I Will Not Be Afraid Anymore

The more I try to get a handle on my breakdown - of how to fix myself - the more elusive the answers become. There are periods of time - days in fact - when I can only shake my head at the situation I've created for myself, and of the insane behavior that I engaged in to get me here.

A breakdown, as I have said in previous posts and as I'll again reiterate, is a destroyer. It destroys families and relationships, businesses, dreams, wealth, careers, and self-confidence. During my breakdown, I became unrecognizable to myself, my family and my friends. Not only physically but behaviorally. I grew a beard, something I'd never done before. I dressed differently, strangely, in loose-fitting garments. When I think back - and I shudder to do so, such is the shame I still feel - I believe that I saw myself in my mind's eye then as some sort of prophet or guru or healer. I hoped, I think, to help others. To be frank, it is something that I have always wanted to do. Due to my family history, I was raised as a caregiver. I guess, in my insanity, that call to action was made large as if I had become a physical caricature of what I most wanted. Thinking back, however, I only became a crazy fool.

My decision making and judgmental capabilities were similarly impaired. In other words, I made some crazy, crazy decisions during the period of extreme breakdown. Decisions that, with a sounder mind, I would never have remotely considered.

In a two week period immediately following the breakdown I: bought a house; bought a boat; bought a truck; bought thousands and thousands of dollars of new IT equipment that had no real purpose; took a number of international flights that I could not afford. Most of these 'investments' have, now, no value. Instead, the memory of them causes me extreme angst. But in defense of the crazy man that I was then, I think that what I was doing was looking for safety. The house that I bought and that I now live in reminded me of a childhood home in which I had experienced much happiness. The boat and truck were memories of a much younger me and my father and the times we spent together in his boat and a truck so very similar to the ones I bought. The IT equipment had to do with absurd plans that I had to form a business that was to help others. The holidays - well, those were just 'because', I guess. Because I was running from myself and the extreme fear and paranoia that I was experiencing.

For me, the breakdown was all about fear, and fear is what I've been left with - even now, three years later. Scratch the person that is the 'me' in recovery and you'll discover fear. Fear of what I did. Fear of what I became and perhaps, I fear, I could still become. Fear of neighbors and friends and what they might do to me still. Fear of finances and of running out of money because I find working to be almost impossible. Fear of being alone. Fear of being with others.

Fear has enveloped my being. It courses through my blood like a chilling Autumn. It can make me dizzy, causes me nightmares, and often makes me want to isolate myself behind a locked door even though I am also afraid now of being alone. It is the damnedest thing because when I really try to think about it I know that the fear has no basis in reality. I know I'm okay, at least on some levels. I know that monsters don't lurk outside the door. Rather the monster lurks in me.

Fear is just that, I guess. A monster that is the residual of the breakdown I experienced. My fears are irrational. But they are also terrifying.

If you or someone you know has - or is - experiencing a breakdown, they may be similarly afraid even if there is no logic to that fear. Getting over it - or through it - is so very difficult. In my case, professional counseling is helping. Yoga also helps me to relax and take my focus off of my fear. And a simple mantra that I say to myself over and over again, "I will not be afraid anymore" also seems to help. I do know that recovering from mental illness is a long journey. Mine is still continuing, and it will I suspect for some time.

Nervous breakdowns - or any kind of mental illness - is a horrible experience. Surviving mental illness and a breakdown is difficult. Recovering from one is just as difficult. But by taking things one day, one minute, one moment at a time; by getting professional help; by trying to learn to trust myself again and re-gain my confidence; I strive every day to continue my recovery.

All I want is to be able to look at myself in the mirror and realize that the man I used to be has come back and can be trusted. He no longer has to hide because he is no longer controlled by fear.

How to Help Someone Recover from Nervous Breakdown

Having suffered a breakdown, I have been asked how friends and relatives can constructively support those that have gone through a similar event. The answer is, With love and comfort.  But remember that recovery is a long process. Those having suffered from a breakdown can often slip backwards due to a number of factors. To help, you must understand why this occurs, provide constructive support, and practice the patience of many saints.


