Go Where You Are Watered

I paced around my room and did not know where to start. The floor was asea with clothes and all the items that called to be packed. With less than a week to move to Philadelphia for graduate school, my home looked like I had every intention of staying in Alexandria. I was gripped by all that I had to do and felt like sleeping—my go-to escape when I felt overwhelmed.

My roommate peeked in. I saw the surprise and concern on her face about how little I had done. She encouraged me to organize my items as I had a great new journey ahead of me. I was glad for the direction as I was lost in my mind trying to figure out how to start. Little by little, I stowed away my items. The house became less and less cluttered.

Even on the day I intended to leave Alexandria, I was still packing. The bustle and the anxiety of having to pack suddenly and the great adventure that awaited me galvanized me to action. I felt bad for my friends who came to help. I saw the same surprise and concern spread across their faces when they saw my lack of progress. They allowed me to direct them as to where my items should go and were patient when I dissociated and could not readily answer their questions. Still, we pressed on toward my next step in life and basked in the blessings that made my move possible.

The nature of my move would turn out to be indicative of my Philadelphia adventure overall. I would reach my intended end, but the journey would require my utmost tenacity.

The first signs of this would be the summer reading for my graduate program. I could not get past the first few pages of the novel. I chalked it up to the book format and purchased the ebook instead. Still, I could not focus. I ended up purchasing the audiobook and saw my mind drift in and out of attention. My mind was speaking to me yet I did not listen. I had not been listening since my diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder with psychotic features in 2016 and attributed everything to fatigue.

Two weeks after my arrival in Philadelphia, school started. Elation fueled me as I thought of all the prospects that lay ahead. The campus buzzed with excitement as the students filled the classrooms. I came alive with each conversation and new friend I made. I could see the genuine interest in their eyes when I shared my ideas and raised a point in class. I had never felt more accepted. Still, I found it hard to put away the sadness of my life in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area, where I had grown up.

I was working with a therapist in my university. However, I had not found a psychiatrist yet. I had also been uninsured the entire summer, so I was living on medication samples. Blessedly, I had access to the newest antipsychotic: Vraylar. It had little weight gain associated with it, which had been my dream since I started this nightmarish journey during which I gained 71 pounds. Even though I had access to the newest antipsychotic, I did not feel like it was having the intended effect. I called my psychiatrist in D.C. who told me I could stop taking it. Little did I know that this suggestion would start a domino effect that would change the course of my life.

Two days after I stopped taking the Vraylar, I felt like killing myself. The knives in my apartment looked appealing as did my box full of all the medications I had tried. I envisioned myself chugging my bottles of loxapine succinate—the antipsychotic that had actually had the best therapeutic benefit to date. I also imagined the freedom that would come with slitting my wrists.

I was hesitant to tell my university therapist. Our first session had been so pleasant. She looked at me like I was a normal person and not a diagnosis. By the time our second session occurred, I was simply tired. I shared with her my suffering, which translated into a positive suicide screen. A senior clinician came into the session and asked me additional questions for clarity. I was encouraged to present to the Hospital of the University of Philadelphia (HUP) for further consultation. When I spoke with the physician, he seemed annoyed. They had me on a 1 to 1 and the guard spoke about me as if I was not there. My madness had rendered me non-human and undeserving of respect.

A new university friend came to take me home after I was discharged from the hospital. She spoke with the clinicians at the university and the plan was for me to come to the counseling center after my consultation at HUP. My friend slept in my home with me. Since I was a child, I could only sleep well when someone else was near me. For reasons unbeknownst to me, I was terrified that someone would break into the house.

When my friend said she was leaving, I cried out of terror. I could not go back to sleep and I called the police. They did not come, and I was told by the 911 operator that it would be better for me to go to the hospital. Sadness fills me as I think of this.

I packed a bag of clothes to be prepared for potential hospitalization. The doors of the clinic locked behind me once I entered its white walls. I was now their prisoner. Everyone at the crisis center was very friendly. I presented in a way that did not raise concern. However, I saw the fear in the nurse’s eyes when she heard that I was on an antipsychotic. I saw the attending physician next, who also treated me very well. He asked me questions, and I was released shortly after.

I headed back to my university’s counseling center. The counselor who had escorted me to HUP seemed surprised that I had not been hospitalized. With my consent, she took me back to the crisis center. The counselor spoke with the attending physician who now looked at me with alarm. He evaluated me once more and presented me with two choices: voluntary or involuntary hospitalization should I decline the former. I consented to go as I was desperate for care and curious about what hospitalization would entail.

