Teenage Years

 When I was in Junior High, 2 classmates died by suicide. I didn't know either of them well, didn't even really know what suicide was. I learned a lot at that time.

Tom Eschler died first, he lived about 2 blocks away, and I knew who he was, and we had mutual friends but never interacted.

Tim Wright died exactly one month later; there were rumors the two boys (best friends) had made a suicide pact. I am not sure if that was true or not. I only knew Tim's name.

As you can imagine there was a lot of talk at school. Everyone was devastated by the news, even if we didn't know the boys personally, it was a difficult thing to have happen, especially in Junior High.

I remember being afraid to ask questions, hoping someone else would ask the questions I wanted answers to. I wanted to know how they did it, (perhaps I could try that?) where they did it? did they leave a note? Was it really a sin to kill yourself?

I did find out that one died by gunshot and one died by overdose. A couple years after this, I started dating Brian Flanders, he was part of the suicide pact and was to be the 3rd one to die. After the first 2 deaths, all of the mutual friends of the two boys were taken to counseling and Brian ended up getting help instead of completing his suicide plan. Brian told me that his plan was to split his wrists. He described the best way to do this.

Before all this, I had never thought there was a way to escape my constant racing thoughts. When others talked about how terrible and selfish the suicides were, I thought "I wish I could do that.". I listened intently as classmates and friends talked about all the ways one could die by suicide.

I heard about cutting, but I was too scared to cut deeper than the surface. 

I heard about shooting, but I didn't have access to, or knowledge of how to use a gun.

I heard about overdosing. This I could do! I didn't know that it actually required certain medications, and my Tylenol, Aspirin, Aleve, and Ibuprofen weren't going to do much. I had dizzy spells and ringing ears but that was it. I kept trying to take more and more but the results didn't change. I was disappointed. I tried to talk to Brian but he told me that it was stupid to try with those medications. I just decided to write my feelings in my journal instead of talking to someone. Brian read my journal, and told my mom to look at it.

I came home one day to my mom crying and holding my journal. Soon after, she got me in therapy and I started taking antidepressants. Things looked up for the first time in my life. 

The Early Years

 When I was a little girl, probably 5 or 6, I remember thinking that I was the exception when people said things like "Jesus said love everyone" or "be kind to everyone". I thought that nobody could love me. That people all around the world had photos of me, pulled out to explain that I was the exception, or for someone to hold up and say, "I can't bring myself to love or be kind to this person", after which, the adult or other person would say "of course you can't. She's the exception. She is unlovable". 

When prayers were said, I was terrified that everyone was watching me and making judgments about my appearance and the way I held my arms or how tall and stiff I sat. 

Throughout my childhood, and into my adult life (even now at times) I was paranoid about people watching me. I walked stiffly, unsure what to do with my hands as I walked. Nervous what a smile might look like or imply, afraid to speak to just about everyone because I hated the sound of my voice and believed everyone else did, too. 

Honestly, I don't know how "normal" any of this is. I know everyone gets nervous at times, or probably even has occasional paranoia. I just know that this was constant, racing thoughts from early childhood on. I always felt awkward, different, weird. I was very much a turtle in its shell.

TMS, the Beginning and the End

I started TMS shortly before I turned 41, in May of 2021. 

The first appointment consisted of placing an elastic medical "hat" on my head (one of my friends said it looked like a pair of men's briefs.... good comparison). Marks were made so that it would always be positioned exactly the same on my head. They gave me tiny shocks of electricity while I held my hands out. When my fingers twitched, they knew they had the right voltage (?) and position for the machine. Once everything seemed in place, I was scheduled for my treatments.

I went in 5 days a week for, I believe, 5 weeks. Every appointment brought a panic attack. I would arrive early, cry my eyes out, and go in like everything was fine. How could I explain that it was so terrifying to be in the clinic that "treats" treatment-resistant mood disorders? How could I describe the nightmare that was induced by being near this clinic? Why did I keep returning, and why did I still crave that ECT treatment I had been so traumatized by?

The TMS nurse was amazing. I reported on my moods every few treatments, and the machine was adjusted as needed to try and ensure the best results possible. By the end of my last treatment, I had decided this was helping SO much. I told the nurses as much. They were so excited to hear that it was what I needed. 

Then, suddenly, without warning, I was told insurance no longer wanted to pay for my TMS. It was "unnecessary" after a few weeks. I still can't understand why insurance will cover unending amounts of torture that included anesthesia, paralytics, muscle relaxants, breathing aids, expensive equipment and machinery, beds, IVs, prescriptions, and more. But a simple in-and-out process that helped was "not covered" because of cost.

I was once again left alone, without any follow-up or concern from the entire medical staff at the treatment-resistant mood disorders clinic.

