Consequences

I ended up staying in the psychiatric unit for six days, most of that time against my will. Even thinking about it sends a rush of anger and fear through me like a deadly firestorm.

Though I had been traumatized by a fire, not one professional in the unit ever troubled to treat me for the physical or emotional consequences. Instead, they viewed me as a patient needing help for mania, depression, psychoses and alcoholism. I was put in lock-down, unable to venture out of the facility without permission. I found myself to be living with twenty other patients, many of whom were also there involuntarily, who were suffering from anything from schizophrenia to attempted suicide. Living with them made me feel even more depressed, filling me with worry that perhaps I was without any hope at all.

Having stripped me of my Lexipro anti-depressants, they had substituted these with a medication that the doctors refused to name, though I told them that I would refuse to take the pills without a thorough knowledge of what was going into my body. A nurse, perhaps believing that I was within my rights to know, finally gave me some information: the drug turned out to be an anti-psychotic. One of the possible side affects was suicide. I point-blank refused to take the new drug. But the duty nurses decided not to re-issue me with the Lexipro. Consequently, I began to suffer from withdrawal symptoms. I should explain that when ending treatment for anti-depressants, users should gradually step-down the intake over a period of a month or more. In my case, and as stated, I was not given the opportunity such an opportunity. And due to the quick withdrawal, I began to experience standard side-effects: depression, shaking hands, and a general feeling of unwellness and instability.

At this time I was also seen by the house Psychiatrist. The young man, we'll call him Dr Joe, looked to be no more than 25 years old and probably fresh out of med school. With little real experience, I suspect that he had some sort of rule book that he followed; a question and answer sheet of some kind. He treated me like a child and idiot savant. Our 'sessions' lasted only minutes. He never questioned me about the after affects of the fire. He never asked how I really felt, or what I wanted. Instead, he plowed along his own path, confident, it seems, that our conversations would eventually lead to my 'cure'.

During this stay, I felt increasingly frightened, increasingly angry, increasingly filled with hopelessness and insecurity. At all times I protested my 'innocence' to staff, and demanded firmly to be released. I made certain that I acted with compelling normalcy: I dressed as well as I could, considering that I had few clothes with me; I always presented myself well; I did my best to keep to myself, but made certain that I did not isolate myself from the other patients. I worked hard to keep to the rules of the unit. However, within that tense and confusing environment I found that I could sleep and eat little. I felt constant anxiousness, and a shaking of my hands - and heart - that was even more frightening than the Unit that I had been forced into.

I was finally able to get through to a lawyer. He met and convinced the house Psych that I was being held against my will. He discovered that they could find no real proof of alcoholism, depression, mania, psychoses, or any other psychological problem (which in some ways astounds me, considering that I knew that I had suffered through a breakdown and fire). Finally, and realizing that I was not going to harm myself or others, they agreed to release me. But the damage had already been done.

Over a two week period I had experienced: the initial breakdown at my daughter's wedding; the fire in which I had almost died of smoke inhalation and for which I was not given any treatment; days of sleeplessness and lack of food; the high-end stress of family separation and isolation; and now the humiliation and confusion of being detained in a Psychiatric Unit without my consent.

I was released at 11:30 PM a few days following my lawyer's intervention. I was released without proper medication (that is, renewal of my anti-depressants). I was released still suffering from the trauma of the fire simply because no one had ever bothered to ask me about it.

I went out into the world a half-man. On the outside I was confident and smiling. On the inside, I was terrified. The pressure cooker of my emotional being had suffered complete and absolute breakdown. It would get worse over the coming months and even now I continue to suffer from symptoms due to the lack of treatment during those early, important, days.

I look back at this entire period of my life with horror. I am convinced that following the wedding or following the fire, if I had been given a little Tender Loving Care; if someone, anyone, had offered real help and hope; if I had been given an opportunity to rest and recover in a place of safety, my life today would be very different from what it is today. I suspect that the nightmare that I had faced then would have ended. Instead, the nightmare continues, even to this day.

Involuntary Incarceration

No one enjoys having their personal freedoms removed. Guilty or not guilty, and without benefit of trial, a prison sentence - no matter how short - can be terrifying. In countries around the world, however, mental health legislation has been written to remove personal freedoms in situations deemed threatening either to the sufferer or the general public.

Unfortunately, these laws that are meant to protect are also open to abuse.

In Ireland, the process of requesting an involuntary mental health assessment, part of this country's 2001 Mental Health Act, is straight-forward: a relative, friend, police officer, doctor, member of the public - apparently almost anyone - can request that a person be subjected to an involuntary mental health assessment. Moreover, the assessment can lead to an involuntary admission into a psychiatric hospital if the assessment indicates that a) "You have a mental illness, severe dementia or significant intellectual disability and there is a serious risk that you may cause immediate and serious harm to yourself or others" or b) "You have a mental illness, severe dementia or significant intellectual disability and your judgement is so impaired that your condition could get worse if you were not admitted to hospital for treatment that could only be given to you in hospital and going into hospital would be likely to improve your mental health significantly."

The above conditions are even contained in a free online booklet, "Your Guide to the Mental Health Act 2001", which we can all access with a simple click of a button! Have a read. You'll be shocked to find that almost anyone can be involuntarily incarcerated.

Which is exactly what happened to me.

Reading the above 'rules' for involuntary mental assessment and admission, I quickly realized (and hope you do too) that these rules make a number of assumptions. First, they assume that those requesting the involuntary assessment are telling the truth and/or have a damned good reason for bringing this action: in other words,  they are certain that you are a serious threat to yourself or others. Second, it assumes that the person who is the subject of the assessment really will become worse without intervention, and will actually improve if admitted to hospital even against their will (and possibly better judgement).

Based on what happened to me, the 'rules' need to be changed.

Lose Hope All Ye Who Enter Here

In my room at the hotel, a room that had become my sanctuary, I rose early. Though I had gone to bed past midnight, though I was exhausted, I found sleep impossible to obtain. Only 30 hours had passed since the fire. Since that time I had managed less than 5 hours of sleep and a single sandwich to keep me going. Sitting on the bed, I knew that I was tired, hungry, scared, confused, and overwhelmed. I also knew that despite my mental and emotional state I was going to have to quickly find a new place to live. I could not afford to stay in a hotel forever.

The previous day's encounter with my ex-wife, my ex-GP, my daughter, and the health practitioners who had insisted on a mental health assessment haunted me and filled me with anxiety. I knew that I needed time: time to get my bearings; time to take a breath; time to sleep and eat; time to figure out how to get help and from whom. I decided to phone a good friend.

I chatted with him at length about what had happened. This person, a fellow I had long trusted, seemed genuinely concerned and helpful. Still dressed in my pyjamas, I began to talk with him about what to do next. He seemed intent on confirming which hotel I was at and in which room number. I told him.

As we continued to talk I heard a knock on the door. Opening it, I found my daughter and ex-wife standing there. They moved aside. A group of people marched into my room: two men and a women both from the Irish Health Services department. A cop - or were there two? - followed them. Within my hotel room, a private space that I had already paid for, a place that I deemed a momentary sanctuary from the nightmare that I had, and was again, experiencing, they surrounded me.

They asked me to come with them. I refused. They told me I had no choice. I was to be committed to the local hospital's psychiatric unit for evaluation. My friend was still on the phone. I pleaded with him to help me. Little did I know that he had been contacted by my wife who had convinced him that I urgently needed psychiatric intervention. He agreed, and unknowingly became an accomplice in my incarceration.

Fear and anger rose within me. Knowing that I had no other option, I agreed to come with them. I asked them to let me go into the bathroom to change into street clothes. Afraid that I would harm myself - a fear that was unjustified - they refused. If I wanted to change I would have to do that in front of my daughter.

The hotel manager appeared at the door, a manager that I knew. He couldn't look me in the eye. With the Health Services goons closely guarding me, the cop following, my ex-wife and daughter following them, and all of us following the hotel manager, I was frog-marched out of the hotel and to a waiting hospital van. I was forced inside and sat between two of the goons.

I was being treated like a common criminal. The only embarrassment that I did not experience was the click of restraints snapped about my wrists and legs. As you can imagine, I was swept up in an emotional whirlwind: fear, anger, humiliation, shame, guilt...all of these were added to the pressure cooker of emotions that were the result of the breakdown and fire. I was now teetering on an edge of insanity.

I was taken to the hospital. There I was grilled by a psychiatrist that I never met again. Not once did he ask about the fire. Instead, he asked questions that I now don't remember, so upset was I. I was introduced to a nurse. She asked me about my current use of medication. I was taking Lexipro at the time for depression, a course that had been prescribed by a doctor. They had somehow survived the fire. She stripped me of them. I was then led into the main psychiatric unit. There I met other nurses and introduced myself. Somehow, I managed to keep a grip. Rather than showing the heated anger that I felt, I told them simply: "I'm being held here against my will. I ask you all to remember that."

I turned as the main door was closed and locked behind me. For the first time in my life I was imprisoned. I had no way out. I was at the mercy of the staff that surrounded me. I had been incarcerated without benefit of any 'trial' and fully against my will.

Disoriented, hungry, and filled with a sense of injustice, I allowed myself to be led to the room that I would share with three others for the next six days.

Falling onto the bed, the only emotion that I can remember is one of absolute hopelessness. But finally I slept.

Symptoms of Nervous Breakdown

Following my breakdown I scoured websites and books for symptoms, hoping to identify what had happened to me, why it had happened, and when these various maladies might disappear. Too, I was desperate to identify with others, hoping that by acknowledging my symptoms I could somehow, and in some way, get a handle on myself which would enable me to heal.

