May 8th
Each year, I start to get a little depressed in April. Some years, I am prepared for it. I expect to be visited by various symptoms, and check them off as they occur.
Somehow, knowing what's coming makes it more manageable. It's the
other years, when the depression sneaks up on me, that kind of hit me
the hardest. It usually starts with some irritability and some
cynicism about life. It keeps creeping up until I find myself
abnormally saddened or irrationally angered over some random events
or events by early May. That's usually when I remember, "Oh, yeah, May 8th is coming."
For much of my 20's, I was a mental/ behavioral health worker. I worked in group homes with people who had mental illnesses that were so severe that daily functioning
was impaired. One of these homes was for young men, in their late
teens and early 20's. They were only a few years younger than I was
at the time. Many of them had spent their teenage years in lock-up
facilities for kids with serious mental health problems. Our goal was
to help them to become more self sufficient—to learn how to get
around in the community, how to cook and clean for themselves, how to
seek out jobs and education, and how to deal with the bureaucratic
system that was in charge of their mental health needs. Ideally, they
would gain enough self management and life skills to move on to a
less supervised apartment setting or eventually just move out on their own.
I have endless amusing “cocktail
stories” about all the characters I've met in those homes over the
years, as I had experiences that not many sane people can imagine.
There are also the sad or poignant stories that I only share when
trying to reflect or make a point.
Today's story is about a young man that
I will call Steven*. At the age of 14, four years before Steven had
come to the group home, he had been diagnosed with clinical
depression. Doctors don't like to place mental health diagnoses upon
children, despite what the popular media says. Children usually have
to have something pretty severe and ongoing in order for a doctor to
make a diagnosis. In Steven's case, there was something severe. He
had attempted suicide at the age of 14 by putting a loaded gun to his
head and pulling the trigger.
Amazingly, he had survived this event,
but he still had quite a bit of lasting damage even after a few years
of various rehabilitative therapies. A big chunk of one side of his
brain had been blown away, leaving him partially paralyzed on one
side. He wore a brace on one leg and shuffled when he walked. There
was also a speech impediment. He frequently drew blanks for words or
stammered, troubles that he tried to conceal with filler words like
“basically” and “obviously” when he was trying to gain the
listener's respect. And then there was the missing eye, since one of
his eyes had been blown out by the gun shot. He had a glass eye that
he wore occasionally. I suspect his inconsistent use of this ugly
prosthetic was because the hard, unseeing, lifeless piece of glass
didn't do much to disguise the fact that he was missing a real,
living eye.
One time when we were on an outing, I
watched Steven take out the glass eye and hand it towards a stranger
who had been peering with some pity at his obvious disabilities. His
whole twisted defiance and warped sense of humor earned him some
respect from me.
I suspect that some of the motivation
for the eyeball episode also came from Steven's intense dislike for
being pitied. He preferred the stranger's shocked and disgusted
recoiling to his pitying sideways glance. It was another aspect of
Steven that I both respected and empathized with. He exhibited that
same defiance when trying to manipulate a pan, pancake batter, and a
spatula with his one good hand, while stammering at me, “No.... I
d-don't....want any...h-help.” He also displayed it when he
shuffled and dragged his bad leg ½ mile to the bus stop so that he
could go to volunteer at the library, where he someday hoped to work
for pay.
Steven and I didn't just share the
traits of demented humor and defiance. We also shared something
deeper—the depression. I looked at him and wondered what it must
have been like to have the guts to pull the trigger. Having been
troubled by suicidal thoughts of my own since the age of 10, I could
relate to his predicament. I also feared his outcome—a botched
attempt that left him crippled, maimed, brain damaged, and dependent. I feared that outcome enough to not have executed any of my plans yet. I still sometimes
entertained these plans in my late 20's. Plans, that, due to my
professional position, I would never share with any helping
professional. I didn't want to be identified, ostracized, or
imprisoned by the system in any way, and especially not in the way
our clients experienced it. For me, freedom and dignity were more
important and more likely than receiving questionable help from the
system. So I sucked it up and suffered silently, hoping to eke out a
living while helping a few people to get out of this mess. I thought
that it was my role to model for the clients what healthy people do.
