My Winter Break
"The deeper the feeling, the greater the pain."
- Maestro Leonardo Da Vinci
In December 2017, I was looking forward to my company's annual winter shutdown as I had for the past decade. This is a common, albeit legacy benefit in the manufacturing industry, and it's pretty terrific because we don't even have to use our vacation time. The trade-off (if you want to call it that), is that what follows that wonderful free week is what I refer to as The Great Holiday Drought: the first 5 months of the year—from about Jan. 3 through Memorial Day—where there are no holidays off. Even so, it's a "trade-off" I'm happy to make.
I should have prefaced this (but didn't for dramatic effect) with the fact that the months and years prior to that 2017 winter break were filled with significant stressors and traumas, spaced just far enough apart that once I caught my breath, it was time for another. And they weren't just stressors on me, but also on my whole family... which, in turn, compounded the load on my shoulders exponentially. For years, I'd been operating in a constant state of fight-or-flight. As I felt the weight on my shoulders getting heavier, I felt the need to shed some of my extracurricular responsibilities. The theory was that this would make room for me to have more time for focusing on family and work.
Spoiler Alert:
It didn't.
I wasn't successful.
When I tried to fill that empty space,
I filled it with things that then became stressors.
Then it happened. Just before vacation started, I experienced two triggering events back to back and BAM! - the proverbial straw that didn't only brake the camel's back, it shattered the whole f'ing camel. I emotionally imploded and sank into a deep depression...something I now affectionately refer to as "My Winter Break[down]."
I spent the next 2 weeks in my basement crying in the dark, and when I wasn't crying, I was empty. I was lonely, but not alone. I was loved, but didn't feel worthy of love. People were worried about me, but I couldn't recognize it.
Friends and family would try to cheer me up, but it became a vicious circle: The moment they would help me recognize the wonderful things in my life, I hated myself because I felt like I didn't deserve them.
I didn't know how to live anymore. I existed and I subsisted, but I no longer knew how to function. I didn't want to take my own life, because the concept of death scares the hell out of me; yet, I felt like the world would be better off without me.
My wife was scared because I had completely withdrawn. She was worried my withdrawal meant that maybe I had been cheating on her, or that I wanted a divorce. I remember that argument so vividly, specifically the questions we asked each other like, "Why do you want to stay married to me?" Only it was with more fear, anger, and yelling...like: "IF I CAN'T BE WHAT YOU NEED ME TO BE, THEN WHY THE HELL ARE YOU STILL MARRIED TO ME?"
To her, I was giving up on her. To me, she was giving up on me.
Then I realized the problem: Me.
It's so easy for us to blame ourselves for reasons we don't deserve, regardless of whether or not you suffer from mental illness. This realization felt different, though. I wasn't blaming myself for things I didn't deserve. When I shut down emotionally, I also shut down communicatively. I immediately presumed no one cared, or could ever understand even if I tried. I felt ... broken; and that's when she helped me realized the hard truth - that if I'm the one who stopped communicating, I have to be the one to start again.
(Honestly: How do you get your wife to understand that you love her while telling her that she can't give you what you need...because you, yourself, don't know what you need? What words are powerful enough to tell her that it's not her fault?)
I'm sure people have better analogies, but this is what came to me at the time.
I asked her to sit beside me on the futon that had been my bed for the last week. We looked at each other, and I said, "This is the best way I can explain it." I started lightly flicking her upper arm. "Does that hurt?" I asked. "No," she said. Then I said, "I bet it's going to get really freaking annoying after a little bit if it isn't already," as I kept lightly flicking her arm. "Yep, it already is," she said, so I stopped.
"Now," I said: "Pretend someone took a baseball bat and wailed on your arm until it was bloody, bruised, and broken into a million pieces. How do you think it would feel if I was flicking your arm AFTER that? See, the same things that may be annoying to some people are excruciating for me because it feels like someone took a baseball bat to my emotions. I can't control how painful it is, it just hurts like hell. I feel like I'm no use to anyone because the slightest thing might cause even more pain. So if I'm no use to anyone, what good am I? And that's where the emptiness, self-doubt, and emotional self-flagellation come in."
I think she got it.
Finding a way to actually communicate what I was going through was the catalyst I needed to begin my healing.
Oh, and my kids...how I love my amazing kids. With renewed faith in my ability to communicate, I started thinking about how they would come down to say good morning and to say goodnight. "I hope you feel better soon," they'd say, and would give me the best hugs. They were worried about me.
That's it...I had to get better. I couldn't just run away like my dad did. I had to stay and fight. Let me tell you, those hugs and kisses were little miracles, each and every one. If I was their Superman, they were my sunshine giving me the strength I needed with every drop of their love.
Finally, I had enough strength and energy to go outside. What next? Help...I need to ask for help. I knew it wasn't going to be easy to find someone to help, so I prepared something to say. I didn't shower. I just put on my boots and jacket, got in my car, and drove to the nearest behavioral health center. I walked in, and stepped up to the front desk.
"How can I help you?" the receptionist asked. I don't even think she knew how profound that question was.
"I need help," I said. "I am in a major depressive state. I am not suicidal or self-harming, but I haven't left my basement in 2 weeks. My wife, kids, and family are worried if not down right scared. How can you help me?"
It is in our nature to want to be alone when we are depressed, yet sometimes it's in our solitude that we find our strength to keep going. It's a cruel juxtaposition.
As it turns out, that "trickle-charge" of loving energy my kids gave me every day stayed with me every day, slowly recharging my spirit. I'm so grateful for them, and for my wife who— despite everything—still asked them to come down every morning to say good morning and every night to say goodnight.
She knew what I needed even when I couldn't say it.
Thank you. I love you.