There Are No Bogeymen

I’ve written about my depression before. But since this is Mental Health Awareness Month — and since every month should be Mental Health Awareness Month — I want to revisit the topic.

In that earlier piece, I wrote my depression was characterized by stark, unrelenting terror. It resulted in a kind of hypervigilance, an exaggerated fight-or-flight sensitivity to every movement and sound, regardless of source or substance. It also resulted in a distinct lack of appetite.

The act of mowing my lawn was particularly panic-inducing for two reasons: Because I had to watch where the mower was going, I couldn’t see what or who was coming up behind me. (Nothing and no one.) And because of the racket the mower made, I couldn’t hear any of the telltale signs of impending doom. (There were none.)

There Was More

My depression was also characterized by a morbid sense of unworthiness. I didn’t have a job, and I believed I was unemployable. (I was wrong, of course.) I’d lie in my bed, trying to distract myself, and turn on the TV. Even if I watched something as mindless as ESPN, I’d be thinking, “Those talking heads are making money, and I’m not. They have jobs, and I don’t. They’re going to be able to pay their bills, and I’m not. Each of them has a role, a part to play in the world — however valuable or invaluable — and I don’t.”

When I scored the occasional job interview, I’d shake all the way there. I’d wonder, “How am I going to keep myself together? How will I conceal the fact that I’m freaking out? How can I remain composed — to say nothing of engaged or cordial — if all I want to do is scream, run, and hide?”

When I finally landed the job that saved me, at a small public relations agency, the woman who owned the agency told me I was the best storyteller she’d ever known. I didn’t believe her. All I could think was she didn’t know what she didn’t know.

Be Careful What You Say

I know I’m one of the lucky ones. I got help from more people than I ever dreamed I would. I chose to reward their faith in me. I discovered my self-worth, worked on my self-faith, and found my way into the light of a much healthier reality.

I also know not everyone is so lucky. For the some, the darkness is persistent, ceaseless, ever-present, and inescapable. They deserve what I received — kindness, patience, hands to hold, hugs to hide in, ears willing to listen without judgment, a calm presence, a reassuring smile, and the ability to refrain from saying, “Everything will be alright.”

Nothing was more daunting or infuriating to me in the depths of my depression than hearing someone tell me, “Everything will be alright.” Alright was unimaginable to me. I didn’t believe anyone who told me that. And I didn’t believe they had any idea what they were talking about. That was part of my trap. It was part of my mental illness. Believing my suffering was absolutely singular and that no one else could have experienced it or ever would experience it was clear and present evidence of my mental unhealthiness.

First Glimmers

One day, in the depths of my darkness, my dear friend of 35 years, Rick Lovallo, called. Rick knew what kind of shape I was in. But he never said a word about it. I’d just come in from mowing the lawn and was sitting in my kitchen shaking. I answered the phone.

“Dude! Why don’t you come over? We’re going to cook out on the deck, then head out to hear some music on the green in town.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think I’m up to it.”

“If you don’t drive over here, I’m going to drive over there to get you.”

I relented, showered, and drove to Rick’s house.

I walked into the house and trepidatiously said hello to Rick, his wife, and his two daughters. After being in their presence for just a few moments, I felt the darkness start to lift. We went out and sat on the deck in the afternoon sun. Rick handed me a beer. As I sat there in the sun, listening to their voices, being in their presence, I felt my anxiety start to subside. As it did, my appetite returned voraciously.

After feeding on hamburgers, hot dogs, and a variety of salads (I tried not to make too big a pig of myself), we piled into Rick’s car, drove to the town green, sat in the grass under the stars, and listened to live, acoustic music. That’s when I first glimpsed the possibility of my well-being. It’s when I smelled the grass, felt the fresh air, saw the full night sky, heard the joy in every note of music, felt the comfort of friends, and knew the light would be mine again.

By the time I arrived at home that night, the darkness had returned. But I knew then it would be temporary. I knew it could only be followed by light. I recognized the counterintuitive truth that — while I had to look within, while I had to examine myself and do the work of reclaiming myself — the real light, the abiding light was in the brilliant presence of others.

Rick knows I love him. I’ve told him so. He’s the kind of guy who prefers to keep fussing to a minimum. He’s content to have his kindness and his generosity paid forward. This is my modest attempt to do just that.

It’s Mental Health Awareness Month. Be mindful of what you don’t know. Be sure to extend your hand before you offer advice. Be patient. And most of all, be kind.

For the lucky ones like me, there are no bogeymen.