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This article appeared in my “By George” column in DeltaStyle magazine, April 2002
THIS MAY NOT BE THE BEST ARTICLE I’VE EVER WRITTEN, BUT IT IS, FAR AND AWAY, THE MOST IMPORTANT!
This may be one of those articles I’ll wish I hadn’t written. Kinda like that old Lewis Grizzard story about the guy who stands up at the revival meeting to “testify.” Each time he confesses to a transgression, the preacher yells, “Tell it all, Brother!” Finally, the guy admits to a truly disgusting act, and the preacher says, “Damn, Brother. I don’t think I’d have told that!”
Be that as it may, I’ve often been accused of telling people more than they want (or need) to know. I don’t think that’s the case today. This month marks the end of the most turbulent year of my life, and I’ve really been through the Valley of the Shadow, and have walked out fairly intact. If my story can be of help to even one reader, I won’t mind opening my life for your inspection and dissection. I don’t plan to run for Congress, or apply for a top-secret clearance, or do anything particularly respectable anyway, so I’ll just let it all hang out, so to speak.
In retrospect, I suppose that I have wrestled with depression for nearly twenty-five years, if not for my entire life. Depression is not feeling bad, or feeling sad, or feeling unhappy. Depression is a first-class, mind-numbing S.O.B. that robs you of all pleasure, energy, and hope. Winston Churchill called it “the black dog,” and I have run with the black dog for many a mile, all alone, and affected the lives of far too many people through my inability to deal with him.
Jack, one of my best friends, is a doctor, and we’d often discussed, casually and socially only, the effects of depression, and he often suggested that I might benefit from treatment or medication. Hell, no!!! I’m a Marine, by damn, and I can tough it out. I don’t even like to take an aspirin when I have a fever, and I sure don’t need any crazy pills. These episodes must be the result of some sort of character flaw, and anyway, the bouts only last for a day, or a week, or two weeks, and they always end, sooner or later, although I spend hours on end, lying on my back in my bedroom in the rear of the house, staring at the ceiling fan. I know, intellectually, that there is no reason for these feelings of worthlessness, and that everything will be all right, sooner or later. Never stopped to think what effect all this was having on the folks in the front of the house.
I can’t say that any particular event triggered my depressive episodes, but early 2001 was a real bastard of a year. I was preparing for one of those milestone birthdays (my 50th), and was anticipating retiring after a quarter-century in the same job. Suddenly, my supervisor left town for another job, and I was thrust into a new position, with new responsibility and no real training. My wife, after twenty-five years, announced that she had enjoyed about all of me that she could stand, and was preparing to move out. I was, for the first time since Gerald Ford was president, just about to be completely alone, facing responsibilities that I wasn’t sure I could handle, and I was getting old.
I went to see Jack, on a completely unrelated matter, in March. After the examination, he handed me a sheet of paper. “Do any of these seem familiar to you?” The heading was Symptoms of Depression, and the list contained eleven items, and began, “Not every person who is depressed experiences every symptom.” I read the list. “Hell, Jack, I’ve got all these! Except one. I do not now, nor have I ever, had thoughts of suicide or attempted suicide.”
Here’s the list. Read it. It’s important.
* Persistent sad, anxious, or “empty” mood
* Feelings of hopelessness, pessimism
* Feelings of guilt, worthlessness, helplessness
* Loss of interest or pleasure in hobbies and activities that you once enjoyed, including sex
* Insomnia, early-morning awakening, or oversleeping
* Appetite and/or weight loss or overeating and weight gain
* Decreased energy, fatigue, being “slowed down”
* Thoughts of death or suicide, suicide attempts
* Restlessness, irritability
* Difficulty concentrating, remembering, making decisions
* Persistent physical symptoms that do not respond to treatment, such as headaches, digestive disorders, and chronic pain
I have never been one to discuss my personal life. You know what I mean. These columns don’t count. I mean my really personal life, but I told Jack all about my litany of worries. “I want you to start taking some medication.” “I don’t want any medicine.” “You need some medicine. I insist. Let me try you on this antidepressant. It has just been made available in a once-a-week dose, and I think it will really make a difference within a month.”
I felt whipped. Tears began to run down my face. “What the hell. I don’t guess it can hurt anything.” He gave me a few samples, and a warning. “Don’t expect an instant change. I imagine that it will take three or four weeks before you begin to see any difference.” I washed my face, swallowed one of the capsules, and left, the rest of the Prozac feeling like so many heavy rocks in my shirt pocket.