I should explain that I've always been the stubborn type. Tell me I have a health problem and yes, I'll do what the doctor tells me but, not quite trusting the doctor's advice, I'll also do what I think my body and mind need for recovery. My search for, and understanding, of my personal symptoms hoped to do just that - to increase my chances of, and accelerate, healing. 

But when researching on the Internet, I discovered so many, many symptoms. I had experienced some of these. But many I had not. As with my search for a definition of nervous breakdown, I found the list of symptoms to be dizzying in their length and complexity. 

Somewhere out there, a person suffering from what they think might be a nervous breakdown could very well read this. Therefore, I am now sharing my own symptoms, including certain behaviors, hoping you can identify with them. By doing so, I also hope you realize that a) you are not alone, that many others have - or are currently - experiencing the living nightmare you are going through and b) based on my experience, you have every reason to expect a recovery from all, or most, of these symptoms in the shorter-term.

Shorter-Termed Symptoms of Nervous Breakdown

I experienced the following symptoms during the first days and weeks of my breakdown:

Spiritual / Emotional Symptoms

Fear - profound fear dominated my life. I was afraid, so very afraid, of almost anything and everybody. I was afraid to be alone. I was afraid to be with people. I was afraid that I would die. I was afraid to live. I was afraid of myself and what I would do. I was afraid of others and what they would do. I suspect now that my fear was driven by one primary cause: I had lost control of my life and the world that I understood. Loss of control yields a loss of belief in self, and consequently a complete loss of direction. Rules, benchmarks, and the road maps we have created to survive life disappear. I was lost in a world that was no longer familiar and which had no sense of purpose. My fear - yes! - terrified me. It caused me to lose sleep. I ate little. It flooded my being so much so that it pushed out rational thinking and behavior. Fear controlled me.

I am, of course, still afraid on occasions. We all are. But fear no longer controls my life. 

Paranoia - hand in hand with fear were feelings of paranoia. I no longer trusted anyone. I was convinced that people were attempting to kill me; to destroy me; to take from me my very definition of self in addition to my physical property. Due to paranoia, I had great trouble building trust with anyone. That feeling was compounded by the behaviors of others which proved my distrust to be accurate.

My feelings of paranoia have completely disappeared.

Psychotic episodes - yes, I had a number of them and I'm still ashamed to admit it. I experienced visions. I 'felt' that people were talking to me. This one is difficult to explain... I never heard voices (and in fact, when asked by professionals if I heard voices, I rightly denied it because they had not asked the right question. Too, I knew that what I was experiencing was nuts), but I 'felt' their presence and within that, felt their silent commands or approval. For instance, if I was in a shop looking to buy a present for someone, I would know that I would be guided to the right place to find it. And voila, that's exactly what would happen. Or if I was taking a walk and was confused how to get to a certain place, I knew that I would be guided in the right direction. And most of the time, I was. Of course, there are perfectly logical reasons why I did what I did: why I got to my final destination; why I found what I did to purchase. But these episodes were persistent for about a year. Oddly, I found great comfort in them, coming to believe that I was being protected by a power much greater than myself. While these were certainly psychotic episodes, I'm glad that I had these types rather than those of the destructive variety. And as I grow healthier and stronger, I take solace in the hope that perhaps someone or something really was protecting me. God knows, I needed the help.

Feelings of Grandeur - yep, I'm sorry to say I had those too. For a while - perhaps a month following the breakdown - I felt that I could do no wrong nor be hurt (which is odd: my delusions of grandeur contrasted spectacularly with the fear that I consistently felt. But breakdowns are illogical and unpredictable. So these contrasting symptoms are perfectly reasonable within the context of breaking down). My most memorable moment of grandeur: I became convinced that I could help everyone to achieve their personal dreams. I vividly remember one poor woman who happened to sit by me in a restaurant. As I remember, we discussed the business that she hoped to soon start. All that she required was funding. I told her - and I believed it - that I was a venture capitalist; that her idea had sound merit; that I was perfectly willing to help. In fact, I had established a large financial trust to help people of similar merit. I gave her my card as we parted. Luckily, she must have sensed the ludicrous nature of our conversation because she never contacted me. 

Everything was a Metaphor - for a few weeks, everything that I looked at or heard or touched or experienced represented something else. A deeper symbolism, perhaps. A meaning that few others could see but which I could understand. I would see incredible love in a small flower. I would see peace in the vibrant contrasting colors of nature. I would hear tranquility in a dove's coo-ing. Yes, of course this makes perfect sense on some levels. But during this period, these metaphors possessed a magic and a super-reality that I also took comfort in, and that I still have trouble explaining today. 

Depression - I could become severely depressed for days at a time. The depression fed into my feelings of fear, which reinforced the depression. It became a vicious cycle. In time I was able to break that cycle.

Anxiety - similarly, and for a wide range of reasons discussed in earlier Posts, I suffered high levels of anxiety (see Fear, above).

Mania - motivated and coerced by fear, I experienced two or three episodes of mania. That is: I was emotionally 'higher than a kite'. During these periods I had incredible energy. I could work for hours at a time. Once, and despite having less than an hour's sleep the night before, I drove 7 hours straight without stopping and with no apparent ill effects. These manic episodes occurred, as I say, only 2 or 3 times (which was more than enough, let me tell you) but quickly disappeared and have not reappeared since those early days of the breakdown.

Isolation - during the early days especially, I desired to isolate myself from everyone I knew. I suspect that this was due to a few reasons. First, I was extremely ashamed of what was happening to me, and also fearful of those around me. Second, I suspect that my body and mind searched for rest, much as most animals do when they are injured. This symptom also quickly left me. 

Physical Symptoms

I also experience the following physical symptoms during, and directly following, my breakdown:

Dizziness - and this one too I have trouble explaining. Though my balance might be perfect, I perceived the world around me as being out of kilter by a good 45 degrees. These periods are made worse whenever stress levels or anxiety increased. I suspect that this feeling of dizziness is a reaction to adrenalin as it pumps through my body.

Sweating - during the first few days of breakdown I sweated profusely. I'm sure this was due to a number of factors: increased blood pressure and metabolism, extreme anxiety / fear; increased adrenalin output. This symptom disappeared quickly.

Trembling - particularly of the hands, which has also completely disappeared.

Exhaustion - and who wouldn't be? All I wanted to do was sleep which was my body's reaction to the situation, and a good one it was, too. Sleeping helped me to heal. I welcomed it. However, many times and despite being exhausted I could not sleep simply because I was too frightened or anxious to do so. 

Panic Attacks - I experienced only one of these. One was enough. I never want to go there again.

Inability to Cope - and while this is not physical, it was all-encompassing. I could no longer cope with any additional stress. I could not deal with people. I made very, very poor decisions due to many of the symptoms outlined above. For instance, I resigned a highly profitable client in the belief that I wasn't doing a good job for that company. That's just one of them. Many others were to follow.

Complications Due to PTSD

On top of all this, and as the result of the fire, I suffered symptoms of PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). Mind you, the marital separation and wedding were also traumatic events and I suspect that some of these symptoms were already present, though I chose to ignore them.

My PTSD symptoms included:

Fight or flight - when confronted by a traumatic event, human beings - and many other living creatures - take action to defend themselves. Fight or flight behavior is part of our natural defense mechanism. We either fight, and confront our adversary, or we fly, escaping from that which terrifies us. In my case I did both: I 'fought' back, occasionally exhibiting eruptions of anger toward real or imagined adversaries, or I took flight, usually climbing in my car to escape, or locking the door to keep danger out.

Both behaviors disappeared within a few months of the fire.

Nightmares and flashbacks - of the traumatic event occurred sporadically. The nightmares were powerfully terrifying in which I, or my loved ones, died. Flashbacks could occur at anytime. Usually, those flashbacks incorporated traumatic memories of the fire. Triggers included sights and sounds (such as ambulances, police cars, and fire trucks, as well as sirens and alarms), and smells especially the smell of smoke. Nightmares have almost completely disappeared. Flashbacks continue to occur. These little beasts incite illogical feelings of fear within me which can linger all day long.

Hyper-vigilance - exactly as the name implies. I was 'hyper-watching' all the time. I suspect that this is a natural reaction to trauma: we all become more aware of our surroundings in order to protect ourselves. Physically, I became jumpy, restless, and continually irritable. I had trouble concentrating. This symptom has completely eased since the fire.

Three Years Later: Longer-Termed Symptoms

The symptoms of the breakdown worked to wreck much of my life. During the past three years, I have - and continue to - work hard to re-build what I have lost. But it's working. Slowly, slowly, things are coming right. To be frank, I'm not certain that I will ever fully recover. I know that my work life has been severely affected. Today, I only work half time as opposed to the many, many hours I used to be capable of working. But it's coming back, and all by keeping focused and through a hell of a lot of discipline.

Some symptoms continue to affect me, but to a much lesser degree than before, no matter what I've done to eliminate them. These include:

Dizziness as above - especially during times of high stress leading to anxiety

Inability to Focus - occasionally I will be unable to focus on a task at hand. This drives me nuts as I've always been highly motivated and highly focused.
Flashbacks - of the fire

Periods of sleeplessness - lasting approximately 3 nights when they occur.

Periods of depression - lasting for up to 4 days, and usually brought on by something that's gone wrong in my life, or triggered by a memory that saddens me or makes me anxious. I work hard to not to sink into these, and must work even harder to get out of them when I'm in them.

