The Mind and Depression

Circumstances were starting to take their toll. Spencer's death combined with Jessica and Lauren's illnesses were affecting us psychologically. Sandra exercised a lot, running specifically. Spencer's illness was when she started running long distances. She also talked with her girl friends, she discussed her fears and worries while I kept mine more to myself. I had a lot of great friends that kept me occupied. I will write more about them later, but we did not discuss things, we just enjoyed each others company.

After Spencer died I spoke to my doctor about anti-depressants. He said that my depression was situational, caused by Spencer's death, and not chronic. Prozac, Zoloft, and other anti-depressants are for chronic depression. He said if I wanted to try them, I could, he would prescribe me a low dose. I took him up on his offer, but he was right. I found that they just flattened me. They took away the lows, but they took away the highs too. Left me in a neutral zone that I found even worse.

After Jessica got sick and I was back off the anti-depressants, I used to have what I call "Daymares". I was working downtown at 11th and Arch, right at the edge of Chinatown and only blocks from the Reading Terminal Market. I worked on the 11th floor and I remember waiting for the elevator by myself and imagining the elevator doors opening, a man stepping out of the elevator, raising a gun to my head and pulling the trigger. Also, while walking down the street to the market, I would imagine someone coming up behind me and slitting my throat. The image was so real that I gasped for breath. These instances scared me, but they also fascinated me. Why was my mind doing this? What purpose did it serve? The mind and body are beautiful machines and I wondered what mine was doing. We attributed it to a loss of control, a feeling of helplessness.

I thought that it might be helpful to see a psychologist. I was referred to one downtown, a rather attractive woman actually. Our first session was a joint one and Sandra said she preferred I work with a male psychologist. Party pooper. The sessions I had were helpful, if anything it got me to open up. I talked about a lot of things and we even got into some deep stuff about my youth and my relationship with my mother. Deep stuff that made me cry, but not specifically about the kids and their illnesses. Not that I expected anything different. I know the mind is a puzzle and sometimes you just have to push things around to see how they fit. After a while though, I asked him if there was a plan to this therapy. He said there was but didn't elaborate and after a while I really felt there wasn't and stopped going.

Sandra's uncle died and we went to his funeral one sunny Saturday. He was kind of a prickly guy but had a lot of endearing eccentricities. We were sitting in Gladwyne Presbyterian church, the windows were open, and people were getting up and telling these anecdotes about Uncle Bob and I started to cry. I tried my best to keep it to myself but I couldn't stop. Afterward, everyone said that they never realized I was so close to Uncle Bob. I wasn't, my tears were not for him.

Years later, I tried to get Sandra to try therapy. She was very reluctant, but I eventually convinced her. He met with her first, then he wanted to meet with us together. I walked into his office and the walls were covered with paintings of crying clowns. Fucking whack job. He then proceeded to say all sorts of off the wall stuff about Sandra, to which I replied, "do you even know my wife?". We left and I never made her go back.

These days we handle stress by running. We probably drink more than we should, but that seems historically to be a rather universal reprieve from life's trials and tribulations. Something we do our best to keep in control though.