"Triggers". That's the word that mental health experts (including my therapist) use to describe events that can push a person into nervous breakdown. Triggers can also cause those trying desperately to recover from nervous breakdown to re-experience the emotional tsunami that they incurred during the height of illness.

Triggers can cause a person trying to heal to slip back into the dark cave of fear, loneliness, and trauma. They can also cause a person suffering from mental illness to suffer yet again from breakdown. For that reason alone, I do everything that I can to avoid triggers. Unfortunately, life is full of them.

Take this week. It's not a good week. Every now and then, it seems that I'm confronted by a vortex of stressful, emotionally charged situations. These are not good for my mental health and I know it. But somehow, I have to deal with them.

Over the past week: I learned that my father, whom I love dearly, has pancreatic cancer. A business deal that I stupidly became involved in during the height of my breakdown 3 years ago has gone pear-shaped and is causing a great deal of stress, anger, and fear. My core business as a writer continues to suffer. I begin to worry that in only a few months I won't be able to pay for the basics. For the first time in my life I'm experiencing a nagging physical problem. My GP is so concerned that she has ordered an MRI. I am also confronting other issues - other triggers. Smaller issues that grow larger in my mind. When I can look at these smaller challenges rationally, I realize that they are not worth worrying about. But during high-stress days or weeks, these smaller issues flood my being with additional fear. And the internal critic starts again: "It's been 3 years since the breakdown. For God's sake grow up and get a grip!"

The carefully constructed cocoon of healthy behaviors that I've constructed begins to erode. As the darkness falls, I'll begin to forget what I've learned. Sleep becomes difficult. Nightmares re-occur. Hands begin to shake. I'll stop eating correctly. I'll stop exercising. I'll forget to practice the tools that I've been taught. My world is once again a place of hopelessness. What I really want is for it to all stop. For someone, something, to intervene and to take the nightmare that I've experienced, and re-experienced, away once and for all.

But as I've stated in other Posts, recovering from mental breakdown is my responsibility. No one else, really, is going to help me to recover. Except me.

But, and a big BUT: if you are the friend or relative of someone suffering from breakdown, you can help by encouraging positive action. To understand how to do so, you must realize that if your loved one has gone through a breakdown, they are inclined to engage in some very crazy, very illogical, very scary thinking....

Dealing with the Darkness

Fortunately, I've also learned that during these times of darkness I hit some sort of bottom. I know that things will - must - get better. My training seems to finally kick in. This morning, for instance, I realized that I needed to do some Yoga. I'd promised to work at this at least 5 days a week, but I hadn't bothered in over 4 days. I made myself practice this for 30 minutes. I made myself take a shower, get dressed, start working despite the fact that my brain is so over-loaded that what I might write could very well make little sense. I'll make myself go down and get something to eat. I'll make myself focus on something in my life that is filled with hope and joy - my grandchildren, perhaps. Or the beauty of the far hills that I can see from my windows. 

I'll plan out my day so that I know it will be as full as I can make it. I set myself a simple goal: get through this day in one piece without going crazy. That's all I have to do. Just make it through this one day. Tomorrow, I know, will take care of itself. It sounds so simple. Yet it's a great deal of work.

I could use some help, but my healthy thinking is replaced with fear and self-loathing. In short, my thinking is 'crazy' (see below). If you want to help someone you know recover from breakdown, realize that there will be times of darkness during the recovery process, and that the person suffering is afraid to call out for help.

A Note to Those Who Want to Help

If you are a friend or relative of someone suffering from nervous breakdown or similar mental illness, I plead with you to begin to understand the debilitating nature of this area. By understanding, you will be able to better help.

