Roots

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Toward an Understanding of Personal Background

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breaking Point

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

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

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

The Mission of this Blog

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

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

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

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

Only Me

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

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

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

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

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

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