It’s been two years now since my first (and hopefully only) inpatient treatment for depression. In so many ways it feels like forever ago because in the intervening months, so much has happened in my life. I’ve struggled to regain my feet and reassamble my life after losing my marriage, my home, and my employment over the course of two weeks. I’ve fought to come to terms with the effect that chronic anxiety has had in my life since then. I’ve worked my backside off to find permanent, stable, gainful employment (which is, unfortunately, still a work in progress).

But I’ve also learned so very much. I have a better understanding of who I am now and have more insight into myself than I’ve had in probably 15 or more years. I have a better idea of my place in the world, of what I have to contribute to it. I have a wonderful relationship with a woman who I never thought in a million years could possibly exist, let alone fall in love with someone like me. I’ve rebuilt so much of my scattered mind, regained my sense of self, found my interest in things to do with writing and coding again, and even picked up some new hobbies along the way. I actually have hope for the future, where a couple of years ago I couldn’t even see a future, only darkness and despair. It’s amazing the difference two years have made, and rather than write something new, I’d like to point you back to what I wrote exactly two years ago today about my experience.

Just a few days ago, I was released from the hospital after a four-day treatment program for severe depression and suicidal ideation. This was my first inpatient hospital stay of any kind, and while I wouldn’t exactly describe it as being fun, it was extremely helpful and beneficial. Without it I’m not sure I’d even be alive right now to write about it. [Read the whole thing at Four Days in a Psych Ward.]