Mental illness is just like any other illness. It is often curable. But to achieve that, sufferers simply need your loving support. Unfortunately, many of those trying to recover often will not - or are unable to - reach out for help from friends or family. Here is my own example, nutty as it is: Rarely do I share what I'm going through with my friends or family. I don't do that for a number of absolutely silly reasons: I worry that they will judge me. I worry that they will worry excessively about me. I worry that they will run from me because they might be unable to cope with these occasional slips that I am experiencing. I worry that they will become angry at me for taking too long to recover. I also worry that they will come to believe that I might never fully recover: that the Dad, friend, grandpa that they have come to know and love has disappeared forever. 

So if they ask me how I'm feeling, I will lie. I'll tell them that I'm fine. Even if I feel like hell, which is how I feel today. In short, I'm ashamed of how I feel. I don't want to share that.

These are disastrous patterns of thinking that, I know, only stifle my recovery. But that's the lousy thinking that goes on in my head during these periods of darkness.

If you, as a friend or relative, want to help, in my book it's fairly simple: let your loved one know that you are there. Let them know that you are willing to listen. Let them know that they are safe. Encourage healthy thinking and behavior by understanding the tools that they are learning, and remind them to use those tools. Encourage them to share because during dark periods, many are too embarrassed and too ashamed to do just that. 

Recovering from mental breakdown is a lonely, difficult process. By knowing that you love them unconditionally, sufferers of mental illness will be able to hold tightly onto that love and derive the strength and courage from you to carry on. 

Recovering from Nervous Breakdown

It's a New Year. And with it renewed Hope. Hope that I can recover. Hope that I can lead a normal, productive life that allows me to contribute to those that I love and to society at large. Hope that I can finally walk permanently out of the darkness that swallowed me and into a life that is satisfying and contented.

So just for today, let's talk about recovering from nervous breakdown, and the hope that we must grasp tightly onto  in order to accelerate that recovery.

Based on what I have experienced, and what I continue to battle, recovering from nervous breakdown is no easy task. It requires a great deal of work. It is a search for wellness punctuated by slippery periods of darkness, emotional turmoil and hopelessness. But based on my experience, and despite the frequent reappearance of many symptoms, recovery is possible.

I write this because despite discussions with a number of therapists and mental health practitioners, no one has ever handed me a 'list' of do's and don'ts: of what I should do to help my recovery. Instead, I had to collect these steps in bits and pieces. Creating them as I have here helps me to formalize what I have learned to date. Mind you, it's all a work in progress, just as is my recovery. I hope the following is of some help.

Actions to Recover from Nervous Breakdown

1. Regaining Hope: I put this at the top of the list because in my experience it is the most critical part of recovery, and unfortunately - and at least for me - one of the most difficult to achieve. My breakdown left me as a shell of what I had been before. My confidence was replaced by fear, shame, and self-loathing. Trust in myself and others was replaced by uncertainty. My definition of self had been fundamentally altered. Before, I thought myself to be a reasonably good husband and father; a successful writer and business person; a person others could count on in times of trouble. But following the breakdown, I was only filled with feelings of failure. 'Hope' for a future - any future at all - had vanished completely.

Yet hope is what motivates me to get up in the morning. Without hope - for love, for family and friendship, for a modicum of financial security, for contentment with oneself, for a productive future - the world seems a a dark hole within which I have no place or sense of belonging.

When all hope is lost due to mental illness, regaining a sense of purpose seems at times almost impossible. But we can all take actions to nurture hope within us.

Here's what I did to do just that.

2. Therapy: ongoing professional therapy, with a highly qualified specialist in trauma counseling, is at the fulcrum of my recovery. I see this woman every two weeks (I would see her more often if I could afford it) and have done so for almost two years. She creates a safe space for me in which I can share anything that is on my mind. She is not judgmental. She is supportive and caring. She has taught me a variety of simple-to-learn tools to help me cope with periods of anxiety and depression, including breathing and visualization exercises. She offers me ongoing encouragement. She continues to help me to dig down into the causes of my breakdown (which for me are important to understand so that I can avoid another one) and to resolve those issues. She suggests a number of activities (see below) and motives me to action those. She pushes me when I need it, and lets me off the hook if I need a quiet time for reflection. Our sessions are a great deal of work - during and after our hour together - and often unsettling as I confront myself, my past, and my actions and behavior. However, I know that her continued counselling is vital for my very survival, and also know that I'll be relying on her for many months to come.

