t believe that suddenly I wasn’t alone with my pain anymore. There were people who actually could relate.

That’s one of the most absurd things: every depressed person thinks they are completely alone in their pain, convinced that no one in the world suffers as much as they do.

Until they meet other depressed people.

We called ourselves the crazy ones and laughed about it. The ground floor nicknamed themselves ‘the inmates’, because the majority of them had been in legal trouble before. There was absolutely nothing to hide, nothing to be ashamed of. Quickly we felt like family together, random strangers bonding over their otherness. There was a variety of diagnoses: depression, bipolarity, borderline, personality disorders, addictions.

It didn’t really matter what the label was. In our free time, we would sit outside and smoke. Sharing the wildest stories about our lives or daily therapy insights.

At the weekend we would go to the forest or eat out in the village.

After a few weeks, we were allowed to go home at the weekend for test visits and see how we could apply our learnings ‘in the real world’.

When I left after 10 weeks, they gave me gifts and handwritten letters, many of them noting that they would miss my infectious laughter.

Which was such a nice compliment to receive.

I had carried my dark thoughts like a well-protected secret for the majority of my life. Finally I could share pieces of them with others who actually got it. Up to that point, I had never felt more liberated.

Strangely, I found safety and a sense of belonging in a stigmatised place.

therapy

I had already made good progress with my therapist back home, but in the more intense clinic setting, away from stressful student life, I dove deeper into some core topics.

How growing up in a shame culture taught me to always keep face and perform for external validation. The resulting inner fragmentation between the strict, rigid home ideals and my own expansive impulses which I tried to excessively make up for.

I learned to relate to my needs and emotions in a safer, more balanced way, and how to be vulnerable and trusting with people without pushing them away.

Like a sponge I absorbed every new insight about myself.

I felt like being in a safe bubble that provided the foundations where I could leave my heavy luggage behind and finally breathe.

I learned that conflicts could be resolved in a calm manner without guilt-tripping and shaming. My emotions were not ridiculed or played down. One step closer to learning how to trust others and coming into acceptance with myself.

integration home

It was weird returning to society after the 10-week life changing stay.

Life continued for everyone else, while I felt reborn.

I confided in some friends. I started new routines and reading tons of books. I continued with therapy once a week with my local therapist.

I carried the empathy and joy of the hospital with me and did the best I could to infuse it into my new life.

It would eventually take two more years until I started passing exams again.

parents

I sent my parents a letter about my whereabouts three weeks after I arrived at the hospital. They didn’t expect it, since we were still on vacation together shortly before.

I had to keep it a secret. Submitting myself was (together with starting therapy) the first and most important decision in my life that I took for myself. And I had to protect it at all costs.

Growing up in a Chinese household where filial piety is considered normal, I didn’t grow up with a proper sense of self. Or an understanding that I don’t owe my life to my family and am very much allowed to make my own decisions. In the future, I would challenge this strong karmic, guilt-ridden bond passed on over generations between me and my parents many more times, but to this day I’m beyond proud of my conviction back then to fully step up for myself.

They visited me at the hospital and we had a session together with my therapist.
There were lots of tears, apologies and sharings.

Over the years, our relationship has drastically evolved.

Most recently, I involuntarily found myself moving back to their place for almost a year.

It was healing and challenging at the same time.
I’m learning that now we can fight in a safe way.
I’m learning to take 100% ownership of my emotions, instead of habitually blaming them.
I’m learning to love them a new way.

They love me and my brother very much and did the best they could.
And we continue to learn from each other.

We can’t erase the past, but we can write new memories together.

sharing hospital stories

It was only two years ago - eight years after my stay - that I randomly talked to a fellow German nomad in Madeira about mental health. We discovered that we -now both employed with stable income- shared the clinic experience.

It was the first time I met someone ‘in the normal world’ with this experience.

It felt very special.

With sparkling eyes, he also described his stay as transformative and incredibly fun with a strong solidarity between the patients.

We were both expressing gratitude for having survived a hopeless phase and for how well everything had turned out in the end.