Critical Psychological Effects

But even more importantly, and since all of these events, some of the very fabric of my being has changed. The nervous breakdown, together with those other events that compounded this, have changed how I look at myself and my future.  Four years ago I like to think I was confident and hope-filled. Today I lack self-esteem, am often not confident in my capabilities, and can easily lose hope. Even little things - an unthinking comment or slight from a friend or acquaintance - can send me into a tailspin.

I used to think I was fairly 'attractive'. That I had much to give people. Now I'm not sure. I have to argue with myself to stay positive. Often a little voice in the corner of my mind will say, "You're worthless. You have nothing to offer. You're a bad man." At those times it takes all of my energy to fight this whispering devil. And I can only do so with exercise and sleep.

Nervous breakdowns are destroyers. We end up fighting not only ourselves but those external people who are supposed to help because they either do not know how to help or use methods that are ineffective. We fight in order to survive and we often have to fight alone.

Symptoms of nervous breakdown are complex in their display and presentation, often misunderstood, and can - as we have all read - result in death if improperly treated. Symptoms can also last for the longer-term, affecting a person's self-image, their ability to earn a living, relationships, futures...their entire lives.

Only self-awareness, a great deal of humility, and a whole lot of self-help (coupled with professional and family support) can allow a nervous breakdown sufferer like me to arise Phoenix-like from his or her ashes. To do so requires a re-building of personal resilience, and an understanding that life - as I knew it pre-breakdown - has changed forever. 

Toward a Definition of Nervous Breakdown

Once again I'm going to take a break from the narrative. Writing about it even now, over three years later, is upsetting though at the same time cleansing. That said, the memories re-kindle feelings that wash over me like a tsunami, pounding into my head and heart in powerful punishment.

Hence the break from the story of hurtful memories, moving on perhaps to an area that is somewhat more forensic: the search for a useful definition of 'nervous breakdown'.

Google 'nervous breakdown', 'symptoms of a nervous breakdown' or 'surviving nervous breakdown' and the screen is filled with hundreds of links offering a wide range of definitions, tips, advice, and assorted information. Below, I wanted to impart my personal definition of 'nervous breakdown'. I do so because when I was at my lowest point I desperately wanted to find a simple explanation of what was happening to me to reassure myself that I wasn't the only person that had ever experienced something like this, and to gain some hope that I could recover. In short, I wanted to make sure that I was not alone.

Toward a Definition of 'Nervous Breakdown'

If you Google 'nervous breakdown' you'll soon discover that this term - nervous breakdown - is not a medical term. However I've found that a couple of sites provide the brand of simplicity that I was searching for. One URL defines Nervous Breakdown as "a period of mental illness resulting from severe depression, stress or anxiety." Or all three, of course. At least that's what happened to me. For me, the operative - and hopeful - phrase in that short sentence is 'a period', inferring that the nightmare that sufferers are experiencing will eventually go away. 

Another site, which I found to be particularly enlightening and non-threatening is http://www.professional-counselling.com/nervousbreakdown_panic_attack.html. Here, the writer includes definitions and a variety of emotional and physical symptoms. 

Many other sites I found to be threatening, confusing, or frightening because of their starkly clinical content and the implied lack of hope.

From my research I discovered the following: the signs and symptoms of 'nervous breakdown' vary considerably from individual to individual. Essentially, the term 'nervous breakdown' is used by the general public (including me) when any person is unable to cope further with life's stresses and strains and is literally overwhelmed by it all.  But because of the wide range of symptoms, it seems that even professionals have trouble properly diagnosing a 'nervous breakdown'. Instead, they may provide a wide range of diagnoses, some of which can be really, really scary. 

For instance, at various times along my mental health journey, I was told by professionals that I suffered from: depression, mania, manic-depressive / bi-polar disorder, psychosis, alcoholism, acute stress disorder, and/or suffered from delusions of grandeur. The professionals communicated their diagnoses in a manner which implied that a) these were long-term illnesses from which I might not recover; b) that I would only gain some sort of recovery by strictly following their advice which included the use of long-term care and anti-psychotic drug treatments; and c) because of my illness I was to be treated like a child and could have no input into either the diagnoses or the subsequent treatment. In short, their treatment of me only exacerbated the feelings of illness and lack of self-belief that filled my soul with dread.

Silly, silly people. All of them.

It was only much, much later that a professional who turned out to be caring and concerned took some time to realize that I was also, and truly, suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and all that goes with it. It was the only diagnosis that made any sense to me.

The mixture of these various diagnoses scared me silly, and contributed further to feelings of inadequacy, failure, and loss. In short, the professionals made me feel even worse about myself which only compounded the severity of my own, very individual nervous breakdown. And when they told me that I was also a danger to others and myself, that almost broke the camel's back. At one point, following intervention by these 'professionals', I truly believed that I was beyond help or hope. And perhaps more to the point: I couldn't help but wonder if they were right. Maybe I was a dangerous fellow? Maybe I had subconsciously planned the whole fire? Maybe I was responsible for an event that had almost killed 2 others, as well as myself? Fortunately, I was able to mentally fight-back, and told myself over and over again that in fact I was not responsible and that whatever had happened to cause the fire was an accident, a view that was later supported by an investigation and police report that cleared my name of any wrong-doing. That said, and because of the comments and actions taken by these silly doctors, for a time I skated on the thin ice of self-loathing. Additional pressure that does not help one to recover from a nervous breakdown, let me tell you.

To make matters even worse, those that I trusted and cared most about, including friends and family, offered their own views: I was mad, crazy, delusional, a bad person, a horrible husband / father, lacked the ability to accept responsibility for my own actions, was uncaring, unconcerned, and critically for me anyway, wasn't worth bothering about anymore. To overcome these problems I was told by these same people that to get 'well' I needed to: get a grip, man up, accept responsibility, get over myself, stop being paranoid, stop being so selfish, stop drinking, stop whining, stop crying, and get some professional help (which is what I'd been doing anyway). At no time did anyone seem to realize that I was simply ill, and that - much like a bad flu - I needed some time to depressurize, re-group, and heal in a place of safety. 

Frankly, I was suffering from many of the above symptoms. But the debate about what was actually wrong with me only further confused me. What I wanted was an explanation that was simple to understand and fixable. So, as I've pondered my particular situation, I've come up with my own definition of 'nervous breakdown' which I now share with you. Please remember again that I am not a professional.

I know that I had a nervous breakdown. And for me, 

"A Nervous Breakdown is caused by overwhelming internal and external emotional stressors, beyond the ability of an individual to manage, which results in a short term loss of responsible behavior as well as physical, emotional, and spiritual well-being, but which can be corrected with appropriate professional help, self-forgiveness, healthy living, and a search for a renewed belief in one's self."

That's my definition, anyway. I guess what I'm saying is: a) while I contributed to the factors that led to my nervous breakdown, I was not responsible for all of them; b) I was certainly not responsible for much of my behavior during the nervous breakdown because I was ill, could not cope, and was therefore often unable to make logical decisions; and c) recovery is possible, and though full recovery might be difficult, working with appropriate tools and professionals can lead to a renewed sense of self and wellness. In other words, there is hope for a future of normalcy. 

I now know that while I suffered from short periods of mania and depression, I was not a manic, depressive, manic/depressive, or bi-polar. In other words, my condition within these areas was short-term, not long-term. I know that I am not alcoholic. I know that while I suffered from moments of acute stress, I do not suffer from longer-termed 'acute stress disorder'. I now know that though I was suffering grave emotional hurt, I was never a danger to others or to myself.

I know that despite suffering from an acute emotional illness, that the illness was short-term in nature. That said, I also know that I continue to suffer from longer-termed symptoms that will recede only with time and a lot of hard work. And I also know that the characteristics that were within me before the breakdown - characteristics that I have long recognized about myself, both the good and bad: giving and taking, caring and selfish, joyful and sorrowful, loving and hating - are still in me and were there even as I was experiencing a time of almost complete meltdown. 

Those characteristics never changed. They are still there despite what has happened to me. In other words, I am still ME despite what I was told by the professionals, and despite my own fears. I have learned more about myself perhaps which is a great gift. But despite what the doctors did to scare me with their long-termed prognoses, and the fear that I would never be myself again, I know now that I am still the same guy that I was before. And I have always been sort of proud of that fellow, despite all of his faults. And that, above all, gives me great hope. 

Accusations

Having a mental health problem of any kind is hard to handle by those becoming ill. But coping with mental illness is made far more difficult due to the attitudes and behavior held by those coming into contact with the mentally ill. Friends and relatives can be blinded by their own bigotries and ignorance regarding mental health. They can embark on misguided attempts to help which can have disastrous and often long-term consequences for those very people they are trying to assist. General practitioners who have not received adequate training can contribute to the mess through misdiagnosis and dangerously meddlesome behavior. Mental health legislation can work against the very people that it is attempting to help. Due to all of these factors, the deck can be stacked harshly against those suffering from mental illness. The result can lead to disability, disadvantage, and even death - all of which could have been prevented.

Take little old me, a fellow that for years had kept his head down and his mouth shut, worked hard, loved his family, and did his best to make a better life. I was a guy who really tried to care. I was the fellow who would stop at an automobile accident to see if anyone had been hurt. I liked to think that people could trust me to do the right thing for them when the chips were down. And I thought that if the tables ever turned and I needed help, my pleas would be met with a variety of helping hands. Which made it doubly perplexing to me when I realized that I could not trust anyone, not even my own family, to help me in my hour of extreme need.

I got little sleep following the fire. Trauma results in a surge of adrenalin that floods the body and mind in its own nefarious grip. The impulse to fight or fly becomes of paramount concern. Sleep was the last thing on my mind. But my landlord, living only across the road from the apartment block and realizing that I had no bed to call my own, invited me to his house. He lent me a pair of shorts, a T-Shirt, and sandals because I owned nothing at that point, not even a pair of boxers. He allowed me to sleep in his guest room. But I tossed and turned all night, the images of the fire seared forever into my brain.