3. Socializing: during my breakdown and driven by fear, my only real desire was to isolate myself. Yet isolation from others - from the joy of simple companionship - leads to further distress. Loneliness is no cure for breakdown. Rather, it only makes things worse. My counselor encouraged me to take part in a social activity. In my case, she believed it was more important to do so because I live on my own. Following her advice, I joined a local choir. We sing together twice a week. Singing has always made me feel good about myself, and working with the choir members can fill me with joy. Recovery requires socialization. If you're suffering from nervous breakdown, make certain that you do not isolate yourself. Instead, get involved with others even if every fiber of your being tells you not to.

4. Alanon and Sharing: I also joined Alanon (the support organization that works with relatives and friends of alcoholics). I qualify because my mother, now passed on, was an alcoholic. I meet with a handful of other people once a week. During these sessions I can share how I am feeling and any emotional turmoil I am experiencing in complete confidentiality. I am not here to promote Alanon or any other Twelve Step program. All I can tell you is that for me it works, and is having a positive impact on my recovery. I also suspect that the process of 'group therapy through sharing' not only enables me to decompress, but also provides personal fulfillment because by sharing my experiences I am also helping others. While you may not quality for Alanon or a similar program, I do suggest some sort of 'group sharing' process. Google 'Mental Illness 12 Step Programs' for possible options.

If you do not quality - or simply don't want to take part in such a program, I only suggest that you find someone you trust to talk to. A friend or relative can offer you a release valve for your emotions. They might also provide insight into how you really are (and I find that I can be terrible at  really knowing how I'm doing until someone sees me - and tells me) and offer suggestions. But don't be discouraged if you are unable to find the 'right' person. Remember that most non-professionals simply don't understand mental illness and nervous breakdowns. If they are unable to appreciate your situation, or if they 'scoff' at your desire to find help, fire them and locate someone else who is more helpful and sympathetic.

5. Work and Routine: work has defined me for years. Yet I am currently not working a whole lot for two reasons a) I am emotionally unable to work as much as I had before the breakdown and b) there simply isn't a whole lot of work out there in this Recession-plagued economy. Nevertheless, I make sure that I work. I work a minimum of 4 hours a day either at paid-for business writing (when I have some to do), or on new creative projects, or on this blog. When I work I try to be as disciplined as I was in the past. When I finish something, and if I'm proud of what I've written, it makes me feel rather good about my day and myself.

I also try to plan my day. We all need something of a routine to make life work...simple mileage markers that set out our day. But due to the aftermath of the breakdown, some days are still horrible. I'll get depressed. I won't have the energy, the motivation, or the will to complete simple tasks like walking across the street for a quart of milk. Eating becomes difficult because I don't want to prepare anything. Cleaning the house, doing laundry, making the bed...all of it sometimes seems overwhelming. At times all I want to do is smoke a cigarette and stare out the window.

And yet. I know that if I get off my butt and complete a task - any task - I'll feel better for doing so. I've learned to congratulate myself when I do something. Did I make dinner? Good man! Did I take out the garbage or vacuum? Wonderful! Did I drive into town to buy groceries? That's super because I not only made the drive there and back in one piece, but also had to plan, buy, and put away groceries. Good for me!

Routines that I used to take for granted are now unpleasant activities that can sometimes seem well beyond my abilities. And yet I know that if I make myself do them - one thing at a time - I'll get through the day in one piece, and experience just a bit of normalcy. And 'normalcy', that wonderful but often elusive feeling of self-belief and fulfillment when accomplishing even the most simple of tasks - is what I am trying sometimes desperately to capture. 