Within a couple of weeks my wife did, indeed, move to an apartment, leaving me rambling around a four-bedroom house and three-and-a-half acres. After an initial boost from the medicine, I soon began plunging even deeper into despair. I began agonizing over the smallest of problems. I knew that I’d soon have to begin mowing the lawn for the first time of the year, and worried that the mower might not crank. Rather than actually going out and checking the mower, I lay awake all night, distressed and teary-eyed over the possibility that I might have to charge the battery. For the first time, I began to have episodes of uncontrollable weeping–deep, racking sobbing–and the feeling of utter isolation and hopelessness. I live in the country, but one afternoon found myself alone in my bedroom, bawling in such anguish that I was afraid I’d alarm my neighbor, fifty yards away. I scared myself, and called my wife, at work.
Thankfully, she drove out to the house, called Jack, and they managed to get me sedated. A couple of days later, I skipped work, went to her apartment, and spent the morning having a major breakdown. She called her assistant, who became alarmed enough to call my pastor, who soon showed up at the apartment door. I appreciate that. That afternoon, I made an appointment with Jack, who was concerned enough that he volunteered to come out to my house and spend the night. A couple of forty-nine-year-old guys having a pallet party. I was grateful, and he came, but I still couldn’t sleep much, and woke the next morning, totally wrecked.
I made it into work, spent the morning trying to train the rest of the staff to do my old job, while still trying to figure out what my new job was supposed to be. At noontime, I left abruptly, saying, “I might, or might not, be back this afternoon.” By this time, I was in such a condition that I couldn’t even anticipate what I’d be doing in an hour, much less make any useful, long-range plans. Once again, I scared myself. I called my wife, who, to her credit, picked me up and we drove around during the lunch hour. I fell apart two or three times, and I think I scared her, too. We drove to Jack’s office, and came in the back door. He was waiting.
We talked for a while, then he again asked, “Have you had any suicidal thoughts?” This seems to be the Big Question–the one that determines if you are ready for the nut house or not. “No, I’ve never had those, but I really don’t care what happens to me right now.”
He left the room for a little while. When he returned, he said, “I’ve made an appointment for you to see a psychiatrist friend of mine in Monroe at 4:00. I don’t know what he’ll tell you, but he’s good. If I were you, I’d pack enough clothes for about a week, just in case.”
I drove myself home and began to pack. The thought that I might find myself in some sort of asylum by nightfall is a strange thought, indeed. Have you ever given any thought to what type of clothing you should pack for the loony bin? I put on a pair of slacks, a shirt, and a sweater vest. Naw. Too preppy. I put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Now I look like a homeless guy. I finally settled on the jeans, a dress shirt, and sneakers. If you ever need to make the decision, just wear something comfortable. Nobody will mind.
My wife drove me to Monroe, and sat in on the psychiatrist’s session, which lasted a couple of hours. We told it all, Brother. The doctor finally sat back. Jack was right. He was good. “I think that, if we can get you on a proper course of medication, you’ll be able to see a great difference within a month.”
“Doc, I can’t even visualize tonight, much less a month from now.” “Okay, George, if you (and your wife) feel that you might benefit more from being in a . . . er . . . more controlled environment, I can arrange for that, as well.” We talked. What I wanted, more than anything else at that time, was a controlled environment. He made the arrangements.
We stopped for supper. I hadn’t eaten in two days. By six o’clock, she walked me into the psychiatric hospital. We said goodbye at the door. She wasn’t allowed inside the ward. The hospital protects privacy ferociously. If anyone calls, they will neither confirm nor deny my presence, unless the caller has my Secret Code Number. I told my wife to tell everybody my secret code number. Please don’t forget me.
Please imagine the door shutting behind you. You realize, “I am in a Nut House. I have voluntarily put myself here, and I have agreed to stay for at least three days. What have I done?”
What I had done was the best thing I have ever done in my life, with only a couple of exceptions. I wasn’t allowed to go to bed until I’d spoken with the staff psychiatrist, who didn’t make his rounds until nearly midnight. I spent most of the first evening sitting in a comfortable chair near the nurses’ station, occasionally weeping, constantly frightened, and constantly being examined from a distance by the other patients (the Other Loonies, as I preferred to think of them), who were sitting in a television/reading area across the lobby, chatting and goofing around.