Having gone to bed after midnight, and having been unable to sleep, I was up before 5 AM. I let myself quietly out of the house. I walked the mile into our small town. There, I waited for the shops to open. I went into a men's shop, purchasing the basics: a couple of shirts. A pair of jeans. A pair of shoes. Underwear and socks. A wallet. I remember joking with the staff who helped me and who marveled at my survival.

I don't remember how I paid for any of my purchases because my old wallet, together with cash and credit cards, were cinders. My mobile phone had also burned in the fire. I borrowed one from the nearby phone agent. I didn't have any of my family's numbers so didn't phone them. Frankly, I don't think I would have had the presence of mind to call and tell them of my survival even if my phone had made it out of the fire safely. I was operating on some sort of auto-pilot. To those I met - shopkeepers and the general public - I must have looked sane enough. But inside I was emotionally blank. Flat. All I really wanted to do was sleep.

I remember going to a local tourist center, a place I had visited frequently, thinking that doing something 'normal' would make me feel a bit better. There, I ran into an old neighbor who used to live across the hall from me in the apartment building. He had not heard about the fire. I told him. He thanked his lucky stars that he no longer lived there, afraid that he and his young family might not have survived. He knew that I was exhausted. He asked me if I had eaten? I realized only then that I had not. He firmly suggested doing so.

It was almost 1 PM and I felt like hell. I was coughing and feeling run down and beaten. I remembered what the EMT had told me, and I made a deal with myself: I would get a sandwich then walk to the local medical center for a physical. It was the least I could do for myself.

I entered a pub and ordered a sandwich and beer. Before I had the chance to eat, I looked up: standing in front of me were my ex-wife, my eldest daughter, and my born-again Christian minister acquaintance. As it turned out, the minister - concerned about our confidential conversation the night before and having heard about the fire - put two and two together and got five. He tracked down my family and told them everything we discussed, despite its confidential nature. I guess he had decided that I needed help. He was right, but not the type that my ex-wife had subsequently planned.

I was shocked - and so very happy - to see them. The emotion that had been dammed up within me since the fire poured out in a gush. I led them into a back room, hoping to gain a bit of privacy within the crowded pub. There, I babbled: about how glad I was to see them; about how I wished so fervently that we could again become close despite the marital breakdown that had occurred. They listened, but their faces were etched with worry and concern. The were concerned by my babbling (let me tell you - if you survive a fire, you tend to babble). They did not understand why I had not phoned to tell them about the fire. They had only found out while listening to the local radio station. They were scared to death for me. They wanted me to take some action - a comment that I did not yet understand.

We were suddenly joined by my wife's GP, a woman doctor who had also been my GP prior to our separation. My already numbed mind did not understand why she was there. I looked around. A police officer now stood at the door for reasons that quickly became apparent. I realized that he was to make sure that I caused no trouble.

The GP insisted on examining me. I should explain that a few months earlier I had 'fired' her as my GP for reasons that are irrelevant here. I did not appreciate her sudden renewed interest in me. I became angry. I reluctantly agreed to a brief physical - right there in the pub - embarrassed by all the attention that I was now receiving and from the prying eyes of the local neighbors who could only wonder and whisper about what was going on. As I remember, the GP listened to my heart and breathing. She took my BP. Apparently satisfied, she then made a firm suggestion:

"I want you to take a mental health evaluation."

A mental health examination? Now? Only hours after almost dying in a fire? How about a victory party instead for helping to rescue two people who could have died?

I became angrier. I knew that I was having issues. I knew that I needed help. Indeed, I had started seeing a counselor a few weeks earlier, even prior to my daughter's wedding fiasco, to address some of those problems. I also knew that I had just survived an almost fatal fire. I had been traumatized. I had practically no sleep and had not eaten at all since the previous day. I declined the offer. Thoroughly humiliated, I walked out of the pub, past the cop who looked at me with grave suspicion.

I should probably explain here that, for me, the fire resulted in a sense of extreme and continual danger. I had become hyper-vigilant. I was fearful for my own safety. I had a keen desire to protect myself. Most people suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder feel the same way. And I had decided to visit the local medical center due to these symptoms. Frankly, I hoped that they would check me into a hospital and a snug, warm bed, shoot me up with a large tranquilizer that would allow me to sleep, and offer a little R&R and TLC that I knew I needed desperately.

But my plans had been interrupted by family and a 'professional' who were convinced I had tried to kill myself - and my neighbors while I was at it.  At that point, a mental evaluation was the last thing on my mind - and frankly I would not have trusted anyone to give it to me. However, that was not to be the case.

My ex-wife whispered briefly to the GP and followed me outside. Catching up, she pleaded with me to allow her to take me to the local hospital. She only wanted me to have a thorough physical exam to make sure that I was not suffering from smoke inhalation. She promised that on no account would I be asked to take a mental evaluation.

Trusting her, and reassured that her promise would not be breached, I agreed. With my daughter, we drove to the hospital which happened to be located in my old town. There, we waited in ER for hours. I was so tired I could have slept on the floor. 7 PM came and went. I had not eaten in 24 hours. All I wanted to do was find a hotel someplace, get some food, and sleep.

But finally a nurse brought me in. A young doctor gave me a cursory exam. I remember the cold metal of the stethoscope. The order to breath in. The comment that I was fine after only a moment's physical evaluation. And me asking, "Is that it?" And him saying, almost in embarrassment, "Actually, that's not why you're here. We're going to mentally evaluate you."

I wanted to go ballistic but I kept a firm grip on myself. I was escorted to a small room to wait for the hospital psychologist. A ward nurse visited me. I clearly told her that I was okay: I needed some sleep and some food and a safe place. I explained that I had survived a fire; that I was managing to cope - barely. But that I had already refused a mental evaluation and that I was not prepared to take one now. "I didn't realize that anyone surviving an apartment fire is automatically subjected to a mental health evaluation," I said wryly. She promised that they would not detain me longer than required.

The psychologist - a nice man - entered. He asked if I would allow him to mentally evaluate me. I refused point-blank. He suggested that I might be a danger to myself or others. I told him that his comment was bordering on the libelous. I was going home. He tried to broker a deal: if I agreed to take some meds (anti-psychotic drugs as it turned out, which I would have refused anyway) he would allow me to go back to my smaller town. If I agreed, he would talk to his supervisor. At this point it was getting on toward 10 PM. I told him I was giving him 15 minutes. If he didn't come back by then I was gone. On the way out the door he mentioned that if I left without his permission, he would call the cops.

Fifteen minutes went by. No sign of him. 20 minutes. A half hour. Fuming, and having said goodbye to my ex-wife and daughter, I caught a cab. It drove me back to town. I went immediately to the local police station. I told the cop there what had happened, and that he should expect a phone call instructing him to bring me in. He laughed and told me to go home.

But I had no home to go to. Instead, I walked to a local hotel, my few belongings pushed into a brand new sports bag. I asked for a room. The receptionist gave me the key. I deposited the bag there, then walked back downstairs, having decided to pay for the room that night because that's what I usually did and had forgotten to.

The owner of the hotel stood at the reception desk. I held out the cash to him. "I don't want your money," he stated in deadly earnest. "You're the guy who started the fire, aren't you? You almost killed everyone." He escorted me from the premises. It made no difference that I had not started the fire. It made no difference that it was past midnight, I had no place to go, and desperately needed sleep. It made no difference that I had used the hotel for years and was considered a loyal customer and a fellow who appreciated the efforts of the hotel staff - and made it known to them. I was livid. At the door I turned to him: "If the world goes to hell like it has for me, I hope you're treated the same way." I walked away.

It was now almost midnight. I walked a mile or so to another hotel. I checked in. I had a sandwich and beer at the bar, the first food that I'd eaten in over 24 hours. I walked to my bedroom and fell into bed. The comfort of sleep descended immediately. But not before I had decided that I would look for a new apartment the next day. A place of safety in which I could recover and figure out how to get appropriate help.

I never had a chance.

Up in Smoke

Stress would seem to be a primary cause of breakdown (go to http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/nervous-breakdown/AN00476 for more information).  As my counselor explained, each of us possesses an internal 'emotional pressure cooker'. Some of us have larger pressure cookers than others, which means that they can handle more stress before the cooker boils over. Some of us have smaller cookers, or our pressure cookers are already more than half full. In these cases, it can take very little additional stress to cause a breakdown. Ideally, and prior to approaching an emotional explosion, we can reduce the pressure by letting off steam through healthy and productive methods including sharing with friends and family, exercise, rest, eating right - even walking into an empty field and screaming to no one in particular about our frustration, anger, guilt, or humiliation.  

But if a person is already at the point of breakdown - or has gone past that point - they require immediate help: loving care, a bit of peace, perhaps medication or hospitalization depending on the extent of the breakdown. Whatever the treatment, a person suffering breakdown must be enclosed in a loving environment that feels safe, secure, and which protects them from further stress which may only make the breakdown more acute. 

In short, they must be given the opportunity to emotionally depressurize if they are to heal. In my case this did not happen.

During the week following the breakdown at my daughter's wedding, I was experiencing even more stress. My family, understandably appalled at my behavior and not realizing that I was suffering from an emotional illness, literally cut me off. My father would not talk to me. Nor, come to think of it, would most of my family. Believing that I was suffering from alcoholism or related conditions, they decided to practice 'tough love' by isolating me in a 'time out' that I found horrible. I was (almost) fully aware of what I had done. While I could not remember some of my behavior, I remembered enough. Already feeling bad about myself, I now felt horrendous. I could not accept myself as I was. Intense feelings of guilt and shame washed over me like an incoming storm. 