How I "Escaped"

My kids expressed to me that they wanted more from me. Things I used to do with them that I couldn't do anymore (anything on the weekends was off-limits because most treatments were Saturday mornings). I barely left the house. I got lost on the way to the schools I had been picking kids up from for years. I couldn't remember their friends. I forgot the way to my therapist's office, after 5 years of therapy at the location. My psychiatrist asked me questions about my medication and how I was doing, and I had no idea. I couldn't answer because I truly didn't know. I didn't remember if I even took my meds, let alone what dose I was on or how they were working. I had no emotions, I was zombie mom, so I couldn't talk about how they were working or not working.

During my ongoing treatments, I remember asking if we could space out treatments. I asked if when they thought I could stop. We tried talking to the staff. My dad, Jason, my friend Came, and my first-born, Karleah, all told them I wasn't myself. We asked when we could stop treatments. We were told, in a round-about way, that I would be doing this the rest of my life. Often, I would find myself crying at the thought of never-ending treatments and continued cognitive frustrations, memory loss, and zombie mom.

In March of 2021, my friend called and asked if I could play the piano at her son's baptism. It was at the same time I usually had a treatment. I wanted to tell her "No". I wanted to tell the clinic that I couldn't have my treatment because I was needed. But I didn't know how to do either!! I was torn. Finally, I decided this friend deserved to have me be there for her son's baptism. We had been friends a long time.

I canceled my treatment and tearfully hung up the phone. The best thing I can compare it to is "Stockholm Syndrome". I was going to try going 2 weeks between treatments, and I was so scared of how things would end up in 14 days. The staff didn't ask any questions, didn't ask if I wanted to schedule my next treatment. I assumed they would call the following week and tell me what time to be in. They didn't, and I was devastated that they had forgotten all about me. They didn't even care about me, or make sure I wasn't on a dangerous downhill slide into the darkness my mind could create. It was silent.

I don't remember how long I waited to call them. But I was crying and wanted to beg to be put back on the ECT schedule. They told me I could come in for another consultation. When I went in, TMS was brought up again. I wanted to go back to the numbness that ECT gave me, the complete obliviousness that it created. But I also knew it wasn't helping. I don't remember how the decision was made, but I started TMS right before my birthday in 2021.

Looking back, I am rather disgusted at the lack of concern shown by the staff when I stopped treatment so abruptly after 21 months. At the time, I was depressed by it all, but I didn't know how to express what I was feeling. I was still a zombie. It took years to realize just how awful that was.

Finding Humor

For 21 months I averaged one treatment per week. Sometimes there were 2 or 3 treatments per week, and I think the farthest I got between treatments was 12 days. This was stressful for my kids, my parents, my husband, and myself. I was tired of burdening someone to drive me to and from each treatment. I was tired of sleeping most of my weekends away, unable to function after a treatment. I hated that my kids were ignored or neglected. But most of all, I hated that I was "zombie mom" (a term Vanessa, who was 13 when I started treatments, coined after I stopped ECT). I was barely functioning as a human. Let alone being the mom my kids needed (and deserved).

At the time, I couldn't find anything funny or entertaining about the situation. It took a while to laugh at some of the things. Some examples: 

• I bought the same dress for my daughter 3 times. 
• I woke up one terrified of Jason. I didn't remember him, let alone marrying him. He pointed out we had 2 kids together, and when TJ and Emily entered the room, I was flabbergasted. I asked where Aaron was (my ex-husband. We had been divorced for 7 years when I started ECT)
• I had the same conversation with a friend (and fellow ECT survivor) 3 times. Neither of us remembered this, and at least twice she had to remind be that we had met in the psychiatric hospital. 
• "New carpet" (I believe I mentioned this previously). We had a flood shortly before my hospital stay, and it took a REALLY long time to get the carpet replaced. I forgot, several times, that the carpet had finally been replaced. I came home from many treatments, shocked to see the carpet.
• When waking up from anesthesia, the medical staff had to make sure I was aware enough to be sent home. Jason loves telling me that I often couldn't remember his name, just kept saying he was "honey" and "my honey" with a goofy love-struck teenager expression on my face.

It took time to laugh about this. But to be honest, it was also humiliating. I have seen the Facebook post where I asked if anyone needed one of the extra dresses I had purchased. I had no memory of the event until I saw the FB memory, and it brought tears to my eyes. Somehow, I remembered how upsetting that was at the time; admitting that I had forgotten (more than once) what I was doing.

I am grateful that we were able to find some humor. It is one of the best things that came out of this whole mess.

    

Things They Didn't Mention

In my previous post, I mentioned how the doctor promised ECT would be a permanent solution. He told me all side effects were minimal and temporary. There might be a little bit of memory loss, but it those memories would easily return once treatment stopped.

They LIED. They had no reason to believe this was true. 