And I thought a model healthy person could never be known as having
depression or suicidal thoughts. So, using descriptions from various
self help books, I faked being “healthy” the best that I could.
Yet, in one way I didn't have to fake
it. The system didn't seem to care that we all shared the unhealthy
habit of smoking. For a large majority of seriously mentally ill
adults, cigarettes and smoking are a focal point through out the day.
Smoking and cigarettes play a predominant role among the seriously
mentally ill, just as they do in prison culture. Cigarettes are
sometimes rationed, bargained for, and fought over. Every smoke
“break” represents the passage of time just as much as any clock
does. Each shared cigarette represents a time when people can relax
enough behind a cloud of smoke to socialize a bit. Nicotine can also
be used to self medicate for anxiety, depression, and even
hallucinations. Mental health staff often smoke with residential
clients in order to bond. Sometimes, the offer of, “Hey, come
outside and have a cigarette with me” is just enough to get an
angry client calmed down and redirected. The staff also smoke with
clients out of necessity, since there are no real breaks for staff members who smoke.
Generally, staff can not leave the facility. So staff and clients
share smoke times. If someone were to see the group of people smoking
at cigarette time, it would be difficult to distinguish the staff
from the clients—both compulsively sucking smoky toxins through
thin white cylinders and chuckling together over their temporary
relief from the pangs of withdrawal.
I can remember years worth of shared
after-dinner smoke times in which clients amused me with jokes, funny
stories, sad stories, crazy tales from the state hospital, memories
of the streets where some had lived at points, and even
hallucination-inspired rants. Although I had become well addicted to
nicotine before working in the mental health system, my association
with the clients' regular smoke times helped to further solidify the
behavior.
Steven was no exception to the smoking
culture. He carried one of those Zippo metal lighters that you have
to refill with fluid from time to time. It seems that there is an
ideal level of fluid to put in those so that the flame won't be to
high or too low. Either that, or it was an excuse for him to play
with it like a little torch when we sat outside. There was probably
just as much fussing, fiddling and outright playing with the lighter
as there was smoking for him.
Steven liked cigarettes, but he liked
cigars even more. If he was able to beg a little extra money from
family, he would buy a pack of cigars. We would smoke together out on
the porch after dinner, with him usually telling me about whatever
science fiction or philosophy book he was reading. It was a slow,
tedious process, with him struggling for words and stammering. But
listening was one of the reasons I was there, and I could always suck
in another drag while waiting for the words to come out.
Other times, we would just sit
silently, sneaking short peeks at one another's shyness and anxiety
through the twisting ribbons of smoke before putting our eyes back
down in silence. I was supposed to be the staff person: the older
one, the knowledgable one, the sane one who was there to help. But in
those uncomfortable smoky moments, there was no telling who was
really there to help the other.
Then one day, Steven just left. He had
been getting more and more negative for a few weeks, making bitter
comments towards both staff and other clients in the home. He had
also stopped going to his volunteer position at the library. So, one
afternoon, when a staff member was occupied with some other client
cooking dinner or something, Steven just vanished from the premises.
It happened on someone else's shift. I was told about it when I came
to work. An incident report had been filed. Police, administrators
and Steven's family had been notified. We were simply to go about our
normal routines and hope that he would be found or return to his
family or the group home. I was instructed to allow him in and notify
my supervisor if he returned.
As it turned out, he decided to return
on my shift, around 7 or 8 PM on a Saturday evening. He tooled in
with a couple of cigars, his Zippo, some lighter fluid, and a few war stories from
hanging out with homeless people. Apparently, someone on the street
had taken this 18 year old boy under his wing, keeping him safe and
sharing food with him for a few days. When the guy learned that
Steven had the option of sleeping in a bed in a home, he encouraged
him to return. And so he did.
After he had dinner and told his tales,
Steven asked if he could talk to me about something important.
“Sure,” I said. “That's what I'm
here for.”
“Do you remember ...when I told you
…that I have a problem ...with religious people ...and God?” he
asked.
“Yeah, it's OK if you don't believe
in a God. You don't have to....”