Physically, I was experiencing a number of symptoms that I now realize are part of breakdown. I continually broke out in sweats and hot flashes, so much so that I often placed a cold damp towel on my neck for relief. I continued to feel dizzy, as if the entire world was out of focus. I had momentary feelings of indestructibility, believing that I could accomplish anything and survive anything. On occasion, I believed that I was in the company of people who were protecting and directing me though I could never see them: angels, generals, my dead mother. I experienced deep depression, though never to the point of suicide. What I did know was that I had broken, and I had no idea what to do about it. I did not ask for help because a) I wasn't quite sure what the problem was and b) I fully believed that if I did ask for help, I would be at the best ignored and at the worst ridiculed for being selfish. 

Trying to help myself, I took long walks. I practiced Yoga. I prayed. Many times, overcome by feelings of absolute worthlessness and desolation, I burst into tears. Desperately, and wrongly I can now say in hindsight, I reached out to an acquaintance: a born-again Christian minister with whom I was acquainted. I asked him over to dinner. During our meal, I tried my best to share what I was experiencing: of the desperate feelings that were overwhelming me. Of the belief that I was being protected by angels. The conversation was one that I would later bitterly regret. Little did I know at that time that my honesty and search for confidential help would later be used against me, and contribute to even graver mental illness.

Fire

When our meal had ended, I locked up the apartment as usual. I went to bed around 10 PM. Emotionally overcome, I fell asleep instantly. I fell into a dream that quickly became a nightmare. In it, I was a child in a Fun Fair. Bright lights and the wail of horrifying rides filled my dreamy vision. Then I heard a banging. "Bang, bang, bang," and it scared me silly. I remember rolling over in bed, falling deeper into the dream. "Bang, bang, bang." It came again. This time with a voice. "Are you in there? Wake up. Wake up!" I woke.

I woke to acute darkness interspersed with bright blinking blue and red lights. The wailing of a siren cutting through it all. I coughed violently. Then the banging again. And a muffled voice coming from the front door. "Get out. Get out!" Then I noticed a sound like tearing paper. Red and yellow fingers of light visible through the bedroom door, reflecting off the walls.

My apartment was on fire. I now realized: I was coughing because I was slowly dying of smoke inhalation. The wail was that of the apartment building smoke alarm. The red and blue lights were from fire engines and police cruisers parked in the lot outside my 2nd floor window. The banging was from my downstairs neighbor who, by chance, knew that I was in the apartment. He beat frantically on the front door as if to break it down. 

Finally, I understood. I ran to the door, opening it. Pausing for an instance to look into the living room which was awash in flames. My neighbor (God bless him) told me that I must go with him. At first I refused. My vivid dream not wanting to let go, I fully believed that there was someone still in the apartment. I got down onto my hands and knees, crawling back in, down the small hallway and beneath the thick smoke, looking into the living room. Watching as the animal of flame consumed the room: the walls, the couch and chairs that I sat in, the wooden floor, the small coffee table. 

I got up and ran. 

Later, much much later, I would finally realize that I had been traumatized yet again by that night. And who wouldn't? I was told that if my kind neighbor had not had the persistence to keep banging on my front door I would have been dead in another two minutes. But he did, and I'm still here. If I want to remind myself of the peril that I was in, all that I have to do is examine a chest of drawers that survived the fire, one of the few personal belongings that I managed to save. It was in my bedroom, not 4 feet from where I slept. It is made of oak. The top of it has been etched permanently by smoke-borne acids. I was breathing that same deadly cocktail. 

Outside the building, I was given a thorough examination by a crew of EMTs. They checked my blood pressure and pulse. They asked if I was okay. In fact, I felt fine. Energized. Wanting to help. Worried that other neighbors were still in their apartments, trapped possibly by flames that had advanced, intent on consuming the entire small apartment block. The EMTs suggested a trip to hospital for a battery of tests. Not knowing how much I had been affected, and wanting to stay to help, I declined their kind offer.

I stayed on-site. It's a good thing I did. A police officer whom I knew asked me to do a head count of the apartment residents that stood in small groups around the darkened parking lot. Fully present, I did what he asked. I came up two short. We realized suddenly that two people were still in the blazing apartment. Members of the fire brigade leaped into action, going into the inferno, extracting my two neighbors before they could die. It is the only action that I took that night about which I could feel proud.

The news of the fire quickly circulated through the small town.  By morning, that news would reach my family living only eight miles away. I didn't know it then, but a rumor mill had started. By morning the fire was out. But despite the fact that no investigation had yet been started into the causes of the fire, I had already been blamed for it.

In a one week period I had suffered a breakdown at my daughter's wedding, a breakdown that had not yet received treatment. I had also survived a fire that had traumatized me even further. I didn't know that the worst was yet to come. 

Resilience: A Key to Recovering from a Nervous Breakdown

I'm going to take a break from the story of my fall. Yes, there are still a number of chapters left in what happened: a fire, a stay in hospital, a period of bleakness that no words can properly describe. And I also want to go deeper into symptoms, and what I felt during - and just after - the breakdown.

But for a moment, I'd like to look at a brighter subject: how to recover from a breakdown. Many, many professionals have written on this subject. They offer a variety of tools including possible medication, ongoing therapy, eating well, exercising regularly, sleeping well, the continuing support of family and friends - these are just some of them. And in a later post I'll cover each tool in some detail. But for now, I'll talk about one tool that is often discussed as a method for recovery: the re-development of personal resilience.

What is resilience and why is it important? Go to the Internet for a professional and profound definition. But for me, I'd like to keep it simple: Resilience is the deep well of self-belief that empowers human beings to survive, and recover from, horrendous events or situations that might otherwise destroy them. People that come to mind that have shown exceptional resilience include: many families and friends of 9/11 victims who have gone on to lead productive, rewarding, and giving lives despite the misfortune that they suffered; military personnel from WWII, Korea, Vietnam, the various Gulf Wars, and similar military actions who have suffered great levels of trauma but who have managed to move on (which takes a great deal of personal courage); the Apollo 13 astronauts who fought to bring their spacecraft back to Earth despite what at first appeared to be a hopeless situation. Have a think and you'll be able to think of many, many people who have survived highly traumatic situations - everything from a horrific divorce to a natural disaster - have lived to tell the tale, and have managed to put the past behind them and move on.

But resilience levels can be eroded by events, decreasing the chances of recovery. In my case, and due to multiple traumatic events that occurred within days of each other, my personal resilience level was on the floor. Being resilient means that you believe in yourself and your ability to overcome adversity. Yet, following one disaster after another, I had little self-belief. I had little hope for the future. At many times all I wanted to do was to stop living.

But to improve the odds of recovering from nervous breakdown, a sufferer must also improve their levels of resilience. To do so, you have to learn to become aware that your resilience levels are flat or non-existent. And having become aware, you have to figure out why those levels have flat-lined, then figure out what to do to restore them to some semblance of normalcy.

My resilience levels have not yet fully recovered. But I must say that they are higher now than they have been in some time. Here's what I did to improve my personal resilience, a battle I must continue to fight each and every day.

1. Becoming aware of the erosion of my personal resilience levels.
Up until the trauma and breakdown, I believe that I was a very positive person, with reasonably high levels of self-belief, self-esteem, and confidence. At most times I knew what was good for me. I was able to take care of myself and in doing so, take care of my family and others. I tried to live by the Golden Rule which meant that I did my best to treat others as I would myself. I had great hope for the future, both for myself and for those that I loved. In short, I felt good about myself and my life which was fulfilling. I felt myself to be a Good Man.

But following the breakdown, my sense of self felt corrupted. I no longer believed in myself. My self-esteem tanked. My definition of self became muddied: I no longer knew the fellow who I confronted in the mirror every morning. In short, I had become lost. And I felt loss. I had no direction in life, and felt powerless (and sometimes still do) to find a new direction.

And I had no hope for my future or the role that I could play in society or in the lives of those that were most important to me. I felt that I was a Bad Man who was no longer wanted and who had little value.  But it was only when I realized that my personal resilience had plummeted that I was able to take any action at all.

2. Recognizing why my resilience had failed.
For me, it was important to understand why my resilience levels had become non-existent. For a long time I couldn't figure out why this had happened. Many other people have survived traumatic situations and subsequently created fulfilling lives. What was wrong with me? Why was I unable to quickly bounce back?Like many, I've faced many adverse situations in my lifetime. Why could I not pull myself up by my bootstraps this time?

I had to look at the factors that caused the erosion in personal resilience. This is what I found:

a. No one believed in me so why should I? - During and after my breakdown, those I most cherished turned their backs on me, thinking me to be only an alcoholic or worse. They did so because they had not realized that I had suffered a nervous breakdown and therefore blamed me for actions and behavior that at the time were beyond my ability to control. And if these people thought the worst of me, then perhaps I should think the same way.

b. I had lost my self-esteem - because my family took a dim view of me, so did I. I no longer thought well of myself. In fact, and as stated, I thought myself to be a Bad Man. A monster. A horror that no one wanted. My work suffered. My ability to socialize with others suffered. I looked in the mirror and felt only shame and remorse. After many months it dawned on me that I blamed myself for everything that happened. I could not let myself off the hook. Like my vision, I had crucified myself but in my case there was no chance of forgiveness.

c. I had lost hope - in almost everything: in any kind of a fulfilling future. In my ability to write and work. In my desire to love and be loved. In my wish to give and comfort others. My world had become a place of utter darkness with no horizon, no future, and no sense of self.

d. I cared little for myself - this culminated in a feeling of self-loathing. Frankly and for a long time (and this still happens on occasions), I simply didn't give a damn what happened to me anymore. Eating became a chore and my weight dropped. Any sense of self-discipline went down the toilet. I became lethargic, depressed, and unmotivated. I avoided interacting with people because I had become paranoid and fully believed that most could see the words burned into my forehead: Bad Man Here. All I wanted was to remain invisible.

