In my first blog post, I reflected on how a series of unexplained physical symptoms—five days of relentless nausea and vomiting with no apparent cause—left me exhausted and confused. Little did I know, this was just the start of a journey that would lead me to a mental facility.
I still chuckle at the irony of being placed on a 51/50 hold because I’ve always thought of myself as pretty sane. But, as I shared in that initial post, given the life I’ve lived, it’s no wonder I reached that breaking point. As a child of addicts, I witnessed and experienced things no child should ever have to endure—molestation, rape, constant moving, and so much more before I even turned 18. These traumas, long buried, began to resurface in therapy, overwhelming me just when I thought I had everything under control.
On top of that, my mom and mother-in-law were both hospitalized with serious issues around the same time. It felt like life was hitting me from every angle. I was physically sick, mentally drained, and completely overwhelmed. With everything piling up, I reached a breaking point. I knew I needed help, so I asked my husband to call 911, fully aware that I’d end up on a 51/50 hold. At that point, the suicidal thoughts were winning, and I figured being in a facility might be safer for everyone, including my family. They had already taken on so much.
For those who aren’t familiar, a 51/50 hold is an involuntary psychiatric hold for up to 72 hours. It’s meant to keep you safe when you’re in the middle of a mental health crisis.
As if being physically sick wasn’t enough, my anxiety was off the charts. I was holding on to a sliver of hope that I’d finally get the help I needed. The nausea and pain meds from the ER were working, so that was something. When I got to the facility, things went downhill fast. The staff seemed unorganized, overworked, and honestly, annoyed with their jobs. After sitting around for hours, I learned that getting “checked in” meant going through the rules, relinquishing all of my personal belongings, a strip search, signing some documents, and a tour. By the time they actually admitted me, I was exhausted, anxious, and downright scared.
All I wanted was to sleep, but instead, I had to argue with an RN who seemed completely confused about my medications. After a heated back-and-forth, he finally called a doctor and got things sorted out. By that point, I was shaking with anger and frustration. That was my first—and thankfully, only—night there.
The next morning I woke up nauseous…again. My roommate hurried to get a nurse when she woke up to me vomiting and crying. I headed from my room to the nurses station where I curled up in a chair, throwing up into a bucket (because that’s all they had) and begging for help. I felt more like a number than a person in need. The nurse offered some nausea meds and told me they would alert the medical team when they arrived. Nobody seemed to know when that would happen. Feeling hopeless, I called my husband on one of the pay phones along the wall and tearfully gave him the rundown. Between calls, I listened to the staff discuss how there wasn’t an overnight RN present as required, how a patient had stolen a comb and tried to kill herself with it in the middle of the night, and all kinds of other things that I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t have been privy to. My husband immediately started making calls, trying to get me back to the hospital.
The worst part of the experience was the total loss of control. I couldn’t make decisions about my own care. The medical team, who was supposed to examine me and determine whether there was a need for medical attention, was nowhere to be found. The staff’s confusion over my medication wasn’t just frustrating—it was a crushing blow to my already fragile sense of hope. A quick chat with a psychiatrist revealed that my recent emotional breakdown due to trauma work, combined with the real-life mess and sickness, was the perfect storm. She wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make the help arrive any faster. She, too, was waiting on this elusive medical team.
Hours passed in a blur of sickness and despair. One particularly low moment stands out: I tried to get up to use the restroom but was too weak to walk. I slid down the wall, landing on the cold, hard floor. I sat there for over an hour. When I asked for help, the staff told me they couldn’t touch me. Other patients tried to get the staff to help or at least let them assist me, but no luck. Eventually, when no one one kind patient slid me a chair so I could pull myself up. At one point, after I was able to pull myself into the chair, a nurse’s harsh words— “What kind of drugs are you on?”—echoed judgment rather than concern.
Finally, after what felt like forever, the psychiatrist told me she’d arranged for an ambulance to take me back to the hospital. I was relieved, but the wait for the ambulance felt endless. The whole experience shook me to my core. Trust, which was already fragile in my life, took a serious hit. How do you trust a system that strips away your autonomy so easily and fails to provide the compassion and understanding you desperately need?
I haven’t talked much about this experience in therapy. My therapist is part of the same system that I feel failed me. Since the hold, I’ve been urged to rely on the same system if I have suicidal thoughts again. That makes therapy tough because sometimes, I’m scared I’ll face the same judgment and abandonment I did in that facility.
Trust has been and continues to be a big hurdle in my healing journey. The fear of being judged or abandoned makes it hard to fully open up and address my deepest thoughts and feelings. It’s a vicious cycle—my trauma from childhood and the hold feeds my distrust in people and the system, which then stifles my progress in therapy. I’m trying to break that cycle, one day at a time, learning to rebuild trust bit by bit.
Even with all this, I’ve made some progress. I’m starting to understand where my thoughts and emotions come from and how they’ve impacted me, both positively and negatively. I’ve always been able to self-check, but I tend to be my own worst critic. I’m learning to be kinder to myself so I can work through my issues rather than getting stuck in them.
I learned about square breathing in therapy, and it’s become a crucial tool for me. Whenever I feel anxiety building, square breathing helps me to slow down, regain control, and prevent myself from spiraling into a full-blown panic attack. It’s a simple technique, but it’s been incredibly effective in those overwhelming moments.
My therapist suggested EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) as a way to process some of my deepest traumas. The process itself can be intense, but it’s been transformative for me. Through EMDR, I’ve been able to reframe some of my most traumatic memories, viewing them in a new light and reducing the emotional hold they had on me. This therapy has been a significant part of my healing, allowing me to move forward with a clearer mind and a lighter heart.
But more than any technique, God has been my constant Comforter. Even when I struggle to lean into His embrace, His peace and grace have kept me grounded. Psalm 34:18 has been my go-to: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” And Isaiah 41:10 gives me strength: “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
I know I’ve made progress, but I also know I still have a long way to go. Trust remains a big hurdle that affects my life and a lot of my therapy sessions. Sometimes, I feel like my thought process is warped—like I’m what some people might call “crazy.” I fear being labeled and pushed aside the way I was in that facility. The truth is, most of my life, I’ve been pushed along because I seem fine. Until last year, most people didn’t know the seriousness of my struggle with anxiety and depression or the depths of the trauma I’ve experienced. I’ve heard “Oh my God, I had no idea” more times than I can count.
My goal is to eventually be able to talk about this experience openly, without fear of judgment or being misunderstood. I’ve only scratched the surface of how that experience affected me, but I’m committed to continuing my healing journey. It’s not easy, but I’m learning to take it one step at a time. Progress, no matter how slow, is still progress.
Oh, and in case you’re wondering—turns out the mysterious “medical team” was more like a mirage in the desert. Always talked about, but never actually there. I half expected them to show up in the last few minutes, like a surprise guest on a reality show, but nope!
If you or someone you know is facing a mental health crisis, please seek help. We’re all in this together, and with support, we can find our way through the complexities of mental health and onto a path of healing.
Writings on My Heart 