Into the Mouth of Darkness, Part 2

"Mysteriously and in ways that are totally remote from natural experience, the gray drizzle of horror induced by depression takes on the quality of physical pain." -- William Stryon

Those were dark times. Desperate times. Even though they took place several years ago, they are still hard to think about let alone blog about for all the world to see. And yet, I feel as if I need to write about them ... to come clean and finally purge myself, as much as possible, of whatever power those memories hold over me. I never would have considered myself to be one of "those people" who would contemplate taking their own life (my avowed belief was that suicide is for the weak)... and yet here I was, entertaining those very ideas, even taking the first tentative steps toward making them reality ...

If by revealing all of this about myself -- and believe me, it took forever to find the balls to finally put all of this into words, because even though I know better, I am still embarrassed to admit much of it -- one person who may be experiencing the same thing stops for a moment, pauses, and reconsiders, I will be happy. It was hard enough getting my own life in order, I harbor no delusions of changing the world. One person, that's all I ask.

Though compressed here for reasons of space, it is important to understand that the events I have described thus far, both in this and the last post -- and all of the problems they caused -- carried on, unabated, for years. With the notion of ending my life playing in my mind, daily existence was like being smothered under a heavy, hot, wet blanket; I carried it around with me all day, every day. It was made bleaker still, if that was at all possible, because a devestating anxiety compounded the depression. It is neither exaggeration nor overly dramatic to say that I was straitjacketed by this combination. I once described the feeling as like "having snakes squirming in my head."

Does that make sense? I don't know. But that's how it felt.

Every decision, trivial or complex, was an intractable ritual of fear, doubt, self-loathing and questioning that only served to deepen the depression; an endless loop from which there appeared no escape. I lived with this nightmare mess for nearly three decades prior to a formal diagnosis. That length of time is important because it was unnecessary, given power by my own stubbornness. It was profoundly embarrassing to admit, both to myself and others, that I could not handle this on my own, that I could not bear up under the crushing pressure in my own head. I could not just "snap out of it." There were periods now not only of uncontrollable outbursts of anger, but an unstoppable flood of tears. I would start to cry for no readily apparent reason; I would cry almost non-stop for several days and that would only deepen my personal shame -- I was a man, after all; and men do not cry, especially over nothing. I was a Martial Artist, a fighter; I was supposed to be stronger than this. This was my ego, vanity; and as my thoughts tumbled deeper and deeper into darkness I knew that it was eventually going to kill me.

There is a commercial on television for the drug Cymbalta that asks this question: "Who does depression hurt?" Their answer: "Everyone."

Certainly everyone around me suffered; even if they did not recognize the problem for what it was or know the reasons, my friends, family, co-workers, and loved ones bore the brunt of my black moods, my emotional distance, my disconnection, and my outbursts. In fact, looking back now from this safe perspective, I can clearly see the wide swath of destruction, like the detritus after a tornado, left by my behaviors and actions.

At one stage of my life I had so many things that so many people desire -- a wife and beautiful daughter, a nice home, a career that I loved -- that an outsider might justifiably question what reason I had to be depressed. Whether the cause was emotional, biochemical, psychological, or all of the above I destroyed nearly all of my good fortune. That which I did not destroy was irrevocably changed ... forever.

"If we can accept whatever hand we've been dealt, no matter how unwelcome, the way to proceed eventually becomes clear." -- Phil Jackson, NBA coach

To shorten an already lengthy story, partial salvation appeared after I breached the wall of shame and entered therapy. I had no money thanks to my collapsed business and, since I had been self-employed, no health insurance. So I entered a program through the local Community Counseling Center. I owe my therapist, Jerry, a huge debt of thanks -- not for curing me, because I am not cured; but because as hard as it was at times, as much as I resisted, he made it OK to talk. He certainly didn't take any shit from me; and I gave plenty, believe me. In session I spent a long time talking to Jerry (twice a week at first, then once a week, then every two weeks as I made progress, followed by a period of group sessions) ... talking about my feelings ... about the embarrassment of being there ... about the effects on everyone around me ... of wanting to kill myself ... discovering the roots of the depression and anxiety and its triggers ... owning responsibility for the damage I had caused ... learning methods of coping.

I was obstinate, however, and my stubborness and resistance got the best of me; I attended therapy for as long as I felt necessary, then quit, only to find myself retreating into old patterns. With the old patterns came the old results. I eventually returned, however, with a renewed goal of achieving a sense of inner peace. I wish I could say that that was the end of the story ... that I found the balance I needed, but I cannot say that because it isn't true. What those endless counseling sessions did, though, was to show me that there was an end to the journey. It may not have been the final destination that I so desperately desired but it was a far cry from the chaos I had put myself and others through. Jerry told me, "There is no cure for this. You've likely had this since childhood and it's going to be with you for good. You cannot 'cure' it. Now you can either let that reality push you back down into the shit, or you can get off your ass and manage it."

