I am tired. Very tired. I feel as though I have been fighting against myself for all of my years, every day, in some form or another. Countless times in my younger years, people would tell me how I seemed like an old soul trapped in a youthful body. I don't believe I really understood what they meant until I was much older. You see, as we come to middle age we realize life truly is a fight. It isn't mentioned in any textbooks, nor is the subject broached in casual conversation. No one teaches us this concept, we simply arrive there one day. It isn't subtle or nuanced. Quite the contrary, it's a brick in the face. For a few select individuals, that reality reaches us much earlier. That is what those people were seeing in me. Even some who had just met me would arrive at that conclusion very quickly. Somewhere in our DNA we still have the primitive ability to sense attributes in others that we cannot fully explain. Looking into the eyes of an aged soul is one of those characteristics we all feel instinctually.
I am not complaining. No, I am actually amazed looking back. Bearing the burden of the truth that life is a perpetual struggle usually reaches the mind in middle age or even later. For some it may be on the proverbial death bed before the reality sinks in. After all, it is an eternal truth. I am surprised at how well I have done with the weight of this knowledge for so many years. I imagine the answer to why I aged dramatically in terms of insight was because of multiple factors. Circumstance, environment, intellect, interpretation...there had to be a potpourri of the right variables mixed together at the precise time in order to make enlightenment possible. I am not alone in this. I have met others very much the same as me. What makes it all incredibly ironic is that I was so immature in most other ways. I was certainly emotionally stunted, as well as selfish, standoffish, shortsighted, and too many others to mention. Yet, I knew from the earliest of ages that life was not what so many were taught and believed. It has never been about deserving or not deserving anything. It is not about earning or not earning a desired result. No one toils harder than another and automatically achieves more or less. It is random. Worse than that, it is completely random. Ponder that for a moment. Did anyone choose to be born into the life in which he or she exists? No, it was purely chance. Do we go through life knowing that we are going to be maimed in a horrific accident at a particular time on a specific date? Name a person who can pick the day when his genetic disorder will cause his heart to explode in his chest, or the taxi in which he is a passenger will be rear ended by a tractor trailer, snuffing his life out. For that matter, name anyone who can predict a windfall of money, a surprise promotion, or the conception of a child. Good or bad, it is all random chance.
What brought this all about was the memory of one of my oldest friends, a wonderful man, who lost his battle with the demons in his head over fifteen years ago. A group of us were preparing for a fundraising event we had been organizing for a couple of years now in our friend's memory and honor. I found myself going back to the day I learned of his death. The smells, sounds, and sights of that moment are forever engrained in my psyche. Here's the real kicker-when it happened, I was not surprised. What does that say about me? I shudder at the thought. If I allow the whys and what-ifs to enter my brain, I put myself into a hell worse than any a deity could ever dream up for me.
Most people couldn't understand why. Why would a person take his own life? How could someone so full of love put those who loved him through that agony? It is so selfish to commit that act. Whatever. I heard it all. I was different. I understood. I hated to admit it at the time and probably even denied it, but I knew why he did it. I about snapped when I heard the word selfish associated with his suicide. It is so easy to criticize that decision from the outside. I wonder, have those critics ever felt true despair, real depression, a pit of darkness that is all consuming? Have they fought the good fight against a formidable foe who never, ever gives up, never, ever relents? Do they know the strength it takes, the draining effect fighting every day, every single moment, has on a person's mind? Many people assume that it is no different for those who are afflicted with mental illness than it is for themselves. I have a brother and an acquaintance who are in this camp. They are wrong, irrefutably incorrect. As members of this race, we all deal with pain, suffering, heartache, loss, etc. There is a difference between these things and depression. I liken it to knee pain or back pain. I will give you a couple anecdotes to better explain.
Recently, my wife began to have some swelling and pain in both of her knees, one a little worse than the other. I have had two surgeries on one knee and one on the other. I have had chronic, and at times even severe, pain in my knees since my first gruesome injury at 16 years old. I rarely if ever complained, I just dealt with it. Well, when she felt some pain in her knees her first reaction was one of disbelief. She could not believe I had tolerated pain like hers, or likely even worse, and not whined incessantly. The same occurred when she experienced her first bout of back pain. In a word, my back sucks. My neck is even worse, having had a plate and screws inserted to help keep it all together after having the damage removed and repaired. I have not had a day since I was 14 years old and was speared at football practice, in which my back didn't hurt at least some. I don't say much about it, though at times it makes me, oh what is the word...oh yeah, a dick. She kept saying to me how she had no idea what I meant when I said my back hurt. She was flabbergasted at how debilitating it could be.