Some of the things they didn't tell me (or Jason):

    Not only do you receive anesthesia for treatment, but a paralytic. You will actually be unable to breathe on your own, and your heart actually stops for several seconds. Even when my family watched a treatment, they didn't know this was happening. The doctors and staff are very careful to keep it hidden.

    Your memories will not return

    This is not a permanent cure

    The treatment center will never stop scheduling treatments. They want you to keep going forever.

    There are cognitive impairments that you will need to work hard to overcome, and that will only happen after you've stopped treatments. Hand-eye-coordination will be terrible. Your vision will be blurred off and on. Walking can cause dizziness, and looking from one thing to another (like checking a recipe on your phone, then looking back at the ingredients) will cause confusion.

    I can't tell you how many times I got lost in the parking lot at work, or a grocery store.

    Sudden jerking movements will become common. While driving, you may take your foot off the break or gas. Try stirring food, and you'll flick it out of the bowl. Try using a computer mouse, and you'll throw it across the desk. Try holding your baby and you might drop her.

    Depression will worsen between treatments.

    You will likely have "floaters" or tiny black spots in your eyes for years.

    Migraines are commonplace.

    Maybe this one was just me, but I often get "phanton" feelings like the IV is still in my arm, or the probes are still on my head. Sometimes I get a headache specifically where the probes would have been.

You will not feel anything at times. Your kids will want a hug, and you'll wonder why because it doesn't do anything for you. Your husband will want a kiss or a cuddle, and you'll feel indifferent. 

This may have been explained but I'm not sure. ECT is done in a "series" or "maintenance" phase. I'm pretty sure that a "permanent" cure doesn't need maintenance. But what do I know, I am just a stupid depressed person.

ECT series consists of several treatments, really close together, then slowly easing off the treatments and getting the further and further apart until you can stop treatments all together. (other than "maintenance")

I had 3 series done. Each time I restarted, the depression was worse. I hated myself for causing so much stress on my family. I hated that it wasn't working. I thought (and still often think) that if medication, hospital stays, and the most extreme treatment available don't help me, why should I keep trying? Why bother? When the 2nd series was started, the doctor failed to tell me that I shouldn't drive. I was in 3 car accidents and got written up at work before my doctor said I shouldn't be working or driving.

I don't remember my wedding. I don't remember being pregnant, SEVEN times. I don't remember my miscarriage. I forgot I was divorced and remarried. I forgot over and over that we had new carpet. I forgot about just about everything in my childhood. When I returned to work, I had to use the documents I created for others to use when I was out of office. I couldn't do my job, I couldn't cook, I couldn't bond with my family. Many people think it's funny or that it would be nice to forget things. But I remember the most traumatic parts of my first marriage. I remember the abuse of a high school boyfriend. I can tell you some of the hardest things I've been through. But I don't remember giving birth to my babies. I don't remember falling in love with Jason. I don't remember getting dogs, going on vacations, or anything that happened for 2 years during ECT treatments, and another 18(ish) months after as I relearned so much.

My kids were traumatized by the zombie mom they had. I forgot how to put a band-aid on! My child comes crying with an injury, and I stare at the wall. They have a fever; I push them away. My kids have been through just as much HELL as I have. And they shouldn't have been put in that position.

It would be easy to forgive the doctors, if they would listen to those of us that try to point out what ECT does to a person. But they refuse to accept the feedback from patients. If the ECT doctors themselves won't hear it, why would a primary care doctor or an ER nurse or any other medical professional believe that is what causes migraines or jerking movements or memory loss or any number of other problems? My therapist and psychiatrist believe I have permanent brain damage. 

The worst is trying to explain to others why you can't remember things. Why you can't do things. So many people think ECT was only a historical torture treatment. Many don't realize it is still used to torture people, but now it is called "treatment"

ECT is suggested

 After about a week in the hospital, I wasn't improving. I was still severely depressed. The rest of this blog post is based on my journal entries, and a couple memories from Jason:

A doctor came to my room and discussed trying something more extreme or drastic to treat my depression. The "normal" or "traditional" methods didn't seem to work for me. They told me they would find out what insurance was willing to cover, but I was a good candidate for either treatment.

The first suggestion was TMS (transcranial magnetic stimulation) where they put two magnets on either side of your head and send tiny electrical currents through your brain. It was only a few minutes at a time, minimal side effects. (To this day, I wonder why I didn't take this recommendation)

The second suggestion was ECT (electroconvulsive therapy). For this treatment, you will be given anesthesia as they place electrodes on your head and send enough electricity through you to cause a seizure. But you'd be asleep so it wouldn't hurt or be scary or anything like that. The doctor promised that every side effect would be temporary, and I would be permanently cured afterward so it would be worth it anyway. 

The doctors told me that, while TMS was easier on the body, I should do ECT because I would get faster results and be able to go home sooner. I didn't care what it took, I was ready to start feeling better. Later that night, when Jason came to visit, we had the doctor explain both treatment options to him.