6. Exercise: I try to get as much as I can because exercise stimulates endorphins and makes me feel better about myself. I try to walk a few miles every week. I practice Yoga every day (most of the time anyway). In good weather, I work in the backyard. Frankly, I hate doing this stuff. But the reward is pretty terrific. I might be having a bad day. I'll exercise and immediately feel better. So what the heck and why not? 

7. Eating / Drinking: the old axiom 'moderation in all things' works very well when I bother to put it into practice. If I eat well, I certainly feel better about myself. If I drink moderately, I also benefit. I never (okay, almost never) drink to excess. The couple of times I did so taught me a lesson: I became anxious and depressed. So while I do enjoy a drink, I've put a stiff limit on the amount I'll imbibe. 

8. Sleep and Naps: I try to get a good 8 hours a night. Some nights are still troubled by nightmares or days-long periods of sleeplessness. I've learned to nap and try to take a siesta most days. I've learned: if I'm having a bad day or feel hopeless or crazy, an hour's sleep lets me wake refreshed and not feeling quite as bad. In other words: if I feel like taking a nap I no longer beat myself up for being lazy.

9. Quieting the Internal Voices: I don't know about you, but I'll often talk silently to myself. And that little voice inside my head will often be full of ill will. It will berate me and what I've gone through. It will beat me up for my past behavior and the consequences that I and my family have suffered due to the breakdown. It will make my life a misery. When that bad tempered voice fills my head as it does so often it can wreck my day and my life. Quieting it is very, very hard to do. I've learned to gently 'blow' those thoughts from my head. That is, I visualize a nasty self-loathing thought as a dark cloud.. I then blow- and keep on blowing until it disappears over the far horizon. As I say, it's hard to do and there are days - nay, weeks! - when I'm not successful. But I also know that if I am to recover fully, and have a renewed sense of hope, I have to rid myself of these internal critics who have nothing good to say about me.  Too, during Yoga I'll try a simple mantra. Rather than hearing that voice shrill "You're a bad man!", I'll instead replace it with "You're a good man."  In short, I do my best to stifle those voices in order to gain some inner peace.

10. Drugs: Yes, I took Lexipro for a few months to help me combat depression and did so on the advice of my therapist and GP. Frankly, I didn't like the drugs at all. They resulted in a number of physical side-effects that I found to be unpleasant, although not debilitating. For this reason, I've decided that I will never again take such drugs. I prefer to conduct the battle without the aid of medication. But that's me and my opinion. As my therapist says, drugs are a short-term bridge that help us to get from one side of the breakdown to the other. If you're asked to take them, consider it. But my only advice is to conduct some research first. Avoid protracted use. If you're concerned, contact another medical practitioner for other opinions.

11. Spirituality: I am NOT here to espouse a particular view on religion or spirituality. I'm no theologian or minister. Frankly, I find such bombast to be unhelpful if not downright damaging. Recently, for instance, I found a website on mental health. It's only suggestion on recovering from nervous breakdown was to find Jesus. The remark left me cold. What if I happen to be Jewish or Muslim or atheist? Then what?

I will say, however, that spirituality and a sense of the religious have formed another - at times wobbly - leg of my recovery. I like to think that someone, somewhere - someone who is much bigger and more powerful and more caring than me - knows what they're doing. I pray. I ask for help. I ask that those I love are also protected and helped. I don't expect a miracle. I don't anticipate my bedroom to be filled with rapturous light. But sharing in this way with a power larger and more loving than me gives me hope.

12. Toward a New Definition of Self and Self-Discipline: Though my breakdown occurred over three years ago, I know that my recovery is only starting, and will be a lifetime journey. I still suffer from nightmares, occasional sleeplessness, an inability to properly focus on tasks at hand at times, and prolonged periods of depression and anxiety that leave me in darkness. During those dark times I want my life to end. I see no hope for a future. I let the voices take over; the ones that tell me that I'm a failure; that I hurt people that I cared for; that I am useless to myself and those that I love. Those times are torture.

But slowly, ever so slowly, things are getting better. The nightmares and periods of sleeplessness don't occur as often. The tools that I've learned, when I remember to use them, can silence those voices. I am learning to be patient with myself, knowing that recovery takes its time and that I will slip now and again. And probably most importantly, I know that I have much more work to do.