Given the above, is it any wonder that my resilience had suffered?

3. Restoring Resilience.
Over the months since the breakdown, and due to a great counselor, exercise (even when I didn't want to), a return to reasonable eating habits, sleep, and a great deal of rest, I've finally begun to gain  a little insight. This has not only allowed me to become aware of the points above, but has also enabled me to begin the process of doing something about it.

Key to my recovery of resilience is the re-development of hope - both for my future and those that I love. I now have brief flashes of what I hope might be my future: of laughing and loving children and grandchildren. Of a return to productive work. Of fully healing from the aftermath of breakdown. Of a renewed sense of self-belief. Of a life together, and future with, a new partner that I love and cherish. That somehow I will be able to give back to others because giving back also helps me to heal (which is one of the reasons why I am writing this Blog).

I now know that I was terribly, terribly ill. I no longer feel crucified. Rather, I have let myself come down from the cross. This has allowed me to forgive. I can forgive me (most of the time anyway) because I know that in being ill, I was not responsible for my actions. I can forgive others (most of the time anyway) because they did not know that I was having a breakdown, and in their ignorance, had no idea how to help me. Forgiving allows me to let go of many negative feelings (once again: most of the time anyway). And it clears the way for hope to exist. If I was unable to forgive, I suspect that regaining resilience would never be possible.

Recovering personal resilience is a long process. Often, I only see glimmers of hope, like the far-off beacon of a lighthouse sparkling across stormy seas. Many factors slow this recovery: feelings of despair and periods of depression can knock hope on the head for a time. Feelings of helplessness, powerlessness, lack of focus, guilt, anger, and a profound and deadly sense of loss can interrupt my journey toward renewed and full mental health.

It will be a struggle to win back the resilience that I once had. But now that I understand why resilience is so important, and why it had been undermined in the first place, I believe that it will again be renewed. It will raise me up, allowing me to rekindle the heart of the Good Man that I know must still be alive within me.

Shattering - A Description of One Man's Nervous Breakdown

The actual breakdown had been building for over a year. Nay, for a lifetime. But by mid-2010, and though I didn't know it, all that my fragile system needed was one more small event and I would be pushed over the edge. And of course, it had to happen during a day that I was looking forward to; an event that I knew I would cherish. My daughter's wedding.

The final stressor came from an unlikely and unexpected source: my father. He had come over to Ireland for the wedding determined, despite his advancing years, to see his youngest great-granddaughter walk down the aisle. He stayed at the apartment with me, a place that I tentatively tried to call 'home'. We planned to hang around for a few days, chat and talk and laugh together as we always had, then head to Portugal to join the wedding.

The wedding. The thought of it made me extremely anxious. Because of the separation from my wife, I knew that it would be difficult. We would both be on edge, doing what we could to act normally. We would sit at the top table together, yet I knew that we would both feel embarrassed and anxious, hiding our anger from each other like enemies who had been forced to call a truce. And I knew that our children - the bride as well as my two other kids - would in all likelihood feel the same way. We would all do what we could to hide behind a thin veneer, doing our best to express joy rather than the confusion that we all felt.

As the days to the wedding approached, I felt emotionally worse and even more on edge. Feelings of anxiety and guilt knotted tight in a stomach and heart that was already full of dread. And then there was Dad...

On coming over, he seemed 'different' somehow: worried and distracted. Perhaps I was so upset and beside myself that I misinterpreted his signals. Dad is a sort-of 'man's man': usually unemotional. When life throws a curve at him, he can successfully detach himself. This quality has made him a brick of a fellow for all of my life, helping the family to cope when things became troublesome. The downside to this characteristic is that I rarely saw him give a display of emotion. But on this occasion, he unexpectedly did and I wasn't sure how to react or feel. Certainly, it confused me. Perhaps he was still grieving deeply for my mother who had passed away a few years previously? More to the point, perhaps he was upset at me and the separation from my wife of almost 30 years? My mind and heart turned when I thought about this. I became worried that he was disappointed in me. For all of my life, I had worked hard to make him proud of me. But perhaps my decision now was deemed irresponsible. My stomach turned to ice at the thought.

But we talked. For the first time in ages, he seemed teary eyed. I asked him if he would rather not go to the wedding? For a moment, he considered the idea as being the best one. Then rejected it again. But now I was concerned for him. I was worried. And that worry put me on a knife edge.

A few days later, we drove to Dublin Airport and the flight to Portugal and the wedding. There, Dad suddenly complained that he wasn't feeling well and he seemed afraid of the pending flight. I was shocked by this.  The man had been flying since the 1950s and it had never bothered him. Why now? He at last agreed to go but only if I could get a wheelchair to take him down to the gate. The request was highly uncharacteristic of him. I became even more concerned and troubled by his behavior.

When we arrived in Portugal, no one was there to greet us. Yet we had been told that a member of our family would be there to take us to our hotel. Instead, Dad and I had to rent a car. I ended up getting lost as we tried to find our way through the unfamiliar streets. Dad's own stress levels were elevated, which fueled my own. At last we found the hotel. Though technically still closed for the season, it had opened to provide rooms to some members of the wedding party. As it turned out, we were the first to arrive. We also learned that the other members of my family - my ex-wife, son, and daughter - would be staying miles away at a rented villa. I felt, incorrectly, that they were ashamed of me and dishonoring Dad. We would be on our own at least until other wedding guests arrived. My emotional pressure cooker began to boil with embarrassment and anger.

That first night continued to build toward a climax of frustration. We had arrived late and Dad couldn't get any food. Yet he needed something in his stomach because he suffered from diabetes. On going to our room, he didn't like it and I couldn't blame him. It was small, musty, and poorly maintained. My daughter had organized the room for us. In fact, she had insisted on it. And of course I would pay for it, as I would also pay for the entire wedding. Yet the room sucked and my anger grew.  With Dad complaining about the room, complaining about his health, complaining about sudden dizzy spells he was having, my emotional levels crept up yet another notch. We hit the sack about 1AM. I couldn't sleep, so worried and upset was I.

The next day, the day of the wedding rehearsal, dawned bright and cloudless. We were told to be at the church by mid-morning. I had risen early, unable to sleep, my brain a Ferris wheel of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Anger colliding with love. Hurt mixed with the hope for my daughter's joy. Dad and I climbed into our rental car. We would follow my daughter and her new mother-in-law, driving another, to the church.

We got lost. It's an easy thing to do, isn't it? Getting lost? Everyone does it at one time or another and it's usually no big deal at all. You get your bearings, maybe ask someone for directions, and eventually get to where you're going. Only to me, on this particular day, in that particular state-of-mind, it became a very, very bid deal indeed.

I don't remember a great deal about the next few hours. I remember, as another post reports, holding up the rehearsal by insisting that everyone wait for me while I had a cigarette. I remember seething with anger as I marched outside the church, talking to myself. I remember seeing my ex-wife eyeing me with concern and worry, not able to fathom what was wrong with me. I remember my daughter the bride pass by, bristling with annoyance at me. Eventually I got my ass back inside the Church. We ran through the rehearsal. We all climbed back into cars, driving back to our hotel, and for a breakfast for the entire party. And during the drive I remember becoming darker and darker inside. No longer thinking. Only feeling: anger, guilt, shame, embarrassment, vindictiveness, sorrow and sadness. All of these emotions simultaneously boiling in me. Seeking some sort of final release. Like Mount Vesuvius. And like the mountain, I was just about ready to explode.

Now back at the hotel, I climbed out of the car and right there, right in the parking lot, I had the breakdown.

A breakdown doesn't take place in one minute or 2 minutes or 5 or ten. It isn't one singularity marked by an almighty explosion. Instead, at least for me, it felt like a constantly changing, churning animal; a creature that lurked in me for months and that finally came to life, snarling and spitting as it sought some sort of recognition or release.

In my case it started with anger which I unjustly directed at my daughter's soon to be father-in-law. The man is a nice fellow. Before this I had met him on a number of occasions. We always got along quite well. We even played golf together.

The poor guy had no idea what was bearing down on him. My anger had turned to rage. The rage consumed me. I can't remember what I called the father-in-law. But whatever it was, it was horrible. I seem to remember that I blamed him for everything that I felt was wrong with the wedding. I would have blamed him for African poverty if it had come to mind. I ranted and raved. I wanted to fight him physically. This was coming from me! A guy who had never been in a physical fight at any time in his life! I'm sure that  my language was way, way, way past being foul. Rather than being a nice guy, I had turned into a monster. And  my bellowing had attracted the attention of the rest of the wedding party. They poured from the front door of the hotel, watching as the madman (me) roared, and for no apparent reason.

Of course, everyone - including my family and my father - thought I was drunk (not so, because I had not had a drink that day). They thought that I had sneaked off somehow, downed a few bottles of wine, and was now behaving like a madman. On some levels they were correct. My behavior was mad. But I had not been drinking. I was having a breakdown and no one knew it because 'breakdowns' can be easily misunderstood and misinterpreted.

As I said in a previous post, I wish I had had a heart attack. It would have been much easier and so much simpler to understand, diagnose, and treat.