For the record, I want zero pity. I don't feel sorry for myself and I certainly don't want others to feel sorry for me. Now, back to the original topic. Depression is much the same as the pain my wife, unfortunately for her, finally understood. Unless one has felt true depression, I mean clinical depression, then it is impossible to know what it feels like. I have experienced that, many times in fact. There is a negativity that exceeds all sense of reason, a crushing weight too much for anyone to bear without having some outward, noticeable manifestation. My friend was at that point and could not handle it anymore. Fighting life every day became too much. He had to relieve the pain and suffering. Does anyone who really knew this man-and there were many-truly believe he wanted to hurt his family and friends? Absolutely not! He had a very loving family, with a brother, two sisters, and parents who cared deeply about him. Of course, there are also the multitudes who felt a deep connection to him. He would not have dreamt of hurting anyone. Severe depression is no different than being terminal with a physical ailment, such as pancreatic cancer. Until that simple fact is understood by society, then there will never be any significant improvement for those who suffer under depression's weight.
I am not weak. I have been through things that would make many people give up. I have felt extreme physical pain, from a fractured skull and multiple broken bones to dislocations to tearing ligaments and cartilage, you name it. I worked hard to rehabilitate those injuries even in the face of having to change my favorite activities for the rest of my life. I have been emotionally abused. I have been molested as a small child. I survived years of drug and alcohol abuse, trying my damnedest to block out what I could not yet handle. I have nearly died on multiple occasions. Yet, through it all, here I am. I have my life. I survived. I have an awesome adult child who is married to a wonderful young woman, a beautiful and healthy grandson, an incredible baby daughter, a wife who loves and understands me, family that cares, a half-decent job, and I could go on and on. The point is, if my friend could have foreseen a future similar to mine in which life was better and more fulfilling, would he have been able to stop himself? The honest answer is, probably not. The even more honest answer is that he could not possibly see a better future. He couldn't even see a future at all. All that existed was pain. Take a moment and wrap your head around that. I got lucky. Random chance struck again. I have had the barrel of a loaded gun in my mouth, the hammer pulled back, safety off, on more than one occasion. I have been trashed behind the wheel without a seat belt, with an almost unstoppable urge to plunge head-on into the next telephone pole or tree. I have woken up in a hospital near death due to an overdose and even had liver failure once. I should not be here. I got lucky, plain and simple. I don't know what kept me here. I will say it was not God or any deity, that's just a crock of shit. I begged for any God to make me not do it and I heard and felt absolutely nothing in reply. I believe what saved me was my son. Luckily, at the last second, even at my most inebriated or stoned on whatever drug of choice, his image would break through the haze. Then the numbers would hit me- 33%. Those are the odds that a child of a clinically depressed person who commits suicide will do the same. I would potentially have condemned my son to death. I could not do that. It is why I am alive.
Even now, I struggle. I do not fear death, I know it is inevitable. As Jim Morrison famously told an obtrusive reporter when asked how long he intended to keep living so dangerously, "Forever. After all, no one gets out alive". He could not have been more correct. I still catch myself periodically falling into the pit. Occasionally, I will stare a little too long at the weapons in my gun cabinet thinking of how easy it would be to end it. Or I will do something dangerous like I used to when I was at my worst, like drive my motorcycle in some ridiculous manner or jump from a crazy height into the depths of a local stream. Will it ever stop? No, it will not, and I know that for a fact. But I will continue to put on a brave face to the outside world, never letting anyone in to see the ugly truth. And I will still see my son's, and now my daughter's, face. All I ask of all of you, the reader, is to understand what suicide really means to those of us who suffer from severe depression. I also hope everyone can grasp that I do not want sympathy, nor do I want special treatment of any kind. I simply desire understanding. Clinical depression is no different than any chronic disease. It can kill from the inside out and it can do so very effectively.
But I will survive. I am too goddamned stubborn.