He interrupted before I finished. “It's
not that I don't believe. ….I do. ...It's...b-basically...that I am
angry at God.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“For letting me....(sigh)...live,”
he answered. “...I wanted to kill myself...but I didn't die. ….I'm
mad ...because..he...he let me live.”
I paused, and took a breath, not
knowing quite how to answer. I certainly couldn't tell him that he
represented a fear worse than death for me. The idea of living with
the consequences of a botched suicide was what had kept me from doing
it myself all these years.
Before I came up with any words, he
continued, “I'm scared...of myself right now. …I'm scared ...that
I might try it again. ...I want to go... to the ...hospital.”
I did know how to respond to that part.
I had suicide prevention training under my belt from a previous
mental health job.
“Do you have a plan?” I asked.
“Yes, I do,” he told me. He would
not, however, share the details of that plan. I believed that he was
serious.
I knew from training at a previous job that I needed to make an
agreement with him to stay safe until additional support could be
provided. I also knew that the odds of reaching his case manager or
getting him into a hospital on a Saturday night were low unless he
was actively trying to kill himself, which he was not. After talking,
I asked him to wait for 72 hours before taking any action. I told him
that I would contact the people who were needed to help and that I
would explain to them what he had told me. He just needed to wait for
a few days so that actions could be taken within the system. He
agreed. This is what is known as “contracting” with a suicidal
person. It serves some functions. First, it allows the person to cool
off without making any rash decisions. Second, it does allow for
further assessment to determine the severity of the suicidal threat.
Third, it allows people to set up any additional needed supports
(like hospitalization) to protect the suicidal person.
His threat to suicide was initially
deemed not serious by my supervisor, who told me to “orient him
back to reality” when I called her right after contracting with
Steven. I told her that I felt that he was oriented to reality and
not currently in danger. He had gone off to bed, agreeing to leave
the door open so I could monitor his safety. I re-explained the
agreement we had made; he would wait, and she and his case manager
could explore hospitalization options with him on Monday. I argued
that she needed to be aware of the reality that he had already made
one very serious suicide attempt in his life, and that we needed to
take his statements seriously.
By Monday, Steven was calmer. Case
manager had been contacted, but the decision was made to not
hospitalize Steven. Case notes indicated that our clinician had
advised him that hospitalization was not an option and that he needed
to face reality where he was. The talk seemed to have some effect on
Steven, as he had an attitude change after that. He had been edgy
from the depression. But his demeanor changed to calm and pleasant.
He started doing his household chores and volunteering at the library
again. Even though only a week had passed since he had run and came
back threatening suicide, life was pretty much back to normal.
Then, not too long later, Steven
vanished again. Once again, he didn't do it on my shift. He left on
the shift of the staff who had told him to just deal with reality.
This time, he didn't come back.
From the time it happened and in all 17
years since, I have never questioned Steven's decision to leave us. I
know why he did what he did, and I can accept it.
Instead, what haunts me is the
collection of images of him at different points:
I am haunted by the image of that very
prideful, defiant, strong young man having to humble himself enough
to ask for help, to ask for hospitalization even. And then being
given a loud, “NO!” from the very system that was designed to
help him.
I am also haunted by the image of that
same young man, feeling that he had exhausted all options, taking the loneliest walk of his life. That night, he
didn't just leave us. He walked to the neighborhood grocery store and
purchased 5 bottles of lighter fluid and a box of matches. He then
walked out to an alley somewhere between the group home and the
store, dumped all 5 bottles of fluid on himself and lit a match.
Neighbors called 911 when they heard him screaming, “No! No! I
don't want to burn anymore!” and saw his blazing body through their
window. Apparently, he had changed his mind, but it was too late.
That was May 5th, ,1996. It still took him 3 more days in
the County burn unit to die. That was on May 8th.
I am haunted by the sense of how deep
and painful his depression had to have been. To be willing to kill
himself in such a horribly violent manner. To be willing to try it a
second time, he had to have been suffering deeply.
I am haunted by the mere description
another staff person gave me of Steven's mother's reaction when they
told her what had happened: “A long, shrill wail that came from
deep within in her that I will never forget. It was a mother's cry.
It was just...raw pain.”