I know that I must redefine who I am. What is important to me. What my future holds and what I want and need. I know that I must be honest with myself to do this, which is difficult for me to do. I know that during dark times or times when I can't work, I must avoid beating myself up but instead let my body - and mind - rest. I know that I must remember to put into action what I've written above - a sort of Program of Self-Help. I need to do that because recovery is also about self-responsibility. No one is going to make me recover. Instead, I must choose to recover. If I don't, I have a good chance of either re-experiencing another breakdown which could possibly be far worse than the first one, or be institutionalized. I'll pass on those two options, thank you very much.

It comes down, I think, to self-discipline. Of learning to control my mind and heart to some extent, in hopes of protecting and nurturing myself. But self-discipline is also about freedom: of letting myself recognize that I am free again to be what I want to be and that despite what I (and countless others) have endured, my life will be what I make of it. I may have experienced a profound illness, but now I am learning the tools that give me renewed hope for a fulfilling future.

At the end of the day it's a simple choice for me. I can either recover or I can die. I choose to recover. I hope you do too.

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. 

Roots

I remember standing in the church for my daughter's wedding rehearsal, waiting for it to begin. Everyone was smiling. The pastor was smiling. The bridesmaids were smiling. My father was smiling.The rest of the guests were smiling. My daughter, of course, was smiling. But my ex-wife was not smiling. She wasn't smiling because she knew that something was horribly wrong with me.

I remember pacing. I couldn't sit or stand still. The entire world that I viewed through perturbed eyes looked somehow canted at an angle that I still have trouble describing: as if everything was off plum by 45 degrees. I felt dizzy. Nauseous. I desperately needed a cigarette. I walked outside, delaying the start of the rehearsal, keeping the rest of the guests and the poor pastor waiting.

Outside, I smoked and paced beneath blue Portuguese skies. I remember muttering to myself about the lack of proper preparation for the wedding. I was angry. I was afraid. I was becoming paranoid. I was convinced that everyone was staring at me. I remember a roaring, like a dam breaking, that echoed through my brain. But the only thing that was breaking was me. But I didn't know it. Not yet. Not for months. My hands shook. I sweated in the sun, sweat trickled down my face. Perspiration dotted my neck. It was hot, but not that hot. I finished my cigarette and went back into the church.

An hour later, or less, I experienced the breakdown. And so did everyone who happened to be within range of my emotional nuclear explosion. And in doing so I ruined my daughter's wedding and almost - but not quite - destroyed my life.

If I've learned nothing else, I've learned this: nervous breakdowns don't just happen. Rather, they are a time bomb that rests within many of us; a time bomb planted by past history; shaped perhaps by our genetic makeup; given substance by more recent stressors such as work, relationships, family, friends, and finances; gradually and secretly gaining size as life moves along, at last building toward a critical mass from which there is no reversal.

Add one more event to this ugly internal mixture, one more stressor, one more of life's many complexities- and it can be anything at all, no matter how small - and the bomb goes off. Like it did for me. The explosion that follows is profound. It not only takes out the person carrying the bomb but causes widespread collateral damage which affects those that we care most about. But it doesn't end there. Not by a long shot. Instead, the actual breakdown event is only the start of a crucifixion, and an ugly aftermath, that in my case goes on and on and on.

Many times I wish that I had had a heart attack rather than a nervous breakdown. It would have been much more simple, much easier to diagnose and treat, much less confusing, and would have hurt far fewer. But I did, and it did, and there's nothing I can do about that now.

Toward an Understanding of Personal Background

Over the years since the 'Event', I've done a bit of research. A number of articles that I read cite genetic and past environmental and biological factors as contributors to 'nervous breakdowns'. In other words, and like heart disease, your body and past learned behaviour can set you up for a fall. As it did for me. 

