My Experience with Depression:
Brainstorm
Sidebar:
by Gary L. Bakke
A few years ago, life was not going well for me. Despondency
grew.
I hatched a plan. Suicide is an awful burden for the survivors to
carry, so I would disguise my demise as an accident. As a jogger, it was
not unusual for me to go out after dark. That provided a perfect
opportunity for a dark, rainy night. I would wait for a semi-truck
coming down the long hill approaching town. Then I would "slip" and fall
in front of the oncoming truck.
When should I do it? I needed to get ready.
Because this would all be an accident, it was not possible to leave a
note, but my affairs could be in order. My will was obsolete. The will
had been drafted before my wife and I adopted our two sons, so they were
not mentioned. Thus, my estate, such as it is, was left to my wife and
to my daughters from a former marriage. I would have to fix that before
I could leave.
The need to fix my will was the knot at the end of my rope, and I
knew it. Once that was untied, I could slip off the end at any time. I
used that knot. Whenever I was motivated to fix my will, I would stop
and remember that this piece of unfinished business was important to
keep me here. It was preventing a spur-of-the-moment, irreversible
decision.
A "brainstorm" is what William Styron1
would have called it, but that word had been preempted to describe
intellectual inspiration. "Melancholia" would have sufficed for him too,
but even that word had been usurped by a bland noun used indifferently
to describe an economic downturn and a rut in the ground. "Depression."
What a wimp of a word to describe the raging maelstrom inside the head
of a sufferer of this deadly disease.
Ninety percent of the population will never suffer from depression.
The blues maybe, or down days, but not full-blown, out-of-control,
brainstorming, dangerous depression. This is written for the other 10
percent, and for those who love and care about them.
State Bar President Gary L. Bakke, U.W. 1965, shares his story in the
hope that others suffering from depression will seek help. Bakke is a
founding partner of Bakke Norman S.C., New Richmond.
The Essence of Depression
For the majority, the illness will never be fully understood. In
order to understand a foreign concept, we need to relate it to something
in our own existence, our own history. Sadness? Insomnia? Confusion?
Anger with self? Hopelessness? All are common symptoms of depression,
and all are commonly experienced emotions for even healthy people. But
they are not depression, and identifying with those emotions does not
lead to an understanding of depression. This lack of a truly common
experience creates a huge barrier to an outsider's grasp of the essence
of the illness.
Depression is a disorder of mood that is virtually indescribable to
one who has not personally experienced it. It makes no rational sense to
the emotionally healthy, so all attempts to explain it rationally are
doomed to fail. Yet it is painfully and dangerously real.
The depressed person knows he or she is ill just as surely as does
one suffering from influenza or arthritis. In fact, it is a common
experience of those caught in the grip of a major depression to have an
alter ego that can observe the irrational thoughts. But, because of the
stigma attached to any illness of the brain, many who fully understand
that they are ill attempt to deny or hide their condition. Thus, during
this denial, the cauldron of organic soup simmers until it boils
over.
From the outside, depression may appear to be a slowing of functions.
In fact, the term "depression" implies a decrease in activity. The word
and the external manifestations can be deceptive. Consider the
automobile traveling 35 miles per hour down a country road on a January
evening - a leisurely pace at best. Now peer inside at the driver
struggling to maintain control in a raging blizzard. The snowflakes
pound on the windshield like the flurry of thoughts on my window of
consciousness - too fast to count or focus upon individually - and the
overall mass obscuring the objective, to keep the car on the road and
make it home safely. Depression is not necessarily slow or leisurely
from the inside.
Confusion, failure of mental focus, lapse of memory, anxiety,
obstinate determination, self-defeating behavior, panic, irrational
thoughts, lack of joy, failure of speech, sleep disruption, agitation,
unfocused dread, slowed responses, zero emotional energy, a blizzard of
thoughts, self-loathing - all of which create an immense aching
solitude, a feeling of cosmic loneliness. At this point many sufferers,
like me, come face to face with Camus's fundamental question:
"There is but one truly serious philosophical problem, and that is
suicide. Judging whether life is or is not worth living amounts to
answering the fundamental question of philosophy." - Camus, The Myth
of Sisyphus
From a healthy perspective, I can now say "been there and done that,"
but at the time I was suffering, it was impossible to put a light touch
on it.
