The worst thing that ever happened...

Could be the best experience you've had.

Apr 27, 2023

One fine morning eight years ago, two blue-uniformed men turned up at my parents’ house in a van. Government officials picking me up to sign a document so I could go on my imminent, much-anticipated trip to the UK, I was told. Can my mother come? I asked. Sure.

Completely buying into the ridiculous pretext, I promptly got dressed and took my seat in the van. I continued to believe I was being prepped for my trip as I was ushered into the emergency room, injected with what I was told was vitamins, and asked to change into a plain hospital gown.

It wasn’t until hours later, finding myself partially strapped to a metal-framed bed, that I realised I’d just been admitted to a mental hospital.

The worst thing that ever happened…

On a scale of amazing (ten) to disastrous (zero) life situations, finding yourself strapped to a bed in the psychiatric ward is probably a negative number. It’s a scenario that often gets joked about—careful or you’ll be sent to the mad house! Ha ha—but that most people wouldn’t dream would happen to them.

I’d suffered from clinical depression on and off for a few years, but I never imagined my condition so severe that I’d end up hospitalised for it. I had been increasingly manic in the few months leading up to my parents’ torturous decision to admit me, but I was blissfully unaware of this fact. All my grandiose beliefs and hallucinations had made sense to none but me. So suddenly finding myself strapped to a metal bed was a shocking burst of the bubble.

I’d been flying high—living the life of my dreams—in my mania, and that morning was abruptly made to face the reality of my condition. I went from “happy and exuberant if a bit cruel” to “mentally ill.” I had bipolar disorder type I, I was told. From then on, each morning and night, I would wait in line with all the other gown-clad patients for small, plastic cups of colourful pills that would make us well again.

Life in the ward was not intolerable, but it was interminably dull. There was a lot of sitting around doing nothing, or gazing at the wall-mounted television, or flipping through the few books on the shelf. We weren’t allowed possessions beyond the bare essentials (I had my one pair of eyeglasses and sanitary pads. Books were a no-no), so the only entertainment my brain enjoyed was the couple of hours each afternoon when my mother came to visit with Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic novels and a tupperware of oranges—peeled and ready to eat.

The novelty of the first weeks—I’m in a real-life psych ward!—quickly wore off. Excitement turned to boredom, to desperation. Once in a while, a patient would be declared well enough to return to society. They’d be given their clothes to change back into and their possessions to reclaim, then allowed to simply walk out the usually-locked door. The rest of us, seething with envy, would weakly congratulate them and fervently wish the same for ourselves. Many of those who were released had been admitted after me, and I struggled to comprehend why they—not I—had been granted the gift of freedom.

I didn’t know what I had to do to show that I was well enough to be released, and that was the worst thing about my time in the ward. The medication—maybe the mere fact of being admitted—had burst my manic bubble. And now I was just depressed and desperate to go home. Not knowing how to make that happen was the worst feeling I’d ever felt.

Could be the best experience you've had

But, after a month and a half, my turn did come to put on my clothes and collect my belongings. I was still as depressed as could be, but thanks to frantic lobbying on my dad’s part, my psychiatrist had finally signed my release papers. Just like that, I was free.

On one visit to Thailand not long ago, I broached the topic of my time in the psychiatric ward over morning coffee with my dad. He said the decision to admit me was difficult, and had met with resistance from family members who feared the experience would inflict irreparable damage on 25-year-old me. To that day, he still wasn’t sure if he’d done the right thing.

Don’t worry, I said. You made the right call. The psych ward was the best thing that ever happened to me. I wanted to reassure him, lift his eight-year guilt. I don’t remember what he said in return. Maybe nothing, possibly a nervous chuckle.

Although I did feel at my life’s lowest in the ward, even then I knew this was a life-changing experience that—once overcome—would make me a better person. Now that I have, I’m deeply grateful for it. The feeling associated with my experience is an overwhelming gratitude, not shame.

I could choose to hide my time in the ward from the world, treat it as a blip in my otherwise illustrious life. But, on the contrary, it’s an experience I rejoice sharing with all who ask, one I proudly included in the first round of applications for my dream job. The ward was not a blip, but an integral part of the person I’m proud to have become. The experience grounded me, gave me perspective, taught me to cherish free will. It’s part of me, and I’d never choose to hide it.

What do you think?

Is there an experience you consider to be the lowest point in your life? What was it? How did it change you?

Can you see the best in the worst?

Did it make you a better person? Maybe a learning that’s helped you later in life? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want to, share this with someone who needs to read this.