It has been over 7 months since I last wrote. Over four years since the mental lights sort of went out. Two years since I finally found a counselor who knew her stuff and could help me.
And life is getting better, finally. Today, I am having a good day.
I work. I eat. I sleep. I rest during the day. I've taken up a number of activities to try to sort my head out. During the summer I swim, snorkel, walk and fish. During the Winter I sing with a choir and go to a support group.
I've started lifting weights to release Seratonin.
I do what my counselor tells me to do: when life gets tough I try to still my fear with meditation. I do this because I have finally learned: Adrenalin is my enemy.
When I'm re-traumatized - and it still happens though the occurrences are down to less than once a month - adrenalin courses through my body. The chemical appears to fragment my being. My thinking will become irrational. I'll be loaded with fear. If you saw me, you could smell that fear rise like poison from a re-opened wound. I have trouble sleeping. I have trouble eating, working, thinking praying.
In short, I'm in trouble.
Meditation and physical exercise move the trauma from my head into my body. My body is much stronger than my mental health, let me tell you. So I let my body deal with it.
And I sleep. A lot. It's odd: during these periods I sleep far better during the day than at night. At night, the nightmares return: the flashbacks of fire and family turmoil. I wake and all I can do is mentally beat myself up. I prefer sleeping during the day.
But to those of you who have suffered from nervous breakdown or other mental illness, or if you know someone who does, I have both good news and bad:
The Good News: I'm regaining my mental health. It's a slow process and prone to setbacks. I've learned not to beat myself up when these dark periods occur. Rather, I try to go with the flow, knowing that those periods will come to an end. And that on the other side of the dark curtain is a life worth living.
The Bad News: I know now that in many ways I am disabled. I will never fully regain my mental health. I am a different person, if you will. The same guy, yes. The same background. Mostly the same wants and needs. Mostly the same hopes and dreams.
But there is a difference.
I know now that I will never again be able to handle high levels of stress without falling off an emotional cliff and into a period of darkness that can last up to a week. It's a pretty shitty thing to realize, frankly. Most of us pride ourselves on our resilience and energy. We all suffer from stress, after all, and up until a few years ago - and like most others - I took stress in my stride.
But not anymore.
So that's the bad news. But: this 'disability' no longer prevents me from working. It no longer stops me from trying most things I want to. It no longer prevents me from living life. Maybe not quite to the full, but almost.
So if you're going through this same nightmare, I can only give you the following gift: at all costs keep going. Keep up any treatment you're involved in. Do what you can to keep your life in balance. TALK TO PEOPLE, particular those who can listen. Particular those whom you feel safe with.
It's a long road. But it's worth the trip.
Showing posts with label surviving nervous breakdown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label surviving nervous breakdown. Show all posts
Friday, 12 December 2014
Thursday, 19 December 2013
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.
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.
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.
Monday, 16 December 2013
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.
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.
Saturday, 14 December 2013
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.
Monday, 9 December 2013
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 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.
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.
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.
Friday, 6 December 2013
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.
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.
- Marital separation
- My daughter's wedding
- An apartment fire
- 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.
Tuesday, 3 December 2013
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.
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.
Monday, 2 December 2013
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.
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.
Sunday, 1 December 2013
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.
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.
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