I chose to master the depression rather than be it's slave.

Even so, the fallout from depressive behaviors is long lasting and had been building over the years , and despite a new regimen of talk therapy and medication, it was too late to save a relationship with a woman whom I regarded as my Soulmate and whom I hoped to one day marry. Even now, I love her like no other, and love her daughters as my own.

It took that final, catastrophic loss -- and it was (and still is) catatstrophic in my mind and carried its own temporary spiral back into negative behaviors, and a visit to the ER -- to finally awaken me to a brand new approach to life and living. It is still a source of great regret that it required something of that magnitude to finally shake me into awareness. We, as a species, have arrived at a point in our history in which we can send a message around the entire world in the time it takes to take a breath, but it still sometimes takes an eternity to penetrate that last quarter inch of bone into our brain.

But, as after a forest fire, new life rises from the ashes of destruction ...

Into the Mouth of Darkness, Part 1

This post is going to be long, and followed by a second installment. Please bear with me. What I am about to tell you is deeply personal and true. Any ommissions or errors in content or the timeline are the fault of my own memory ...

"In depression, faith in deliverance, in ultimate restoration, is absent. The pain is unrelenting, and what makes the condition intolerable is the foreknowledge that no remedy will come -- not in a day, an hour, a month, or a minute. It is hopelessness even more than pain that crushes the soul." -- William Stryon

" ... crushes the soul ..." -- People casually toss around the term 'depression' as if it were as insignificant as a headache. They become 'depressed' if they miss their favorite TV show ...or if the boyfriend/ girlfriend doesn't call ... or if the mini-mart is out of their brand of cigarettes ... or if they receive a less than stellar grade in school. They mean no real harm by this, of course; it's just a turn of phrase, but it nonetheless unintentionally minimizes the plight of those who are caught in the cold grip of true depression. Until one has experienced it firsthand, it is difficult at best to appreciate, much less, explain, the deep and traumatizing effects of clinical depression.

Depression of a protracted and deep-seated nature is a malignant cancer of the mind and the will. It devours from within. I know this because I speak (and write) from personal experience. Several years ago I was diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder. And while it has been estimated that between 20 to 25% of people over the age of 18 may suffer at least one episode in their lives, mine has shadowed me for years.

Until now, this has been, with few exceptions, unknown to even those closest to me. I have lived under this condition since at least my late childhood, early teen years.

"Who I am hates who I have been." -- Anonymous

Until several years ago, when my internal chaos finally reached critical mass, my depression remained undiagnosed. I knew something was wrong; I just didn't know what. I knew I didn't feel the way I should feel, yet I did nothing. For all of those years, until well into adulthood, it permeated every aspect of my life and even shaped my identity. Its threads ran through every relationship with other people, my family life, my career, my marriage; it colored every behavior and decision, dominated every action. At its lowest ebb, it had been a mild undercurrent of melancholy and at its worst it was completely paralyzing, taking away the desire to care about anyone or anything. And I paid the price for allowing that.

"You see only the outside ... I live what is within." -- Anonymous

Friends and family knew nothing about what was happening inside of me. I did not talk about it. I did not present the classic, stereotypical face of depression; I did not mope or cry. They saw only what I wanted them to see, what I allowed. But it was a mask, one that I wore so well for so many years that it became virtually indistinguishable from my own face. I wore that mask all throughout high school, through various jobs, throughout an entire nine-year marriage, as well as a subsequent nearly decade-long relationship.

Sooner or later living that kind of existence exacts a toll. Depression does more than seriously affect your mood; that is just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. A clinical depression is an incapacitating mental and emotional illness, affecting your ability to perform any task, no matter how mundane or complex, that requires even a shred of concentration. Marriage, work, personal relationships ... all suffered or fell by the wayside.

"Depression is not just sobbing and crying and giving vent, it is plain and simple reduction of feeling ... People who keep a stiff upper lip find that it is damn hard to smile." -- Judith Guest

Really, it is only hard to smile and mean it. The false smile becomes a mask, worn when needed, removed in private. In reality, I felt almost nothing about anyone or anything ... almost. What I did feel was overwhelming self-loathing. One of the durable, yet misguided ideas about clinical depression is that you can lift it up simply by convincing a depressed person that life is good and worth living. But when the darkness is as deeply entrenched in the mind as it was in mine that is a patently ridiculous notion.