A Chemical Imbalance
Is depression an indication of weak character? Bad genes? Early
childhood trauma? Moral decadence? No. Depression is the result of a
chemical imbalance, no more and no less so than diabetes or other
metabolic disorders. In some people, maybe 10 percent of the population,
stress depletes serotonin and norepinephrine, the chemicals that are
essential to the normal function of the brain's neurotransmitters. If
one were truly of weak character, would Zoloft or Prozac rebuild the
missing character strengths? Could anti-depressant chemicals erase the
effects of childhood trauma? Again, no. It is really quite simple -
chemicals replace missing chemicals.
Some people who have been in the mid-summer sun for 12 hours don't
sunburn. Others may experience a serious burn in a short time. What's
the difference? It's the same sun. Same sun, yes, but different
individuals. So it is with stress - same stress - different
individuals.
The Downward Spiral
When my personal downward spiral started, I consulted with a local
counselor who probably saved my life. No, she didn't cure my depression
(there is no "cure"), but she did care about me, and her personal caring
was exceedingly important when I had concluded that no one cared. She
helped me see that I was important to my children and others in my life.
Her honest caring bought time for me and started my education into my
own emotional makeup. Yet, I continued down the emotional vortex toward
mental meltdown. My plan to solve it all was carefully considered. It
was workable, and I could implement it whenever I was ready.
My knot at the end of my rope kept me on the planet but didn't
accomplish much else. Relationships deteriorated. Trust was lost.
Attorneys and other acquaintances started to discuss my condition with
each other. Some were frightened, some angry, some confused, and many
too involved in their own lives and problems to notice. But a few stayed
with me. Their patience and understanding in the face of my behavior
that could not be rationally understood saved me. They helped me get to
a psychiatrist.
What did they see? How did they know I needed help? Totally
irrational paranoia was probably the first clue for most. Later, as my
condition continued to deteriorate, I left some specific clues. At one
time, in a convulsion of emotional pain, I left the office saying that I
did not know when or if I would be back. I now see that this was a
subconscious cry for help.
I also attempted to ask for help directly. I had a hearing scheduled
on a minor, post-judgment matter. A few days before the hearing,
realizing that I was in emotional trouble, I asked the other attorney
for an adjournment. I tried to be straight with him without saying that
I was suffering a mental breakdown. I said that both my client and I
were ready for the hearing and could be there, but that I personally
needed some time and would he please accommodate my personal need. He
wouldn't. Because of the history of my relationship with this other
attorney, I thought that he would understand my request to be an urgent
personal need and that, even if he didn't, I expected him to accommodate
my personal need.
This weak direct call for help was absolutely all I could muster. The
day that attorney dismissed my personal plea was the closest I came to
sliding off the end of the rope. My reaction to it left no doubt in
anyone's mind that I was in big trouble. By the time of the hearing, I
had to admit my condition. I asked for a conference in chambers and told
the judge and opposing counsel that I would do the best I could, but
that I might have to leave before the end of the proceeding. With the
help of one of my partners and my legal assistant, I made it through
that day - in fact, my client was 100 percent successful at the hearing.
I have little doubt that if the result had been otherwise, I would not
have survived the day.
Epilogue
I was lucky. I had caring friends and understanding partners, some
emotional insight, and an easily controlled chemical imbalance. For me,
Zoloft was the magic bullet: 100 mg per day of the missing chemicals and
life is good. Without it, I start down the same awful slide.
Are things perfect now? My emotional health is better than it has
ever been, but there has been damage to my personal relationships. In
the process of discussing this essay with friends and family, I
scratched open some old wounds, and I was reminded how much I have hurt
those who were close to me. It will never be the same, but, thankfully,
in many ways it is much better. To the extent that there is permanent
damage, it was caused by my behavior, not by my admission that I
suffered from a serious emotional illness. Denial would have gained
nothing but continued pain.
My story will not be identical to anyone else's, so this is not the
definitive essay on depression. We are all unique, and depression
manifests itself in strange and unpredictable ways. This is my own
personal story. But if you see some of yourself or an associate or loved
one in some of these passages, please know that there is help.
Depression is controllable.
Endnotes
1William Stryon, author of
Sophie's Choice and Pulitzer prize-winning The Confessions
of Nat Turner, was a depression sufferer. His essay describing his
personal experience, Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness,
Vintage Books, a division of Random House, 1990, has inspired me to
write this.
Wisconsin Lawyer