My psychiatrist that morning took one look at my sad, desperate eyes, trembling body, the clothes hanging off a frame that shed 12 pounds in less than a week and declared that this dysfunctional journalist, husband and father of two should be hospitalized.
By sundown Dec. 12, I was wheeled, in surgical scrubs and socks, to the fifth floor of United Hospital’s mental health unit in St. Paul to join other patients navigating their own personal hells.
Rock bottom was all too real. Stripped of my clothes, belt, shoes and dignity, I was alone, uncertain and, when that steel-reinforced door locked behind me, a thousand miles from home.
More than 16 million adults in the U.S. suffered at least one major depressive episode in 2017, according to the Anxiety and Depression Association of America. The disease spares no one, carving a path of untreated destruction across all ethnic, racial and socioeconomic lines.
I was among those statistics. Read Brian Murphy's story in the Twin Cities Pioneer Press.