At some point during the evening, a nurse took me into an alcove and began to take a full history for my records. About halfway through the interview, I suddenly had one of those strange, almost uncontrollable impulses, almost impossible to control. Sorta like getting an irresistible urge to laugh during a funeral. I laughed. “What’s the matter?” “Well, I guess we’re not in Kansas anymore,” I said, grinning. She started making notes. “Oh, are you from Kansas?” “No, no. It’s from The Wizard of Oz. I’ve never been to Kansas.” “Oh.” She took some more notes. Do not attempt to be humorous during your admission interview in a Nut House. People will take notes. Many notes were taken during my stay.
After finally seeing the doctor, I was allowed to go to my room, which was located at the end of a long corridor. The hospital has three types of patients: “A”, “B” and “C”. The “A” patients have some really serious problems, and are kept under constant supervision, and often exhibit some truly bizarre behavior. The “C” patients are generally folks with alcohol or drug problems. I was a “B”. That’s depression, anxiety, that sort of stuff.
Picture waking up at 6:00 A.M. You are alone in a little room, sleeping on a mattress on a wooden box-framed bed. You have your clothes, but your belt, toiletries, clothes hangers, and valuables have been taken away and stored. Your first thought is, “This is my son’s thirteenth birthday, and I Am In A Nut House. When I’ve been depressed before, I knew that there was no real reason to feel bad. Now, even if I went home right now, I still can’t handle going to work, my wife will still be gone, and my kids will still think I’m crazy.” I looked at the schedule I’d been given, walked out my door and down the corridor to get my blood pressure checked.
I spent the next couple of hours alternately crying, eating breakfast, receiving my first course of medications, and attending a couple of group therapy sessions. During each session, I would tend to break down as I had to relate everything that had led to this point. The Other Loonies were generally sympathetic, and began to appear substantially less threatening.
Midmorning, I heard my name being called from the nurses’ station. “George, you have a phone call.” My daughter, Ellie, had obtained my Secret Code Number, and was calling from school in Arkansas. “Daddy, I’m so happy that you’re there in the hospital.” I assumed that she meant that she was glad that I’d finally decided to get some much needed help. “Really?” “Oh, yes! This proves that I’m not the craziest one in the family! Are you going to get some sort of certificate, or diploma, when you get out?” This child is not right.
By 11:00, I’d started to calm somewhat, and followed the rest of the B group down the hall for Recreation Therapy. I asked, “Is this sorta like recess, or is this organized?” In the recreation room, a stocky, jovial attendant greeted me. “You must be George. What type of craft would you like to try today? We have leather craft, painting, simple woodworking (with no sharp tools), and all sorts of stuff.” I was most disappointed to find that this particular mental institution did not teach basket-weaving, despite all reports you may have heard to the contrary. I asked Steve about the basket-weaving. I think he made some notes.
I did feel a lot better, having had a big breakfast, and starting to feel some effect of the anti-anxiety medications, but I still was not in the mood for this summer-camp stuff. “Steve,” says I (everybody is on a strictly first-name basis), “I woke up this morning, realized that I am in a Loony Bin, spent the last three hours crying and telling everybody my life story. I am damn-near-fifty-years-old and don’t really give a rat’s ass about coloring a picture. I realize, however, that I am at the end of my rope, and will do anything that you feel will help me to get better.”
Steve looked as if I’d slapped him, or hurt his feelings. “Well, here are some pictures that some other people have begun, and not finished. Maybe you’d like to work on one of them.” “Delighted.”
I sat down. The picture was a tangle of leaves and vines, on a big rectangle of white paper, with the background made of black velvet. A big basket of (non-toxic) colored markers was on the table. I grumbled to myself. “I cannot believe that I, a respected public servant and former magazine columnist, am paying God-knows-how-much to sit here with a bunch of crazy people and do Bible School coloring projects.”
After about thirty minutes, you can really get into coloring leaves and vines. “Pass me that green, Steve. No, that other one.” The original colorer had begun the picture with a somewhat garish selection of purples and lavenders, but I managed to work around that, and got my own color scheme going.
As the days passed, the Other Loonies began to be Other People. Some had big problems. I learned just how unhappy and desperate people can be. A muscular black guy had taken a fistful of pills, trying to kill himself. Took four cops and three firemen to bring him in. After a couple of days, I noticed he wore the same clothes every day. He hadn’t been given the option of going home to change. I gave him a couple of my shirts and a pair of pants. I had plenty.
