Far from Home, Part 1: Why I Went to a Residential Treatment Facility for Depression

I have wanted to write about my time at Timberline Knolls, but I haven’t even known where to begin. Being away from home for 4 weeks to live with 30 other women with mental health problems is by far the hardest thing I have ever done, and there wasn’t a day when I was there that I didn’t question what in the world I was doing. However, I know that going was worthwhile. I know that going probably saved my life. And I know that going changed me. There is much that happened, much that I want to tell, but also much that I will keep to myself. 

So here are bits and pieces of my experience at a residential facility, where I received intensive treatment for recurrent, treatment-resistant major depressive disorder

My decision to go to a residential facility actually began while I was still inpatient (for the second time) at a mental hospital in Memphis. I was there for nine days and was miserable the whole time. The only bright spot was my therapist, who met with me every day. Towards the end of my time there, he looked me straight in the eye and said, “There’s a corner you haven’t turned yet. There is more you need to address, and we can’t do it here. You need extended time to heal. You should really consider a residential program.” I was completely taken aback. I hadn’t seen this coming. No one had ever mentioned this before, nor did I even realize that there was such a thing as a residential program for depression where you could actually take extended time away from your life to deal with mental illness. Of course, before this year I had no reason to know such a thing existed, for it certainly wasn’t anything I had needed before, nor has anyone I know ever been to such a place.

My first instinct was to dismiss his suggestion, and I said as much. There was no way I could leave my family for any longer than I already had. There was no way I could ask my husband to bear the full weight of household responsibilities. But then the therapist spoke the obvious: “If you were dead, he’d be taking care of it all, all of the time. Don’t you think he’d rather do it for 30 days instead of the rest of his life?” Though I resisted for a couple of days, after praying and talking it over with Stephen, we made the decision for me to pursue residential treatment. I had tried so many other things to little avail; what if what I needed was something big and drastic? After many tears and a lot of phone calls, I was connected with someone from a program much farther away than I had imagined going: Chicago. Timberline Knolls (TK) supposedly had a good reputation, though, and since I knew I wouldn’t be getting a lot of visitors no matter where I ended up because visiting time is so limited at these kinds of places, I decided it made little difference whether I was two hours away or eight hours a way. A representative from TK did a very detailed, somewhat intrusive phone screening with me (asking me such questions as what medications I take, how often I have suicidal thoughts, what, if any plan I had, etc.) and then told me I was cleared to receive treatment there, and they could accept me as soon as I was able to get there. This all happened on a Friday, and we decided that my parents would drive me part of the way on Monday and finish up the trip on Tuesday, when I would be admitted. 

When I first arrived at TK, I was terrified. My mom and dad waited with me while I went through pre-admission screenings and answered questions I had already answered several times over. At one point I just laid my head on my mom’s shoulder and cried. I felt lost and scared. I couldn’t believe this was my reality. I had left my husband and my girls hundreds of miles away, all because life was too much for me to handle. I felt like a failure and a burden. I remember pleading with the Lord for this to make a difference, for the time not to be wasted, for me to have a renewed appreciation for life. 

After several hours, I was led to the place where I would spend the next four weeks: Willow Lodge. One of the other residents gave me a tour of the facility, which helped me feel a little more comfortable. The lodge is basically a huge house, with several bedrooms that housed anywhere from 2-4 residents. It had a small kitchen where we had our snacks (and where some residents who were not permitted off lodge ate all their meals), a common area called the milieu, and three group rooms where group therapy was held. There was also a medical area (essentially a closet) where nurses dispensed medications three times a day. I feel like I spent more time waiting in line for my medications than anything else!   

I was assigned to a room with two other women, and the following day a third woman was added, bringing my room to full capacity at four. I was really anxious about living with other people, but I was fortunate to have roommates who were easy to get along with and who did not cause drama. We each had a twin bed and a chest of drawers and a small open closet to hang up some clothes, and we had a display board where we could hang up pictures or other mementos. One of my friends had taken the time to make several printouts of various Scriptures and put them on pretty scrapbook paper, so I was able to rotate through these the whole time I was gone. It was a simple gesture that made living in an unfamiliar place a little more bearable, and I was so grateful for it. 