My breakdown resulted in bizarre behavior. And bizarre, unacceptable behavior, has many consequences. What I didn't know was that this uncharacteristic outburst of inappropriate rage was only the start of many months of madness.

The Visions

The episode of rage is barely remembered by me. I only remember people's faces: their horror, anger, and confusion. I remember the father-in-law pleading with me to get a grip. I remember my soon-to-be son-in-law grasping me by an elbow, kindly pulling me back. I remember storming to my room, searching for Dad. Not finding him. Pouring myself a glass of wine. He coming into the room seeing me. I had poured fire on my family's thinking that I was merely drunk. Oh that I had been! It would have been much more simple.

The rage calmed. Emotionally, I dropped like a brick seeking balance, but falling, falling, falling much lower than that. I was in tears now. Embarrassed by my outburst. Knowing that I had let down everyone that I had loved. Right there at my daughter's wedding. I was suddenly overcome with tiredness. I lay down on the bed and slept.

But the sleep was one of disturbances. And when I woke, still half-asleep and still half-deranged, I experience my first vision. Of Christ. Crucified, bleeding, on a cross. His face filling the room. Years later, now, I realized that I was only projecting the emotional pain that I felt. I felt crucified. A victim that was going to pay fully for what I had done. And I was right.

I remember a knock on the door. My son-in-law looked in, his face full of worry and concern. I asked for my father but the poor fellow would not tell me that he had fled from me across town and to my daughter's rented villa, escaping from his now 'dangerous' son. 

I didn't realize it then, but my punishment for the breakdown was to be isolation.

My son-in-law, still standing in the room, began to pack my bag. He told me that they had organized another hotel just for me. Not understanding, still emotionally out-of-it, I was overjoyed that he was there to help me. He took me downstairs and poured me into his rental car. He drove me to a hotel on the outskirts of the city. Along the way, I asked where we were going. He wouldn't tell me. Then I realized what was happening. "My daughter doesn't want me at her wedding, does she?" He could only stare blankly at the traffic in front of him. 

And so it was that I had been dis-invited to my daughter's wedding. I would not walk her down the aisle. My father would do that. I would not give the father-of-the-bride speech. My ex-wife would do that. I would not dance with her. Her father-in-law would do that. My breakdown had destroyed what should have been one of the happiest days of my life, and that of my entire family. 

I was checked into the hotel. Another member of the wedding party had already paid the bill possibly overjoyed that the crazy father-of-the-bride was out of harm's way. My son-in-law left. I had no idea where I was. All I knew was that I was very, very alone. 

Later, I would find out that those suffering breakdown require a number of treatments. Most important of these is the support and love of their kith and kin. But my family did not know that I was having a breakdown and if they had they would not have read the rule book. Though I urgently needed love and support instead I was thrown away like an old toaster that had suddenly gone on the blink and filled the house with smoke. I was now a dangerous man and not to be trusted.

I took to my room. There, I was alone and so very frightened. For a moment, the rage again reared itself. The hurt and anger at my situation consumed me. I looked at my watch. I knew that at that moment my daughter was walking down the aisle. I took out their wedding gift which I still had with me. I smashed it against the wall along with my dreams for the day. And I broke down.

Things grow dark at that point and I can remember little. A few hours pass, and I'm standing outside on the small balcony frantically having a cigarette. I try to open the sliding glass door to go back into the room. I'm convinced that it's locked. I can see myself standing on that balcony all night. Suddenly, it becomes imperative that I get back into the room. I try to break the door down. I can't. I decide that I can climb down to the ground. As I remember, I was on the 4th floor. Climbing down was decidedly not a good idea. I remember climbing over the balcony's aluminium siding. In the process I damned well near killed myself. Had a slipped, my fall would only have been broken when I hit one of the cars far below me.

Somehow or other, I used my mobile phone to call hotel reception. I demanded someone to come up and let me back into my room. I demanded to see a doctor. I told them that I was dying - frankly and at that point I felt like I was dying. I called my wife next. She was at the wedding reception celebrating our daughter's wedding. I demanded that she leave and help me. That night, I was full of demands. And full of mental illness though no one knew it yet.

A porter came into the room. He opened the sliding glass door. As it turned out, the door was open. I was simply trying to open it incorrectly. In other words, my breakdown had robbed me of simple logic. My wife and eldest daughter arrived next. They were convinced that I was drunker than a coot. Nothing I could say would convince them otherwise. Then the doctor arrived. He examined me thoroughly. My blood pressure was somewhat elevated. That was all he could find. He prescribed a course of Xanex and left. So too did my wife and daughter. They stormed from the room thinking me only to be selfish and out of control. Out of control I agree with. Selfish? I'm not sure about that one. My breakdown had stripped me of much of what I was - of my moral compass. To say that I was not myself would be putting it mildly.

The rest of that night is a blank. The next day I somehow remember getting a taxi. I made my way back to the hotel. I still could not find Dad nor could I find out where he was. Those from the wedding party who were also staying at the hotel kept their distance, terrified of annoying the madman.

Except one woman, who - I like to think - guessed at what had happened. She simply said to me, "Forgive them and forgive yourself. It's not you who caused so much anguish." Of course, she was not inferring that other people were causing disruption. She simply meant that the animal that had emerged from my soul was not me. And it wasn't, and I still could not and would not recognize the monster that had taken control of me.

Somehow or other we all traveled home the next day, a day early because of me. Flights were re-arranged. Dad and my son had decided to travel with me feeling that I might be a danger to myself or others. Anything I did or said was suspect, no matter how innocent. If I opened my mouth to speak, if I made a complaint, if I decided to go to the toilet unexpectedly, they grew suspicious of my motives.

I made it back to the apartment. Dad chose to stay with my ex-wife rather than me, still stunned by my behavior, still fearful of what I might do next. They didn't realize that I was as confused as they were.

For my entire life I had worked hard to take care of my family, to love them, to help them, to be there for them. I had worked hard to make my father proud of me. In only a few hours, my breakdown had destroyed a lifetime of hard work and devotion.

And it was going to get worse. 

The Trauma of Divorce and Separation

We all know someone who has gone through marital breakdown, separation, and divorce. For some, the results are a relief. Depending on the dynamic of the relationship, a spouse - or both spouses - may feel happiness, freedom, and reprieve. A chance to start over. To become whole. To perhaps achieve what they could not achieve before.

For others, however, separation and divorce is a nightmare of stress, confusion, despair, and loneliness. In short, it can be a highly traumatic experience. This was what it was for me (despite fully believing at the time that it was the best course of action both for me and my ex-wife). And the trauma of the separation significantly contributed to my breakdown.

I am not going to write at length about what my family experienced. I was not with them at the time. I do know that I hurt my wife deeply (which caused me great anguish and guilt). Similarly, my children were hurt and shocked by the shattering of their family (which also caused me great anguish and guilt). My youngest was particularly troubled by this. Though s/he was 21 at the time of my leaving, and a young adult, s/he was shattered, and experienced feelings of abandonment, anger, loneliness, confusion, isolation, and hurt. S/he began having panic attacks which affected her/him greatly - as well as the entire family. I felt powerless to help because this time I was unable to fix me, much less help them. And I was sorely disappointed in myself and my performance.

Separation meant that I faced a huge leap into the unknown. I rented an apartment and for the first time in almost 30 years found myself living on my own. As a guy almost 55, I felt that I should be able to cope. But overcome by grief at the breakup of my marriage, lonely for the wife that I still loved despite my own decision to leave, lonely for my children - and grandchildren - that meant so much to me, I found myself walking around in a haze of confusion. I'd go shopping at the local grocery store. But standing in the middle of wide aisles I felt unable to complete the tasks. Choosing things as mundane as lettuce and cornflakes was a major chore that my muddled brain could hardly consider. The world of that grocery store seemed threatening, confusing and dizzying. Often, I'd come home with bags full of stuff that wasn't on my list, and had forgotten to buy most things that I'd intended to.

Going to work, and at least for the first few weeks, was a hoot. I had to take a new route to the workplace. Getting from the new apartment to work was easy - and yet because I wasn't able to focus I'd get lost. I'd come to a stop on an unfamiliar country lane way and force myself to breath deeply because I was so full of fear. I'd talk to myself: "Okay, turn around. Okay, take the next left. Okay, keep breathing because you're almost there."

I absolutely hated sleeping on my own. The apartment was so dark. Like a child, I left the bathroom light on. I had an old pendulum clock that I constantly wound which filled the apartment's small space with the voice of its comforting ticking. Often, I would put off going to bed as long as possible. I'd try to read a borrowed library book. Something fairly simple, a Grisham novel perhaps. But half the time the words were only a jumble of cold noise and I'd have to give up.

Few of my friends understood what was happening. Fewer showed any sign of support. At that point, I was not in therapy. Most of the time, I kept the fear and anguish that I was experiencing to myself. I was like an emotional pressure cooker whose internal forces are rapidly swinging beyond control.

"Internal pressure cooker". That was me all right. Years later, my counselor explained that we all carry an internal pressure cooker. Let the stress get too much and the pot begins to boil. Let it keep building without letting some of the pressure escape in a healthy way, and the cooker explodes.

Before the separation, my pot had already begun to boil. During the separation, and if my pot had a pressure sensor, the needle would have read: "Critical! Shut down now!"  I didn't know it then, but it would take me only one more stressor, one more incident, to push me over the edge.

For me, separation was traumatic. The absence of my family not what I had expected. Living alone lonely and unfathomably confusing. It was a time of despair and dread. It was a part of a journey that was leading me to the brink of the abyss.

