A Cry for Help

I was lonely, despite being married. What friends I had were not a support. In fact, they hardly seemed like friends at all. They only spoke to me when I sought them out, and in my mind, they only spoke to me when I initiated conversation. They never did. They never called. They never initiated get-togethers. What invitations I received only came when I sought them out and asked what they were doing Friday night. No one seemed particularly pleased to see me. Ever. That takes a toll on a person.

I was becoming perpetually sad. Long years prior, I was jokingly called Smiling Dave. I’m not sure if that was a dis; it may have been, considering the people who’d strapped me with it. No matter, I had friends then, and if those others didn’t like me, they could go fuck themselves, as far as I was concerned. But not being liked grated on me, too. But times had changed. I didn’t have close friends anymore. Not that I could see. My armor had gaps. I was becoming vulnerable. And sad.

I’d been sad for a long time. I was aware that I was, too. I was irritated by the slightest thing and would fly into a rage. I would scream “Why me?” at the world. And, “Why does this always happen to me?” Not that bad things happened to me, it’s just that I became easily flustered and impatient with whatever I’d happen to be doing. My mood swung to black without warning and I’d find myself in a funk that might last for days, if not weeks. It got so bad that I had a difficult time getting out of bed. I couldn’t seem to get through the door in time to make it to work on time. And when I was at work, I was just as prone to having a fit as not, maybe more so. Stress, and all that.

I decided it was time to talk to someone about it. I chose Lynn, a nurse at work. I’d known Lynn for years and I’d always found her to be a kind soul. She was as good a person to talk to, as any; even better, she was a nurse, and bound to some level of confidentiality, I assumed. In fact, I was counting on that. But it was still hard to come out and ask, “Do we have any literature about depression I can read?”
She looked shocked to hear me ask such a thing. Her smile fell away. She got serious, her face and voice filled with concern. “Are you feeling depressed?”

“I am,” I admitted. She gave me some literature, but she also gave me a number to call. It was the EFAP number, she said. The Emergency Family Assistance Program, or some such. It was a psychiatrist’s number, is what it was.

It took me a couple days to work up the nerve to call him, but I did and I made an appointment, keeping that fact a secret from everyone but Bev. She seemed concerned. She also seemed pleased that I had taken steps. Black moods and perpetual impatience are a hard thing to hide.

I stepped out of the elevator and walked down the hall, afraid that someone would recognize me and that some stigma of mental illness might stick. There was someone leaving his office when I entered. I averted my eyes. I sat down and waited. I read the book I brought with me to pass the time. Yeah, I brought a book. I always bring a book if I expect to wait. I didn’t wait long.

The Doctor discovered me and greeted me warmly. I was vague when answering his, “How are you?” I said fine. It was reflex. Everyone says fine to that question. No one wants to hear any other answer, in my experience. My response was taken in stride; I expect everyone says “fine” to his initial greeting, when nothing could be further from the truth. Everything wasn’t fine, or I wouldn’t be there.

So began a process. We would meet at the appointed hour, I’d be led into the consulting room, and I’d be guided with ever more pointed, if gentle, questions.

They were generic at first. Introductions and instructions. Name. Age. Marital status. Kids? Tell me about your family. Tell me how you’re feeling. Why do you think that is? Let’s start at the edges and work our way in until we begin to get to the root of the problem.

It was difficult at first. It never got any easier. You have to tell the truth. You have to peel away the lies that you’ve been telling everyone. You need to peel away the lies you’ve been telling yourself, lies that you’ve been telling yourself for so many years now that you believe them to be true.

It’s never easy to hold up a mirror to yourself and see the pain and suffering written there.

What was I sad about? What lies did I tell myself?

None of your business. Suffice it to say that he told me, after a time, that I ought to write a letter. He told me to forgive the person or people that I was anger with. To not do so could wreak more damage in years to come than not. To forgive is to invite closure. Don’t just bitch. Be kind. Remember good times and good feelings, too.

He also told me that I had to get busy. Change is work, he said. Change is hard. Change has to be earnest. Change required me to actively work at it, to instigate it, to address it. Change had to come from within. Or there can be no change without.

No growth.

He told me that I also had to forgive myself, too.

Then he sent me on my way. But not before he told me that I could come back anytime, if I decided that I needed more help.

I was pissed. I was angry. I was not ready to give up on therapy, yet. But I didn’t say anything, either. I internalized my anger, and focused it on him. You didn’t help me, I thought.

But I was wrong. He did help me. This series of remembrances, these missives, are proof of it.

It’s a letter to myself.

It’s me holding up a mirror to myself.