The first night I was there was a blur. I wrote in my journal, begging God to be near and asking Him to deliver me from darkness and restore to me the joy of my salvation. I didn’t know how He would do it, but I prayed that being at TK was setting me on the path to get there.

To be continued…

To My Worst Critic

When I was at Timberline Knolls, every Thursday I went to a group focused on body image. It was right after a group I had that focused on self-image. Since I have just a FEW issues related to both of those things, I cried in almost every session. (Basically, Thursdays were a real treat.) One of the body image sessions talked about the negative messages we receive about our bodies, ones that come from both external and internal sources, and how we can counter these messages with healthy, productive thoughts. One exercise we did was to write a letter addressed to our body critics. We were given paper with pre-printed lines and text at the top that said, “Dear Body Critics.” It didn’t take me long to realize that my biggest critic isn’t someone else, so I crossed out “Body Critics” and wrote my name instead. Below is the letter I wrote in the few minutes we had. It’s not terribly profound, but somehow seeing the truth in black and white was a breakthrough for me. I hope it encourages someone else to remember to listen to the truth instead of lies.

Dear Erin,

Be kind to yourself. Your value is not determined by the amount of space you occupy in the world. Your value is not determined by the number on the scale or on your jeans. Your value is not determined by what others think or say about you. Your value is set by God, who declares you fearfully and wonderfully made, who delights in you, who dances over you with singing and joy. In Christ you have the value of a redeemed child of God–pure, blameless, beautiful, and worthy to approach the throne of God with confidence. The only words that matter are the words that God speaks over you. Listen to His voice, and may it be loud enough to silence the voice of hate always ringing in your ears. Remember that nothing can separate you from God’s love–not height nor depth, death nor life, not even your own self-hatred. Walk in the truth that you are loved, and stand tall and live fearless.

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What Depression Is Like

For a while now I have wanted to write a poem that encapsulates what it feels like to have depression, and last week I finally managed to put in words what I have been battling for over a year. It’s rather, well, depressing, but honestly there aren’t many happy things about depression. Allow this poem to be a glimpse into the life of someone struggling with mental illness.

 

Depression

The ground beneath me is quicksand,
And I am pulled under, weighed down.
The farther I sink, the more the sand
Grips me, and the less I believe there is
A way out. 

Fighting for breath, I cast my gaze upward,
Searching for any signs of life.
Darkness forms in the corners of my vision,
Blackening the blue sky until only
A pinhole of light remains. 

As long as there is light, I hope.
But the sand is filling up my lungs,
Filling every crevice, every fold of skin,
And it won’t be long until there is
No way out. 

-Erin Mount, 2019

adventure arid barren coast
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The Hard, Right Thing

On Tuesday, I am going to be checking myself into a residential facility outside of Chicago to receive more intensive treatment for depression. This comes after spending nine days at a mental hospital in Memphis because my suicidal thoughts became too great to bear. I knew my life was in danger, and so I made the hard choice to go back to inpatient treatment rather than give in to the darkness. While I did receive help in Memphis, it wasn’t enough, which is why I have made the excruciating decision to leave my family and seek further treatment. It is my desperate hope that by devoting all of my time to my mental and spiritual health I can finally find relief from the pain that has dogged me for months.

The idea of being away from my family for 30 days, which is the amount of time I will likely be gone, breaks my heart. I don’t know how my girls will ever understand why I had to leave them. However, I am praying that one day they will see that I sacrificed this time with them now so that I can be there for them for many more years to come. This is without a doubt the hardest thing I have ever done, but I also know it is the right thing. I pray that God will use it to bring me healing and to bring Himself glory, and I would covet your prayers for my family and for me.

I imagine there are those of you who are reading this who do not understand how I can leave my family, who do not understand why I don’t just snap out of this depression. I don’t write these words for you. I write them for the ones who are reading them and also feel hopeless and despairing, and I pray that my story encourages them to reach out and get help. There is love and support waiting. I have found more than I ever thought possible, more than I deserve. Even in the darkest night, the light of Christ shines brightly on me, as He shows His love for me through my dear family and friends and church.

The way forward is scary and unknown, but His Word promises to be a lamp to my feet and a light to my path, so I will take it one step at a time and trust in the Savior who died for me.

the path among the trees

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