Recently, my wife began to have some swelling and pain in both of her knees, one a little worse than the other. I have had two surgeries on one knee and one on the other. I have had chronic, and at times even severe, pain in my knees since my first gruesome injury at 16 years old. I rarely if ever complained, I just dealt with it. Well, when she felt some pain in her knees her first reaction was one of disbelief. She could not believe I had tolerated pain like hers, or likely even worse, and not whined incessantly. The same occurred when she experienced her first bout of back pain. In a word, my back sucks. My neck is even worse, having had a plate and screws inserted to help keep it all together after having the damage removed and repaired. I have not had a day since I was 14 years old and was speared at football practice, in which my back didn't hurt at least some. I don't say much about it, though at times it makes me, oh what is the word...oh yeah, a dick. She kept saying to me how she had no idea what I meant when I said my back hurt. She was flabbergasted at how debilitating it could be.
For the record, I want zero pity. I don't feel sorry for myself and I certainly don't want others to feel sorry for me. Now, back to the original topic. Depression is much the same as the pain my wife, unfortunately for her, finally understood. Unless one has felt true depression, I mean clinical depression, then it is impossible to know what it feels like. I have experienced that, many times in fact. There is a negativity that exceeds all sense of reason, a crushing weight too much for anyone to bear without having some outward, noticeable manifestation. My friend was at that point and could not handle it anymore. Fighting life every day became too much. He had to relieve the pain and suffering. Does anyone who really knew this man-and there were many-truly believe he wanted to hurt his family and friends? Absolutely not! He had a very loving family, with a brother, two sisters, and parents who cared deeply about him. Of course, there are also the multitudes who felt a deep connection to him. He would not have dreamt of hurting anyone. Severe depression is no different than being terminal with a physical ailment, such as pancreatic cancer. Until that simple fact is understood by society, then there will never be any significant improvement for those who suffer under depression's weight.
I am not weak. I have been through things that would make many people give up. I have felt extreme physical pain, from a fractured skull and multiple broken bones to dislocations to tearing ligaments and cartilage, you name it. I worked hard to rehabilitate those injuries even in the face of having to change my favorite activities for the rest of my life. I have been emotionally abused. I have been molested as a small child. I survived years of drug and alcohol abuse, trying my damnedest to block out what I could not yet handle. I have nearly died on multiple occasions. Yet, through it all, here I am. I have my life. I survived. I have an awesome adult child who is married to a wonderful young woman, a beautiful and healthy grandson, an incredible baby daughter, a wife who loves and understands me, family that cares, a half-decent job, and I could go on and on. The point is, if my friend could have foreseen a future similar to mine in which life was better and more fulfilling, would he have been able to stop himself? The honest answer is, probably not. The even more honest answer is that he could not possibly see a better future. He couldn't even see a future at all. All that existed was pain. Take a moment and wrap your head around that. I got lucky. Random chance struck again. I have had the barrel of a loaded gun in my mouth, the hammer pulled back, safety off, on more than one occasion. I have been trashed behind the wheel without a seat belt, with an almost unstoppable urge to plunge head-on into the next telephone pole or tree. I have woken up in a hospital near death due to an overdose and even had liver failure once. I should not be here. I got lucky, plain and simple. I don't know what kept me here. I will say it was not God or any deity, that's just a crock of shit. I begged for any God to make me not do it and I heard and felt absolutely nothing in reply. I believe what saved me was my son. Luckily, at the last second, even at my most inebriated or stoned on whatever drug of choice, his image would break through the haze. Then the numbers would hit me- 33%. Those are the odds that a child of a clinically depressed person who commits suicide will do the same. I would potentially have condemned my son to death. I could not do that. It is why I am alive.
Even now, I struggle. I do not fear death, I know it is inevitable. As Jim Morrison famously told an obtrusive reporter when asked how long he intended to keep living so dangerously, "Forever. After all, no one gets out alive". He could not have been more correct. I still catch myself periodically falling into the pit. Occasionally, I will stare a little too long at the weapons in my gun cabinet thinking of how easy it would be to end it. Or I will do something dangerous like I used to when I was at my worst, like drive my motorcycle in some ridiculous manner or jump from a crazy height into the depths of a local stream. Will it ever stop? No, it will not, and I know that for a fact. But I will continue to put on a brave face to the outside world, never letting anyone in to see the ugly truth. And I will still see my son's, and now my daughter's, face. All I ask of all of you, the reader, is to understand what suicide really means to those of us who suffer from severe depression. I also hope everyone can grasp that I do not want sympathy, nor do I want special treatment of any kind. I simply desire understanding. Clinical depression is no different than any chronic disease. It can kill from the inside out and it can do so very effectively.
But I will survive. I am too goddamned stubborn.