I was in my late 30s, my life in complete ruins -- mentally, emotionally, financially, spiritually, -- before I finally sought help. Why had I waited so long? Why had I subjected myself to the better part of a life of misery? Why had I allowed this illness to so completely overwhelm and engulf me to the point it had? The answer isn't easy to face: I didn't want anyone to see my weakness. As a teacher of Martial Arts, I stood before my classes on a daily basis and taught my students -- especially children -- how to be strong and in control. I was neither. I saw myself as a sham. The content of the message I was imparting to my students was valid; but my practice of it was not.

"That's the thing about depression: Most people can survive almost anything, as long as they see the end in sight. But depression is so insidious, and it compounds daily, that it is impossible to ever see the end. The fog is like a cage without a key." -- Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation

That IS the thing: I was so imprisoned in this fog, paralyzed not only by the depression but by my fear of its discovery by others, my mental energy throttled back to near-zero, that I merely went through the motions with my students ... hell, with the whole world for that matter ... that I just didn't care; I was drained, sapped of everything vital. I. DID. NOT. CARE.

I recall two specific incidents that at last put me on a different path ... but before I tell them, let me clarify something. Yes, depression killed feeling; but at the same time it was as if I was imploding, drawing far down deep into myself, smaller and smaller until I could go no further. When that happened, when I felt so isolated and insignificant and worthless an explosion occurred. I cannot explain it any better than that. The direct opposite of what I had described above: every emotion; every thought and feeling coalescing into one mind bursting eruption -- it boiled to the surface and I did cry ... I did rage ... I did strike out ... there is a price to be paid, I think, for the submission of our soul, for the damping down of our feelings and these explosions were the cost. For every action in the universe, it is said, there is an equal and opposite reaction. This was mine.

The first incident which I will relate happened only six or seven years ago and was one of these explosions: My girlfriend (and, at the time, fiancé) and I went for a walk after dinner one night; we did this frequently, usually following the same route and enjoying the time together. It was late summer, the weather pleasant, and the night warm even as the sun began to set. We lived on a side road near the largest natural lake in Northeast PA. Despite the weather and environment the conversation soon turned serious; we had been having difficulties in our relationship, brought about primarily from a failing business that I owned. I was pouring my heart and soul into the business in order to make a better life for us (at least that was my argument) but no matter what I did I met with dead ends and failure. The business was sending us into financial ruin yet I refused to give it up; it was driving a wedge deep into our relationship, yet I desperately tried to convince her (or myself, really) that success was only just around the corner. But that was the same old tune I had been singing for years with nothing to show for it. This, of course, is only a thumbnail sketch of the situation; it had been building to this point for years. I refused to see her side; insisting that I could do this for us ...for our future. But she bluntly told me that if things did not change, she doubted we had a future. The words hit me like a hammer, and then everything literally went black inside of my head and behind my eyes.

I honestly don't remember everything about that day ... I do remember feeling as if an avalanche was happening in my head, as if a vital part of myself and my reality had suddenly come loose and was going ... where? I don't know. I do remember falling to the side of the road on which we were walking, screaming, crying, feeling as if I was exploding into a million pieces. Was this what it was like to lose your mind? I do remember screaming about how much I hated myself, how much I wish I could just die, how much better off everyone would be if I were no longer around. I cannot fully explain in words the intensity of this breakdown. Until that moment, I had never felt anything like it. I would feel it only once more a few years later under much different circumstances (but that, as they say, is another story for another time).

I barely remember anything after that ... only vaguely recall making it back to the house ... what else I do remember I don't want to talk about. I knew then, at that moment that I was in need of serious help, that I could no longer carry this weight on my own. And if I didn't get some sort of help I would not live to see any future.

There was one other incident that occurred around the same general time but was much quieter in its execution. With one exception I have never spoken of it publicly until now. In order to make ends meet, I had taken a job managing a store at the local mall. It paid what, for me, was an astronomical sum. This was is in addition to trying to keep my business afloat. Two jobs, twice as much stress, frequent hours alone, too many thoughts racing through my head, caught in an endless loop. Until one night, at the close of business, I found myself in the back room of the store with the blade of a knife pressed firmly against my own throat. One small move, I told myself, one cut was all it would take to make years of pain disappear. And as I pressed that blade into the soft tissue of my throat I was ready to do it, without hesitation ... and I kid you not when I tell you that at that moment the phone rang and it was my daughter. Her voice ... the picture of her face in my mind ... is the only thing that stopped me from making a huge, terrible mistake. The conversation that followed was not significant in anything other than its timing; had it come only five minutes later ... who knows?

It was the combination of those two situations that told me I needed massive change. It was going to be a long, hard road back and it would turn out that there would be casualties along the way ...

Memories of Lives Past

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