Approaching the Precipice

As mentioned elsewhere, nervous breakdowns don't just happen. Rather, a breakdown is the culmination of a variety of factors including stressors, environmental background, and perhaps genetic predispositions, that conspire to push a person over the edge. Everyone has their breaking point. Add enough stress to any mix, shake well, and the result can be an emotional tsunami that will certainly ruin your day.

In my case, the breakdown was the culmination of three, and perhaps four, large stressors that literally knocked me down. I'll quickly list them here, but will then explore each of these in separate posts.

1. Marital separation
2. My daughter's wedding 
3. An apartment fire
4. Psychiatric evaluation that almost killed me

The Lead Up

Those that suffer a nervous breakdown very rarely share their experience and for good reason, I suspect. First, they are often embarrassed by the entire event. After all, who wants to tell anyone that they have experienced something that many do not understand (least of all, themselves), that is socially unacceptable, and that has often paralyzed them with fear? Second, sharing such an event often stirs memories including what can include emotionally violent flashbacks that can lay them low for days or weeks. Why would anyone in his or her right mind want to re-experience some of the darkest days of their existence? 

In most cases, nervous breakdown sufferers choose to avoid talking in detail about it. At least that's what I did (except for broad brushstrokes that I would occasionally share with friends and family looking for an explanation, and of course more detailed discussions with my therapist). But by not sharing, by not vocalizing the pain, sorrow, and horror, those experiencing a nervous breakdown are often unable to make sense of what happened to them. By wanting the past to simply 'go away' and disappear, sufferers are unable to validate the events to themselves.

Too, and by not sharing, people suffering from this debilitating experience can not learn from each other. We cannot gain hope, or strength, or experience by identifying with symptoms, causes, or cures. And though we can read many professionally-created reports, I firmly believe that by sharing the reality of this horror, we can help each other - which, of course, is one of the objectives of this blog.

For this reason - this lack of sharing - I can only help you, the reader, understand by talking about my own experience. In my case, I now know that my breakdown was the result of a series of events, often taking place over years, which led me toward the precipice of insanity.

In addition to my ancestry of emotional instability and how I was raised (see other posts), I was also plagued by a number of stressors. First, I had immigrated to a 'foreign' country. I was not born in Ireland. Instead I moved here many years ago. Immigrants experience a wide range of ongoing stress as they attempt to fit in to a new environment, deal with practical issues such as getting a job, make new friends, and otherwise adjust. The experience is often a complete shift in benchmarks and what a person grew up with. The process of fitting in, adjusting to, and accepting, a new country can be fraught with difficulties. The stress of immigration was therefore added to the daily stresses that I - like anyone - experienced: how to make money, how to raise children, how to save so we could survive. 

Second, I ended up starting a business. Through hard work and many, many hours, the business was successful for many years. But success extracts its own price. Like many business people, I was torn between the hours that I had to spend in business and the hours that I wanted to spend with my family. Constant stress often left me preoccupied, and with little energy, at the end of a long day, to share with my children. Which, in turn, resulted in feelings within me of guilt and resentment. I worked hard for well over 20 years. But while the business flourished, I had ignored my own needs and those of my family. Looking back, I know that my mental, physical, and spiritual health began to suffer.

During this period, the relationship with my wife began to fall apart. In many ways, I was to blame. I have to be very careful now in allocating blame to anything. For a long time, I accepted all of the blame - an unhealthy tendency that induces more stress through guilt and shame. Now I realize that it makes no difference who was at fault - or not. Relationships end. But endings can be traumatic.

Which is what happened when I finally called it quits. We talked one day. I told her I was leaving. We argued. She kicked me out. Suddenly, I was on the outside of my family looking in. I had isolated myself from the wife I had lived with for almost 30 years; from the home that I had paid off and had worked so hard for; from my three grown children who did not understand what had happened. 

Marriage breakdown is stressful. Depending on the situation, it can be highly traumatic. Certainly, it was for me. I was consumed with negative emotions about myself. I had failed. I was a horrible father and husband. I was an idiot and a fool. I was...I was...I was...  I went to bed beating myself up. I got up beating myself up. I had moved to a small town close to the family home in order to be close to them. But perhaps I was too close. My wife and one of my children phoned persistently. The language was destructive. What they said about me only reinforced my own feelings of self-shame. 

Looking back, I now know that I was getting very close to the edge. Physically, I was a mess. My hands shook. I was having trouble sleeping. I hardly ate. I was drinking too much. I was having difficulties focusing on specific tasks. Even washing the car now seemed to take forever. I was forgetful. Rather than share with people I tended to isolate myself. I rarely exercised. Emotionally, it was a nightmare. In fact I was having nightmares. In some ways, I had turned into two different people: the fellow that still tried to greet people with a smile and who did his best to always be there for friends and family, and the internal monster that was intent on devouring anything that was good about me because the Monster believed that I was simply no good anymore. In other words, and as I said in the very first Post to this blog, "I am a bad man."

In that period, I now know that absolute fear began to master my life. I was afraid of answering the door. I was afraid of picking up the phone. I was afraid of driving to work. I was so very, very afraid. And what I didn't realize but do now, was that I had become traumatized by that excess of fear as well as other negative emotions about myself. 

I was staring into the precipice but didn't realize how far I might fall. Soon, I would find out.

Get Ready for the Fall

What causes someone, anyone - even a person who appears to possess energy, resilience, and strength - to succumb to a 'nervous breakdown'? If you're interested in the professionals' view, then by all means Google the question and you'll find many answers.

Common to many of those answers, however, are a few factors which include genetic makeup and environmental backgrounds (see previous post, Roots), continuous high levels of stress, anxiety, and depression. Other factors can include alcohol and drug abuse, isolation, and trauma.

In my case, they included many of the above. But because I'm trying to share my particular breakdown, and not those experienced by others, I need to again step back a bit in time.

While I live in Ireland, I am not Irish. I moved here many years ago. At the time of the move, and because of my background, I was convinced that I could live almost anywhere. I was wrong. For over three years all I thought about was moving back home. Of friends and family that I missed dearly. Of places and people and things that I desperately wanted back in my life.

Too, living in a 'foreign' country was an experience which I soon discovered I had trouble coping with. At the time, the county was in recession. We had little money. But we also had bills that I found hard to meet. In the end, and despite the recession, I managed to get a job. I was scared to death because I felt completely out of my depth. A few years later I set up a company with a partner who turned out to be a crook. The business soon failed leaving me with a mountain of debt. At the same time, I was having difficulties with my marriage. We separated. At that point I had - and still have - three children. I missed them terribly.

I was scared shit-less.

In desperation, and wanting to make certain that we could all survive, I set up a company again, this time on my own. I worked my arse off. Over the next twenty years, I branched out. I became partners in another operation. This meant that I was managing two businesses. Simultaneously, I started writing creatively. But I also knew that something was still very wrong. Foremost was the fact that I missed my wife and children. I became very good at beating myself up, telling myself how the separation was completely my fault. I know now that any relationship has problems, and problems must be shared. But I didn't then. I only remember thinking that something was broken inside of me, something that I tried desperately to fix, but couldn't. My hands began to shake, slow tremors that would last an hour or more. Concentration at times became difficult. But I ignored it. Instead, I was determined to do everything that I could to get my family back.

This took place over 20 years ago. At that time, and in hindsight, I think I was near a breakdown. I feel that the reasons I escaped then was the fact that I was also 20 years younger, in better general health, and had the resilience that is possessed by the young.

Through hard work and a variety of decisions, my family and I got back together. Determined to make it all up to them, I worked even harder. The small businesses that I managed continued to grow. I began working over 12 hours a day. And I knew that on many levels, and because of my workload, I was missing the best years of fatherhood. I could not attend as many of my kids' school events as I wanted, nor talk to them as much, or help them with their homework, or enjoy stress-less holidays. I felt guilty about this, and that guilt grew.

At the same time, and like a fool, I decided to try my best to action my dream - the dream of going home permanently again. As mentioned above, I had started to write creatively. A couple of those projects were actually published or produced on the screen to much greater success than I could have hoped for. And while the money wasn't great, the hope of success populated my waking dreams.

That dream went something like this: "I'm going to write a screenplay that's going to be great. This will be picked up by a production company for a quarter of a million. Then I'll write the book to go with the screenplay. That will do just as well. And then, well, I'll have a franchise and I can quit working as hard, and we'll have enough money put by so that we'll never be poor. We can all go home, but my wife can keep the house here, and she can come back anytime she wants. This way, we both win."

It was a ridiculous dream, of course. One that put immense and unnecessary pressure on me. I worked every day at the businesses sometimes for 12 hours a day. I would then work weekends on the screenplays or books. I was nuts and everyone knew it but me. I pushed myself, pushed and pushed and pushed. When I was exhausted and wanted a break, I'd yell at myself to get back in the saddle and do more. I had become obsessed - not with success. Not even with money. I was obsessed with the fear that drove me so hard. Fear of failure. Fear of being broke. Fear of never making it back home. Fear of letting down my family yet again.

Add that stress of work to my background. Add both of those to the high expectations that I had of myself. And mix all of that with the constant fear that enveloped me like a dark glove and you'll understand that I was positioning myself for a fall too horrific for me to imagine.

Then a few years ago my mother died. Her passing almost destroyed me. I felt that I had let her down horribly. And on some levels I had. I had grown up to be her protector. Yet her protector couldn't save her from death. I flew back to Florida, to where she would be cremated and buried. I was ready to break.

But not yet. Not quite yet. Instead, I went home and buried myself in my work By late 2009 I was again experiencing hand tremors. I didn't know it then, but all I needed was one or two more incidents that would break the camel's back, and I would fall off the edge of the world.