I should explain at this point that having suffered through this event, and because I am still in the middle of the aftermath, discovering more about myself, and what caused this, were critically important for me. I figured that if I could learn more about the causes: a) I could have a fair shot at fully recovering from this and at the same time make amends to those many people I had hurt and b) I would be better able to make sure that I never experienced anything like this again. It took me awhile to start this process. Some of the early professionals that I talked to strongly suggested that understanding why was unimportant. I begged to differ. 

So like an onion, I started to analyze myself, often with the help of a trained counselor  who agreed with me that developing personal insight would only help. And as I peeled myself back like an onion, I discovered much that horrified me but a great deal that gave me comfort too. Or at least an understanding. What I discovered made me realize that the bomb's construction had started very early on.

First, I realized that my genetic makeup strongly predisposed me toward a breakdown. My mother had suffered from a breakdown, though back then it had been diagnosed as something else. My father recently told me that his father - my paternal grandfather -  had suffered a breakdown. Genetically, it seemed that from my conception, the very fabric of my being might be conspiring against me.

Second, and perhaps more importantly, I was brought up in an environment that conflicted between the very secure and the very insecure.  My mother, God bless her, was an alcoholic. In hindsight, I'm now convinced that she self-medicated to get through her own mental issues. But those issues became my issues at a very young age. I became a caregiver. I learned to cope and survive by making sure that she was okay. As my counselor said to me only recently, "You learned that you could only be happy if those that you loved were happy first. If they were okay, you were okay." In other words, I put others first and became unaware of my own needs.  Certainly, I know that I put my needs second to those that I loved. I'm no saint. But even today I worry about other people before myself. It's not because I'm better. It's simply how I learned to cope. 

Third, as a kid I moved quite a bit due to my father's line of work. Between the ages of 9 and 15, I lived in 8 houses and attended 8 different schools, the various new homes located hundreds of miles from each other. Each move required me to find new friends and in many ways a new life. To cope, I became a people pleaser. I smiled a lot. I acted somewhat like a clown to make people laugh. I worked hard in school, knowing that if I pleased the teacher I had a better chance of being accepted. Little did anyone know - including my parents - that I was scared to death. And I was scared of almost everything: people, places, things. But I smiled and tucked my fear away. Of course I said nothing because I had learned to place others first. 

But this is what I learned to do to survive, and in many ways it worked. I'm still here. And I'm not complaining. Despite the sometimes crazy life, I had what I consider to be a wonderful childhood and adolescence. I made good friends. I excelled in many areas. I was able to matriculate to a great college then a great university for more graduate work. I was blessed with parents and a sibling that loved me to death. On the outside, and often even inside, I felt confident, lucky, and somehow special. 

But now, as I look back and remember, I also remember a profound sadness that would never quite go away. And an anxiety that was persistent. And a secret self-doubt in my own capabilities that somehow robbed many achievements and relationships of their joy.

I had not realized then that the bomb leading to a nervous breakdown had already been planted and had grown deep roots. It was only a matter of time.

Breaking Point

"I am a man," I kept telling myself.  "I am a good man. Aren't I?" It was a mantra that I had to keep saying to myself for many years, and which I keep saying to this day. Not because I want to, but because I must. Unfortunately, and always, there is that question: "Aren't I?" And I hear it in my mind like a child seeking permission and crying for help, afraid that what he hopes for has never been true.

In 2010 I experienced a complete, and highly debilitating, nervous breakdown. 'Nervous breakdown', as I soon discovered, is not an accepted medical term. The professionals use many other terms depending on the symptoms and how the patient presents. I'm not going to run through those here or at this time. I discovered them, like you can, on the Internet and by talking to professionals - many of whom were so-called mental health 'experts' who did more to confuse me and to make me feel bad about myself than they did to help. Suffice it to say that what I found only made me more depressed, more 'labelled', more unable to recover. 