I am haunted by the fact that I didn't
scream louder, that I didn't advocate for him more. Although I
sincerely believe that his life was ultimately going to end in
suicide at some point, it still bothers me that the one time he asked
for help, he was given none. I did what I was supposed to do, took
all the steps I was supposed to take, and made my argument loud and
clear for my supervisor. But still, it wasn't enough. If I had to do
it again, I would have screamed louder. I wouldn't have trusted the
judgment of my supervisor, the case manager, and a clinician, whom I
had assumed were all better trained than me and knew what they were
doing. I would have remembered that people who are serious about suicide often act calmer and happier once they have decided to do it. I wouldn't have been fooled by his seeming turnaround,
and I would have screamed louder. (Perhaps this is why I can still
get very passionate and even disrespectful towards authority when
advocating. I learned from that incident that sometimes I really do
know best and that the stakes for wrong decisions are very high.)
Staff and clients from the group home
attended his funeral. There I saw how much one seemingly messed up
and insignificant person can mean so much to others. As I watched
Steven's brothers and mother weep at his funeral, it occurred to me
for the first time how my own suicidal intentions might end up
causing pain for others. For some reason, it also occurred to me that
death will find us all, one way or another. We don't need to seek it
out.
After that, I stopped seeking it out. I
decided that I was going to be on this planet for a while. I decided
that maybe life sucked a little bit less than the alternative. I guess that, in a way, his death saved my life.
This year, 17 years later, it is nearly
a lifetime since it all happened. That is, of course, if you count
Steven's short 18 years on this planet as a lifetime. This year,
nearly 17 years later, it hit me harder than usual. It wasn't because
I didn't see it coming this time. I did see it coming. I remembered
well before the change in mood hit me this time. Nonetheless, by
mid-April this year, I found myself unexpectedly hijacked by
blinding, irrational rage over a couple of mildly irritating events.
These were little things that might not even get my attention on most
days.
But the days of spring aren't like most
days. Bursting with flowers, sunshine, color, and hope, the spring
months also bring in the crazy winds. Winds that give me anxious
butterflies in my stomach. Spring butterflies that remind me of the
potential for spring madness, the road rages, the school mass
killings, and the suicidal thoughts that seem to ride in on the April gales.
The winds and the butterflies have been especially active this year.
Maybe I'm getting a double dose of
butterflies because I didn't notice them so much last year. I was
preoccupied last year with my own tediously slow tapering off
cigarettes and replacing them with nicotine lozenges, one or two at a
time. I started the process of quitting smoking in January of last
year, making adjustments to my behavior every two to three weeks,
until the last cigarette was smoked on April 30. I had planned to
hold on to the lozenges for while, until I got fully used to the idea
of not smoking. Within a week, I was worriedly doing research on
whether nicotine lozenges could be harmful, and I started feeling
queasy about using them. I started reducing the number of lozenges
and cutting them in half. Things began tapering off very quickly
until my body simply began to detox what little nicotine was left in
it. In effect, my body decided to begin rejecting nicotine on its own. I decided to stop sucking on the lozenges and let it happen.
Although I didn't plan it that way, May 8th ended up being
my first completely nicotine free day in nearly a quarter century.
Withdrawal and nicotine detox had already started on their own,
leaving me sweating and cramping in some 3 day, withdrawal-induced, altered
state of mind. At some point in the middle of one of those nights, the physical
hold that the nicotine had on me was broken, and the addict within
finally stopped screaming. And that's when I remembered. Once again, the tension and drama of spring had passed. I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. May 8th had come and gone.
The past year has been different in
many ways. Quitting smoking is only the beginning of a journey that
almost can not be described to those who haven't been through some
type of addiction and recovery.
Although I stopped seeking death when
Steven burned all those years ago, I never fully embraced life.
Instead, I continued to burn. At points, I was painfully aware of the
suicidal nature of smoking. At those points, I rationalized it as at
least being slower and hopefully, a reversible decision. And then I'd
continue to blaze up and burn those embers. Other times, I would
simply ignore the implications of the habit.
