Page 5 of A Taste of Grace

With my admission, I felt like a kid. That innocence was refreshing and scary.

Uncle Keith smiled and clapped his hands.

“Then we have a plan. We’re moving you to a comprehensive psychiatric hospital. It’s time for you to remember how valuable and precious you are.”

A surge of hope tingled in my belly.

“I’d like that a lot.”

He pulled paperwork out of his bag.

“Let’s get you transferred to this program.”

Uncle Keith enrolled me in Whetworth Heights, an affordable private facility in the Atlanta suburbs. I spent the Christmas holidays and New Year there quietly celebrating what should have been the happiest time of year with strangers who were nicer than most of my family members.

My treatment plan involved stabilizing my mental health and treating me with medication, therapy, or a combination of both.The facility’s sunny yellow walls and natural light forced me not to hide the increasing joy that filled my heart as the days went by.

“You are worthy, valued, and more than enough.” I read these affirmations to myself daily from my journal, often in the mirror of the bathroom in my single-occupancy room.

At the end of the first week, I felt so good that I practically skipped around the facility, greeting other patients and checking out books from the onsite library. Even my wardrobe reflected my enhanced mood as I wore several of Mama’s colorful statement earrings around Whetworth.

My first Friday afternoon, Dr. Westmoreland, the facility’s in-house psychiatrist, scheduled a one-on-one session with me.

“You look great, Grace.” She smiled widely with her silver braces and nude-colored lips as she tapped her pen on her clipboard and flipped through several pages.

“Thanks. I feel a lot better than I did coming in here.” I smiled sheepishly, happy to admit I had made progress despite my initial embarrassment at being so depressed.

“Are you ready to be Dr. Gracelyn Toliver again?”

Over the past few weeks, I had been given a reprieve from the pressures of my former life. As I was taught during sessions, however, I acknowledged the grief I felt about work but didn’t allow the feeling of failure to hover like fog.

“Yes. The new and improved version of her.”

Dr. Westmoreland nodded then smiled.

“I like that.”

“Thanks. Do you think I’m cured?” I held my breath and placed my hand over my stomach, awaiting her answer.

“The key is not isolating yourself. Rely on those closest to you for your healing. No matter how down you feel, you’re never alone.”

“I want to be healthy for a relationship and kids. I was always too busy for it, but I’d love to give it a shot now.” I beamed, pleased that I spoke positive words about my future out loud.

That simple action confirmed that was I was healing.

“From what you’ve told me about your mother, you’ll be as amazing as she was.”

I allowed Dr. Westmoreland’s compliment to wash over me like a waterfall. Through journaling, I began to realize it was okay for my plans to change and for me to dream new dreams.

“Will I have to take medication for life? I don’t want my mental state to impact my ability to be normal.

Dr. Westmoreland shook her head.

“Not necessarily. I’ll start you on a fifty-milligram dose of Zoloft. Connect with your family doctor for monitoring and adjustments. They will be part of your wellness team. Don’t overthink. Take it one day at a time.”

“Okay.”

By the end of my time at Whetworth, I felt better than I did before caregiving for Mama. With my bags in hand, I exited the facility with a new perspective, hopeful for what my new normal might be.

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