I am going to find this tough to write. I shouldn't, of course, because I'm a professional writer. But I'll find it tough because by revisiting these darker memories it will stir feelings within me of trauma, fear, loneliness, guilt, shame, anguish - a gamut of negative emotions that can still at times be overwhelming. Even as I write this, I can feel the tsunami applying pressure to my psyche, resulting in a dizziness and sense of the surreal that makes it difficult to type, much less compose. And yet I choose to for a number of reasons.

The Mission of this Blog

Mental health issues are very often misunderstood not only by the vast public (including me) but by the professionals. Many are afraid of mental health problems for good reason: symptoms often result in hurtful behaviour. Symptoms and behaviour of a nervous breakdown can also be confused with a wide variety of other mental health disorders including alcoholism, schizophrenia, bi-polar, depression, and many, many others. Often, and when confronted by someone suffering from a nervous breakdown, friends, relatives, and loved ones will misinterpret what is happening to that sufferer. They will 'blame' the sufferer for behaviour that is quite beyond his or her control. The result? The sufferer is often stigmatised and/or ostracised, which in turn makes the illness even worse.

Consequently, the continuing misunderstandings about mental health and nervous breakdowns in particular, can result in catastrophe for the sufferer as well as their families and friends. Mental health professionals, hoping to help the sufferer, diagnose too quickly which sometimes, and in my case, can lead to an incorrect result. The general public, afraid of the issue, collectively buries their head in the sand. And the sufferer watches as friends and relatives retreat, leaving them isolated and with little support. At its worst, the sufferer feels that they have disappeared without trace, their screams for help ignored or misconstrued as only selfish cries for attention.

When I had my mental breakdown, I sought help from a variety of sources. One of them was the Internet. In particular, I searched for people who had journeyed along a similar path as me. I guess I was looking for stories: real examples of what they had gone through; what they had felt; what tools they had used to heal; what they had experienced from relatives and friends; and any hope that they could give me for continuing recovery.

Unfortunately, I found little. To whit: I decided some time ago that I should write a blog knowing that by honestly sharing my experience it might not only help me along my journey of recovery, but also perhaps help others. That, I can only pray, is what I hope to achieve.

Only Me

As a start I should explain that I am only a man. I am not a mental health expert or related professional. To help readers perhaps better identify with me: I am 58. I had my nervous breakdown when I was 55. Until then I considered myself 'normal'. I had a wife and children. I owned a business. I was, and still am, a writer. Yes, I had issues like all normal people, but those issues never precluded me from leading a fulfilling life.

And then one day the world shattered. And for a long, long time I felt not only like a fool, but also that I had become 'a bad man'. Bad, because I had experienced an event - no, a series of events - that were not only profound, but which I could not understand or fathom. And due to the reaction to my sometimes truly bizarre behaviour by so many, I also came to be ashamed of myself: of who I was, of what I had done, and of my inability to prevent it. After all, I had always thought myself to be strong. I was always the 'fixer' who had helped wife, children, friends, and family to overcome obstacles. And yet I could not help myself.

This is my story, warts and all. I have chosen to remain anonymous at this point simply because I have absolutely no desire to cause hurt or pain to those that I love. I have done enough of that. I ask you, reader, to respect this decision.

I will not be publicizing this blog on any site. Instead, I will only use keywords. I will answer questions, but only insofar as my experience might provide me with non-professional views that could help. As I say, I am no professional, only a sufferer. If you are experiencing what I experienced, or are a relative or friend of someone who is going through a nervous breakdown, I urge you to contact a professional.

But despite what I have been told over the past few years by those who do not understand this condition, or by those who are too frightened to confront it; Despite being told that I should remain strong, or man-up, or simply get lost; Despite my older view of myself, and my belief that I was able to cope with almost anything thrown at me, this I now know:

We all have our breaking point and no one is immune. I know that now. I found mine. I hope that the posts that follow provide fellow sufferers with some sort of comfort not only by acknowledging what happened to me but by urging them to realize that they are in no way alone. I hope that it provides friends and relatives with some understanding and insight into this mental health problem. And, to be frank, I hope that these written words help me to exorcise the ghosts of my past so that I might soon heal fully.