After a couple of days, an attractive woman came in, sat in the corner by herself, alternately crying and staring at the Other Loonies, of which I was now one. Despite the fact that she was, indeed, an attractive woman, she reminded me of myself just three days earlier, so I walked up and started to explain the routine to her. Sometimes, you get by with a little help from your friends, even when you don’t yet know they’re your friends.
When I’d checked in, only one room had been available, on the “A” Ward, where the loud, more disturbed patients were kept. I’m deaf, so I could sleep right through their nightly revels, when it seemed that some stayed awake all night, bouncing off the ceilings and hooting. When a room became vacant with the other B’s, I told the attendants that I was happy with my “A” buddies, and that I didn’t want to move down to the sissy end of the unit. I let the “B” patients know that I was, as Jack Nicholson said in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, “the Bull Goose Loonie”, and that none of them were crazy enough to live in A Ward with us real nutcases.
Seriously, I paid attention. I learned that depression is not a moral failure, but a disease. It results from chemical imbalances that can be corrected with medication. PLEASE read that last sentence again. It may be the most important sentence I have ever written.
I learned the obvious fact that there are two, and only two, things that I have any control over: my thoughts and my actions. Read that last sentence again, too. I learned that I must eat right. I learned that I must continue to take medications–medicines that fight depression and anxiety. Just because I’m feeling great today does not mean I stop taking them. They are important. I learned that I must exercise. Exercise helps to activate body chemicals that lift your mood. I can’t believe that I have been working out three days every week for eleven months now. It may not be fun, but it’s part of the program.
Not everyone who runs with the black dog needs the drastic treatment that I required. I do want everyone who sees a little of himself in this story to know that he is not alone. Since I left the hospital (after one week), I have found countless people who have told me that they, too, have been through much of the hell that I lived. Some have sought, and found, help. Others, like the old me, were afraid to.
Talk to your doctor. There is help. One year later, I feel great, and Life Is Good. I am now divorced, but my former wife lives close by, in town, and the kids alternate fortnights between parents. I am still in the new job, and, thanks to a most excellent and caring office staff, things are running more smoothly than they ever have before. The fiftieth birthday came and went, with grand celebration, great fanfare, and receipt of an AARP card. The retirement plans will have to wait, as I now have 352 more house notes to make, but I know that I could retire any time I want, should the need arise.
I’m settled into the single life, living alone two weeks out of four. I’ve got an understanding girlfriend, a female cat named Duane, and two parakeets, Gus and Woodrow. I guess I read too much Larry McMurtry. I enjoy getting out more than I used to, and no longer glory in isolation as I once did. I never skip my medications,
You are not alone. I don’t print my address at the bottom of these things just so I can see my name in print. Throughout my stay in the hospital, after my discharge, and even now, my friends check on me. I truly get by with a lotta help from my friends. I’ll never forget Mickey and Frank and Jan and Patsy and Wally and Bill, who came to see me in the hospital. Have you ever been to visit someone in a nut house? That’s gotta take a lot of guts. I’ll never forget the Other Loonies, who became the Other People, and who taught me that it’s okay to lean on somebody every now and then. I remember all their names, but won’t list them here. They know who they are, and they are probably, for the most part, out there among you, getting by on getting by, for better or worse. I’ll never forget Debra and Arthur and Steve, and the rest of the staff at the hospital, who taught me little lessons that I’d heard all my life, but who made those lessons work. I’ll never forget Leroy and Jess and Barbara and Tom and Elva and Jack and everyone else who checked on me when I got out, and who keep an eye out for me still. I wish I had listened twenty-five years ago, but that is something that I can’t change now. There are lots of things that I can change now, and I’m starting to be able to tell the difference.
If you ever happen to visit me, look above the door in my Man Cave. There’s a multicolored picture hanging there in a cheap, Wal-Mart frame, with a tangle of vines and leaves on a background of black velvet. All of the leaves are colored. Except one. I deliberately left the picture unfinished. I’m not sure if George is finished, either, but he’s close. I never want to forget that.
After reading this, you may agree with Lewis Grizzard. Damn, Brother. I don’t think I’d have told that! I wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t been so important.
George Sims can be contacted at 115 Dillon Drive, #313, Lander, Wyoming 82520-2957 or at georgesims@hotmail.com. You are NOT alone.