MENTAL HEALTH

Depression Does Not Have to Destroy Your Life

I decided it wasn’t going to be my final story

Thirty-odd years ago, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder by a VA psychiatrist or psychologist. It’s been so long that I can’t recall his name or title.

I detailed what I was going through, explaining my highs were momentary — gone in a flash, while my lows clutched and clawed at my brain.

I’m not a shrink, but I know bullshit when I smell it. His answer to combat my bipolar disorder was to prescribe two medications: one to lift my spirits and the other to bring me down. I was not going to ride that hamster wheel. I dumped the medications where they belonged, next to his diagnosis, in the trash.

Not long after that, I made an appointment with a civilian psychologist. His diagnosis? Depression. Unfortunately, he could not prescribe medication.

So I went home. I pulled the blankets over my head and let the world whisk past me. My life was going to work, keeping an eye on my mom, who was starting to show signs of dementia. My late sister, Kathy, would come down in the evening, make coffee, and spend time with her.

My mother passed quietly at home in 2010. Kathy, who had cancer, passed away two months later on Christmas eve.

Kathy’s death saved my life. I was 52. I never did much to take care of my health, physical or mental. It was time to look after me.

A colonoscopy indicated polyps in my colon. The only way to determine if they were malignant or benign was surgery. The hospital team removed a foot from my colon. Now have a semicolon.

I woke up with 30 staples in my stomach. That was fun.

A week after my discharge, my doctor told me the polyps were malignant but had not spread. I was lucky.

I also shed about 85 pounds. Not intentionally, but I wasn’t going to complain.

After my surgery, I bought my first DSLR camera with two kit lenses. I saw perspectives through the viewfinder that gave me an appreciation for what I was photographing. It changed my physical and mental outlook in ways I could not imagine. I walked more with my camera and lenses in tow.

It was time to put one final piece together: my head.

While working as a newspaper editor, I decided it was time to fix myself — or at least try. I called a nearby Veterans Administration hospital. Let me be fair: sometimes, the wrong people are in the wrong places, and sometimes, shit happens.

I dialed the number listed for the psychiatry department and was promptly put on hold. No problem; I understand work can be crazy busy. So I waited. And waited. I was left waiting on hold, so I hung up.

I called the hospital chief of staff’s office to ask if something like this happened often. I quickly realized the person I spoke with wasn’t taking this seriously.

So I emailed their office. The tagline on my email included my title as a newspaper editor.

Ten minutes later, a hospital rep called back. Funny how that works.

I was lucky again. I had the fortune of seeing a psychologist and psychiatrist, both of whom took their jobs seriously. With medication and therapy, I got my head screwed on straight. I’m not perfect; sometimes, a screw falls out. But I’m no longer living under my blanket.

I never got to the point where I wondered what if.

Since then, I’ve become a grandfather four times; one of my daughters got married, and another daughter who lives with me — once a high school dropout — is now eight months away from completing her master’s degree.

My sister saved my life with her death. Then I stood up to save my life.

Never give up.

If you’ve read this far, thank you for stopping by.

I accept tips, which go directly to Dining for Hunger, a recognized 501(c)(3) organization that looks to end food insecurity. If you can spare a dollar or two, I’d be grateful.

More stories from Bruce Coulter.