Addiction is a habit that both requires
and facilitates denial. For me, denial of fear, anger, sadness,
anxiety, and any other disliked emotion could be sucked up and
cloaked in smoke for decades. What I didn't realize was how so many
other emotions were cloaked, as well. Excitement, pleasure, joy, and
serenity that once appeared as distant images through a cloudy haze
now appear with crystal clarity. There was also an awakening of the senses.
According to both quitting literature
and logic, a person's sense of taste and smell return with vibrancy
after quitting cigarettes. But in my case, the sense that returned
most powerfully was sight. Despite the inevitable degeneration of
vision that comes with age, my post-quit eyes no longer serve as
simply functional organs. No longer hard and devoid of vision, my
eyes now search for all the powerful visual sensations in life—the
well coordinated colors of a colleagues outfit, the rippling of
sunshine through the leaves of a tree, the breathtaking quality of a
horizon at different points during the day, the unique and ever
changing essence of a blooming flower. In the past, I might have
noticed these items, usually after they were pointed out to me. But
without the metaphorical, and sometimes literal, cloud of smoke, they
seem to spring into my line of vision and pull me into another
previously unknown dimension. Some days, I feel like I can not see
enough. I try to visually absorb more and more images in an attempt
to feed the soul that has been starving inside me for so long. Life,
both good and bad, is truly beautiful and miraculous. Why did I try
to avoid it for so long?
My eyes concealed my own emotions so
well for so many years that I, too, began to believe that those
emotions weren't there. But in the past year, my eyes have betrayed
me many times by randomly filling with unpredictable and embarrassing
tears at both awe-inspiring and sad moments. My cold, glassy hardness
is being replaced by more the more lifelike quality of emotion.
Spring time, which for so many years
has been a source of controlled dread, has come alive for me this
year. Like the bud of a flower, my heart opens with pleasure. The
butterflies dance wildly and uncomfortably within my gut as the wind
wildly twists around, repeatedly deciding and then changing its mind
on direction. And like spring rains that bring promise of new life,
my tears have also fallen.
This year, for the first time, I have
been able able to cry real tears for that lonely, depressed 18 year
old boy. This spring, I have wept several times for that child, who
all those years ago, suffered so deeply that death seemed like the
only alternative. A boy who had so much inner pain that he could look
neither outward nor forward. Even with his remaining eye, he simply
could not see.
I've also wept tears for the much
younger me, who, for similar reasons, was also unable to choose life.
I've shed tears for that sad, lonely, and defiant girl who at least held enough hope to
keep on surviving. The girl who desperately fought to keep on going
even when it seemed she was traveling blindly down a dark tunnel to
nowhere. I am so grateful for her ability to endure the struggle. If
she had given up back then, there would be no now.
I am coming to terms with the idea that
depression is not actually sadness. Instead, it is absence of emotion
and a failure to fully experience life. Ironically, the random
flashes of anger and the sudden impulses to cry signal represent the
absence of depression. Their presence represents the presence of
life. Heartache and pain are not longer feelings to be hidden but
experiences to be celebrated. For they are signs that I am truly and
totally here, breathing, feeling, and sharing in this crazy
experience made possible by all the random cosmic events leading to
the union of a single sperm and egg on this planet. Like my newfound
feelings of pleasure, serenity and joy, those pangs of anger and
sadness are signs of life that I am slowly and hesitatingly learning
to embrace.
Today, on May 8th, the one
year anniversary of my freedom from nicotine, there are no guarantees
that I will keep seeing life this way. There are no guarantees that I
will stay off cigarettes. There is only the sensation that, unlike
Steven, I have a second chance. For today, I have a second chance to
experience both the light and the darkness, to comprehend the forces
of both life and death, to feel both joy and despair. For today, as
long as I am breathing, I have the choice to be alive or to merely
exist, to feel or not to feel.
For today, I choose to be alive. For
today, I choose to accept what is without trying to hide behind a
wall of smoke. For today, I choose not to burn.
Because I don't want to burn anymore.
Good night, Steven. May you rest in
peace.
This story is dedicated to those I know who have struggled with or continue to struggle with depression and/or addiction to any substance. I suspect that the internal struggle between the forces of light and darkness, life and death, and joy and despair are common threads that weave through many of us.
__________________________________________________________________
* Some names and details have been changed.
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