Putting it in those terms, I'm not sure what's the weirder thing to accept...that it's been that long now, or that it happened in the first place.
From the standpoint of suffering a complete nervous and emotional breakdown, it's both surreal and a little scary to try looking back on that moment in my life.
The reality that it's been that long ago now, on the other hand, just feels damned weird because it both feels like it happened yesterday and yet so much has happened since then.
For one thing, I was told in no uncertain terms that yes I, like a lot of people, am dealing with mental illness, which is why the breakdown happened in the first place. Two doctors in two different states informed me, after considerable testing and conversations over the next two years, that my particular issues are Severe Chronic Depression, General Anxiety Disorder and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Even now, it's hard to look at those three conditions and not feel somehow detached from their diagnoses when it comes to me.
It's not that I don't believe the doctors who told me I had them. If anything, I suspect it's not unlike what people who deal with being told they have a potentially terminal illness might feel once the reality sinks in. As if somehow not admitting it to yourself can make it seem like it doesn't actually exist.
I still find myself catching on it when I'm talking to someone and I'm inclined to mention that these are the things I have to deal with everyday. In the moment, it's like the admission detaches those conditions from me and instead I'm talking about some random person I don't really know.
"See that guy over in the corner, sipping out of the big cup of coffee and reading the National Enquirer...? That's the guy who's gone off their rocker, not me! Don't ask me how I know. You'll just have to take my word for it."
That might not make all that much sense, but it's about the best I can explain it. Like I said, it's a rather surreal, bizarre feeling.
But it's not some other guy who got that news. I did. And in the eight years since, I'd like to say that my life has gone on a consistently upward trajectory filled with things like therapy and healing and positive relationships and the definitive realization that, "It's all going to be okay!"
Seriously, I'd really like to tell you that's exactly how it's gone. That, as I write this, I am both healthier and happier than I've ever been before, certainly before everything imploded in 2011...
Except it hasn't...and if I'm honest...I'm neither healthier (at least, not emotionally) nor happier.
From a physical standpoint, I'm actually doing better than I think I have since I was a teenager because I've been going to the gym on a regular basis since early 2017. At first, my going was as much out of basic necessity as it was a want to get back in shape. In that time, my body has slowly transformed from being an overweight, middle-aged guy to a slightly less overweight, middle-aged guy.
That's not to say it's accomplished nothing, of course. To the contrary, I've seen parts of my body evolve from being quite flabby to having muscles again. Were I better about a lot of my eating habits and more disciplined on not going for comfortable 'cheat' food, I know I'd probably see a more drastic difference.
Even so, if there's a definite positive that I can cling to in the last eight years, it's I managed to build enough of a routine for myself around going to the gym that it's a regular part of my week. I make sure I can go 3-5 days a week. Whenever I go in, I leave my phone in my jeep and use the time as efficiently as possible.
Sure, it's not the same as sitting down with a therapist, but that hour or two provides me space to think and process things, and also channel all my anxious, volatile energy into something productive and positive. In that context, I suppose it could be considered just another coping mechanism, but in the grand scheme of things, I'd like to think there are far worse ones I could be investing in.
On the emotional side, however, it's a much more precarious position.
Most days are a matter of just grinding through things as they come and that doesn't always come easy, either.
While things are better since I am no longer living alone, either in my own place or as I had to for close to a year, out of my car, that brings with it its own set of challenges, worries and anxieties. That's not to say I'm in a situation where I'm stuck dealing with bad people. To the contrary, I couldn't be in a more safe and supportive environment right now.
But if the last eight years have taught me anything, it's that no matter how much you try to make your life better, no matter how much you want your life to get better, and how much you're willing to work and sacrifice to get there...nothing is guaranteed.
My career in journalism and media fizzled out before it ever got a chance to begin. In eight years, I've bounced around from place to place, going after jobs that ultimately promised more than they actually delivered. And at a time where the industry as a whole should be put on the Endangered Species List, the odds that it will ever be anywhere near what it could've been seems slim to none.
All the books and stories I had planned to write sit either unfinished, unedited, unread or even unstarted. Trying to find the motivation or energy to put towards them is a lot more difficult to cultivate than it was before the breakdown.
Other projects I tried to start, like a YouTube channel for video essays and a couple of podcasts, all withered and died on the vine before they had the chance to grow into something potentially life-changing.