Once the crisis center found an open bed, the paramedics placed me on a gurney and the ambulance doors closed. Every bump in the road reminded me of the terror and excitement I felt. When we arrived at the hospital, I was assaulted by its sterile white walls that were filled with other pained souls seeking reprieve—some voluntarily like myself and others due to medical mandate.

Initially, the staff were very kind. They honored my suffering and provided me with the space to grieve my last semblance of normality. I was officially insane now. Even with the voices and the depression that engulfed my soul, I had told myself that I was still normal because I did not need to be hospitalized. I was defining myself and my success based on my ability to abuse my body and perform “normality.” I was different, I arrogantly reassured myself. I maintained gainful employment although I would come home after work and collapse due to emotional fatigue. This fatigue was psychic in nature and craved respite through the freedom of death. At 28 years old, I was ready to die. I wanted to die. I had even begged for death.

I spent five days in the hospital during which I was asked questions that searched for mania. That attempted to find a raison d’être for the madness. There was none. During my hospital stay, I was prescribed a new set of medications. No more antipsychotics. I was surprised as I had been told that I would be on an antipsychotic for the rest of my life. Yet, after a five-day hospitalization, I left with a new set of medications.

Now that I was no longer on the antipsychotic, I could feel again and the sadness was there once more. It is a strange thing to crave sadness. But my heart longed for the depths of my emotions that had been absent for the last three years under the rule of multiple antipsychotics.

This hospitalization was the first part of my journey to wellness after 22 years of suffering. I tried to return to school, but I just had no strength. I could not focus and only felt like sleeping. I would eventually leave my university under coercion and concern and a failed attempt at guilting me on the basis of the fear that my suffering had caused for another student.

I experienced the entire mental health system during this one-year sabbatical from school. I also experienced what true healing could be like. To live a life void of fear versus one that only knew survival instead of thriving. I would attempt to go back to the university that had started my journey back to health. Yet, there was no space for me there. The COVID-19 pandemic raged and the university’s administrators attempted to tend to my reenrollment while caring for the matriculated students.

As I attempted to obtain medical clearance, I was asked many invasive questions and asked to provide documents for which I was not told why they were needed and who would have access to them. I had asked, at least five times, what they needed the documentation for. Each time, I was ignored. The suffering came back and I felt like dying once more. The only thing I felt I had left was disappearing right before my eyes. I was a failure.

During this period of turmoil, something inside of me came alive. With the continued support of my outpatient therapist, I realized that I had free will. I did not need permission to take hold of my destiny; I did not need to fall prey to my perception of life happening to me. With one decision, I changed the course of my life. I wrote to my university and told them I was withdrawing from my program of study. I then wrote to the university I had originally wanted to attend and asked if they would consider taking me back, after I had initially declined their offer of admission. In two weeks, after reapplication, I was a student.

This university cared for me. They welcomed my neurodiversity and honored my mind. I did not feel ashamed nor a need to center the neuronormative instead of attending to my own mental health. I thrived in the program and found acceptance with others like me. My colleagues were brilliant, albeit insufferable at times, and helped me to believe in myself. It was not an easy process. Academically, I excelled. However, I was still gripped by fear. I feared being unable to finish this program. I also feared hospitalization and fed on this fear to succeed. My first set of finals exhausted me. However, my fear of failure dissipated when I turned in my last assignment for my first semester. Seyi, you can do this, I told myself.

It is now five years after I had the courage to take hold of my own destiny. To not let people make me feel like I was less-than due to a diagnosis. My mental health struggles have not dissipated. However, I can actually say that I am well. I have never experienced homelessness, which became a fear post-hospitalization due to someone I had encountered, with my diagnosis, who called the streets of Philadelphia home. I finished my masters although it took me two tries. Everything I had planned to achieve has come to pass. More importantly, I am well.

The psychosis is gone. Most of the time, I feel genuine peace. I no longer fear being alone. I can sleep with my bedroom door open without feeling fear of someone breaking into my home or a constant need to check the apartment door and windows. I stood up for myself when someone’s bigotry tried to define me. I thrived at work and am now in the third year of a doctoral program at the institution that helped me reorient myself to wholeness and honor who I was.

I chose to go where I was watered instead of begging for nutrients from an inhospitable environment. I was blooming. I had always been in full bloom and my openness to help allowed me to see that. I leave you with this quote as it has served as a North Star toward wellness:

“When a flower does not blossom, you don’t change the flower — you change the environment.”