I worked myself to the point of hospitalization—twice

A speech shared during a Stories of Failure event

Hey pals, for this issue of Life as a Lunatic I’m sharing a talk I gave during Foster’s Fuck-Up event, an intimate gathering of writers sharing stories of failure. I was really moved by the reception I received, so I’ve put the speech into writing below (no, there’s no recording and even if there was, I wouldn’t share it. Like many writers, I hate the sound of my voice). Life as a Lunatic will return to its regular format in the next issue.

I’m Miranda. I’m a writer from Toronto, Canada, and today I’m going to tell you about how I worked myself to the point of hospitalization—twice.

First, a little context: I grew up in a bit of a chaotic household. My biological father left before I was born, my stepdad was dealing with addiction and health issues, my mother was the primary breadwinner with her own undiagnosed mental health problems. There was some physical abuse, a lot of emotional abuse, and quite a bit of neglect. I started showing symptoms of depression pretty early, and tried to die by suicide for the first time at six. At 15, my mom and I decided it was time for me to leave home. By the beginning of grade 12, I was couch-surfing full-time, sleeping at friend’s houses, or in suburban backyards. Between my mental illness, and my life experiences, I had turned into quite the people pleaser determined to take up as little space as possible. 

Fast-forward to 25 years old. Despite the mess of my early years, I had made it through high school on the honour roll, was accepted into one of the country’s best journalism programs, and graduated into a declining industry. Unfortunately, during my last year of university, I was prescribed a high dose of antipsychotic medication during inpatient treatment for a suicide attempt that essentially turned my brain into applesauce. Even after I went off the medication, I could barely string together a sentence let alone compete with my talented colleagues in an industry that had maybe fifteen available jobs for thousands of new grads. So, I did what any shaky writer does: I got into PR.

I really did have high hopes that one day the fog in my brain would dissipate and I’d once again be capable of clear and linear thought, so I got jobs in events and publicity for Canadian magazines and literary nonprofits so I’d always be close to writers and publishers. Now, as anyone who has worked in a nonprofit or in the startup world knows, adequate resources are not so much a thing. Everyone is stretched super thin, expected to take on roles well outside of their job descriptions, work unpaid overtime, be poorly paid in general, and expected to do the work five people would be responsible for in a well-staffed organization. Because of all this, I had to freelance on top of my nonprofit roles. At my peak, I was working 100 hours a week.

Needless to say, all the evidence of mounting burnout was there: poor sleep, panic attacks, missed deadlines, weight loss, irritability and emotionality. But, remember, I was an inherent people-pleaser. I was never taught the skills to take care of myself. Instead, I survived by anticipating the moods of others and catering to their needs. So, I worked, and I worked, and I worked. I barely had a social life outside of my job, couldn’t afford to blow off steam even if I wanted to, ignored the mounting warning signs that I was overwhelmed, and turned to unhealthy coping mechanisms like drugs and self-harm.

Everything came to a head over a particular busy March weekend. I had wanted to spend time with my new(ish) partner, but was responsible for completing a large chunk of an operational arts grant on top of my freelance work. I had already been feeling very depressed and panicked for most of the week, and had even visited a walk-in mental health clinic with suicidal urges. On Sunday morning, I woke with depressed resignation. I had a plan: I was going to die by suicide. It was the only way to escape the crushing cycle of poverty, the overwhelming pain and anxiety I was feeling, and find relief from a world I saw as unfair and hopeless. Since I had already been through these feelings before, I knew what to do—my partner and I walked in the rain to the local emergency department, where I was admitted on a psychiatric hold.

You might think this is the end of the story. That I got help for my burnout, learned a valuable lesson, and am now a happy and healthy functioning member of society. But, as anyone who has been hospitalized for mental illness can tell you, hospitalization is more about getting you to the point where you’re no longer a danger to yourself than reintegrating you into society. During my hospitalization, pretty much all of the fog from my one-time dalliance with anti-psychotics had worn off, so it only took about three weeks for me to be discharged. After that, I was left to find my own follow-up care and, since I was a contract employee with no health insurance benefits, it had to be free. Luckily, there are a few social service agencies in Toronto that offer free long-term counselling, and I happened to fall into the catchment area of one.

I did some cognitive behavioural therapy, I took some—again, unpaid—time off work. I lived for next to nothing in Panama that summer, and tried to grow my burgeoning freelance writing career, which I had just begun dabbling in before I was hospitalized. I moved in with my partner to cut down on expenses (romantic, I know), and eventually decided to go back to work.

They say the definition of insanity is repeating the same behaviours and expecting a different result. Well, call me insane. I went right back to the same job I was working at when I was hospitalized. I fucked up.

Though I was working far fewer hours this time around, event planning, even for an industry you’re passionate about, is hardly a low-key stress-free job. Within six months, all the anxiety, depression, and horrible feelings had returned. Despite all the therapy I had received encouraging me to change my behaviours, I couldn’t overcome my emotional responses in the moment. I still hadn’t managed to come to terms with my long-held coping mechanisms: I was incapable of setting boundaries in the workplace or at home, incapable of communicating my needs to my colleagues and partner, and incapable of even trusting my instincts when it came to identifying and responding to my own needs. 

So, back to the hospital I went. This time, I wasn’t fucking around. Though I may not have learned to manage my emotions, in the decade or so I had spent engaging with it, I learned a lot about the mental health care system. I headed straight to Canada’s leading hospital for mental health and addiction and was quickly diagnosed with mental health issues related to trauma, and sent through a treatment program and counselling specifically designed to help me grow some of the skills I was lacking.

It took time and a lot of patience, but I slowly started to build the skills I needed to advocate for myself. I started small—really small. The first boundary I ever set was asking my partner to rinse out his empty yogurt containers, which felt like a colossal ask in the moment. Over time, I learned how to trust my instincts, set personal and professional boundaries with others, and communicate my needs to those around me. Through this journey, I built a more meaningful relationship with my partner, I realized I never wanted to go back to events work, wasn’t ready to work for anyone but myself, and, most importantly, I created a more trusting relationship with myself.

Today, I work as a writer who focuses on mental health. Though I make a lot less money than I used to, I realized, through my experience, that no amount of money is worth my mental wellbeing.

Thank you.