I don't know how long we waited and pondered, but obviously we chose to try ECT.

Before ECT

I don't remember a lot about specifics. Some of these memories will be based on what others have told me, and what I have read in my hospital journal. But here's the beginning of my ECT story.

June 29, 2018 I gave birth to my 7th child. For several months I was in that "new baby euphoria". I struggled with PPD every time I had a baby, but usually the cuddles, therapy, and ESPECIALLY breastfeeding got me through it. This time, the depression slowly got worse instead of easing off.

Emily was our 12th child in a blended family. Blending our family was hard, as you'd expect. 

I was used to younger kids that still thought I was the best mommy ever, (mostly) and I was used to very specific routines for bedtime and dinner and homework and chores. 

Jason was used to just getting whatever time he could with his kids, no matter how chaotic or stressful it was. He was used to them talking back and being disrespectful, as teens are. 

Where I wanted to pray and ready scriptures, have a family dinner, stick to our chore chart, and have fun family times, Jason and his older kids wanted to come in, eat whatever they wanted, make a mess. fight scripture study, church activity, and prayers, and then leave. Rarely could we discipline or enforece chores because they were in and out so often.

I was used to having my kids almost every night, they only saw their dad every other weekend, and even that was dependent on what their dad wanted or had going on with his wife. Jason was used to driving all over town to get his kids from various activities and having them every single Wednesday and every single weekend. He fought for that. I admired that. But it was still hard.

The closer Emily's 1st birthday got, the more I thought about dying. I couldn't tell you why, or what the triggers were. I don't remember if there was one event that started the downhill slide, or if it was the continuous stress of blending a family. I knew that if I waited until after Emily's first birthday, I could breastfeed her as long as I had my other kids, and I would be gone before she or TJ (only 2 years older than her) could build any memories of the horrible mom and person I was. 

4 of our kids needed their wisdom teeth out at that time. Lilly, Jeanine, Anthonio, and Karleah. Lilly refused to come to appointments (later she admitted she wouldn't have passed the drug test). But the other 3 were set up for the procedure. When the healing was done, and the pain subsided for the 3 teens (all age 18) we asked for the remainder of their pain pills so we could discard them. For some reason, they all had different prescriptions. I told Jason I would take care of the pills. I didn't.

By the end of July 2019, I had been breastfeeding Emily for 13 months, and I had my suicide planned. This is one thing I remember very clearly..... I had been hiding 2 of the prescription bottles in my glove box. I was going to take them after I got off work. My mom (who was watching TJ and Emily) would think I had therapy or some other appointment, and nobody else would expect me for another 5 or 6 hours. Nobody at work would know any different, and because people sleep in their cars between shifts of before going home after a graveyard shift, I knew nobody would think anything of me sleeping in my car. By the time I started reacting, IF anyone saw me, and IF the emergency workers could get there, it would be too late. I would be done with the pain of this life, and my family would be free of me.

As I left for work that July morning, I started my car and realized I had forgotten the 3rd prescription. I had done a lot of reading about how much of each pill would cause death and I wanted to make sure it worked. I couldn't just go with the two bottles I already had. I went back in the house to grab the last bottle. 

Jason was standing in front the drawer it was in. He was brushing his teeth, at 5am. I don't remember this, but Jason later told me, and he often says he is grateful that he woke up and felt the urgent need to brush his teeth. 

With Jason in the way, I couldn't tell him what I came back for, and I couldn't grab the pills. I remember crying on the way to work, angry that he had interrupted me. I went back and forth in my mind, on whether I should just try anyway with the two medications I had with me. I figured I could decide after work, and if necessary, I would just complete my suicide the next day.

When I left work, I was determined to take every pill in the two bottles I had. My journals indicate I was still upset that Jason interrupted me. I got to my car, pulled out the pill bottles, and grabbed my water. I was so afraid it wouldn't work. I put everything away and started the car.

My phone rang. It was Jason. I didn't want to answer. I can't remember my thought process, and I don't remember why he called, other than he said I needed to meet him somewhere because of some emergency. As I started driving, tears rolled down my cheeks. I tried to convince myself I could wait one more day.

When it came time for me to go home, I screamed and cried so hard my throat hurt and my chest ached. I asked God "why" and screamed "I should have just done it! I should have done it!"

My memories of the time between those screams and my hospital stay are completely gone. At some point, I opened up to Jason and he took me to a hospital. I guess while we waited to be seen, I started biting my arm. I was afraid that I would, be told (as I had so many times in my life) that it was nothing serious. I just needed to think positive. I was afraid of being minimized and sent home, and I guess I finally realized I didn't' want to die and leave my kids, my husband, my family. I just wanted the pain and depression to be taken away.

That night I was admitted to the University Neuropsychiatric Institution. UNI for short (later to be known as the Huntsman Mental Health Center)