Why? Because once I started, it didn't take long for my Depression and anxiety to convince me that I was wasting my time, because it didn't matter how good the finished product might have been...no one would give a damn about it anyway.
The same goes for dealing with people. Basically...I really don't anymore.
Because social media provides the ability to relive everything that you've experienced since it became the official chronicler of our lives ten years ago, I got the reminder this morning that when I first explained that I'd had the breakdown, the friends I had at the time offered whatever feedback they could.
Most of those people who chimed in and offered some degree of support are now gone from my life. The hardest casualty that I've had to deal with was the loss of the woman I now refer to as Ghost.
Prior to the breakdown, she was my best friend from college and we seemed as emotionally tight as two people in a platonic relationship could be in. After that...? Well...I've written enough about it here that it doesn't require further revisiting. You can read about it all over this blog.
As is often the case when being connected to someone who is battling mental illness, there inevitably comes a point where that someone can become too much to handle.
To be fair, it wasn't like I made it easy for them, either.
Trying to rebuild a personality that essentially collapsed on itself is never an easy thing for the person having to do it. To think there isn't ramifications and side effects from that endeavor that can negatively impact every relationship that person is connected to is a gross understatement.
Along with leading to the end of my marriage, the breakdown was the start of a long road of losing friends and family, not because they're all just terrible people who actually didn't care. A lot of it was because I wasn't the same person that I was before it happened, and no matter what I did, that version of me wasn't coming back any time soon.
In a lot of ways, I can understand their frustration in dealing with me, because they may not know it, but this new version of me frustrates me as well. It can be very aggravating knowing that the same things that would've bounced off me prior to 2011, can hit me like a freight train now. And whether we know it or not, when someone comes clean about having a mentally-based affliction like Depression, addiction, schizophrenia, whatever, the subconscious reaction a lot of us have is...
"Okay...SO...when are you going to be 'normal' again...?"
Again, people don't exude that because they're necessarily terrible...even if some ultimately prove themselves to be exactly that. It's because from both a social and cultural perspective, we still equate recovering from mental illness like it's the same as breaking a bone or pulling a muscle. We like to think it takes going to a doctor, having it checked, downing some designer opioid painkillers, maybe undergoing surgery and/or physical therapy, and in a few months' time...Bingo! Good as new!
Except it doesn't work that way. Not even close and deep down, I think we all know that. The problem is...no one really wants to accept it.
Seeing someone who seems nigh-impervious to all the brutal shit life can throw at them, ultimately crack, is scary enough in its own right. The possibility that that someone might not come back from it...? That's downright horrifying to consider.
In the past eight years, I've seen three different therapists, downed many doses of Prozac, and even took part in a Harvard (Yes, that Harvard) research study to explore whether or not Omega-3 can impact a Depressed person's mind or not.
I've had times where I've been incredibly lucid, upbeat, hopeful, optimistic and good-natured.
I've also had times where I was so emotionally paralyzed, overwhelmed or despondent that the very real question of whether or not I was going to be alive long enough to get through that day was seriously in doubt.
Therapists and other learned people are quick to point out that on those really bad days, it's hard to believe that things aren't that bad, but because the Depression, anxiety and whatever else that person is dealing with is telling them it's that bad.
As a result, my go-to coping mechanism is simply to tune the world...and the people in it...out by escaping into things that can occupy my attention long enough for my mind to focus on something else. That means, when I'm not at the gym, you can usually find me at my computer playing games, watching movies, listening to music or doing something to just pass the time.
Either that, or I'm in my Jeep driving to somewhere I hadn't planned on going when I woke up that morning, usually with my camera in tow. Travel has become one of the true joys I've found in the last few years, especially. When I was in Washington and New England, I made it a point to go to as many different places as I could and now that I live in the Midwest, I'm hoping to start doing the same thing when summer comes around.
I'm also hoping I can finally get back to full-time work for the first time in about six months. Right now, I have a part-time gig that'll run through the summer, but that's not going to get me to where I need to be long-term. There's a few jobs that I'm still in the running for, but after applying to more than 650 jobs since 2014, I'm not holding my breath that they'll figure out I'm someone worth hiring, which means I'm going to have to keep waiting for my life to start moving in a forward direction again.
So, for right now...I guess I'm still in a holding pattern of not really knowing what direction I'm heading in next, which is a continuation of where I was this time a year ago and the year before that.
I know where I want to be, but whether I reach that milepost a year from now is not entirely under my control.
Guess we'll have to see what happens between now and then.
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