Written by Robert Daylin Brown, Ed.D.
My wife and I split up. She moved out ten weeks ago, and these last ten weeks have been emotionally brutal.
I have always lived my life defined by three distinct goals: becoming the perfect husband, becoming the perfect dad, and becoming the perfect teacher. (Therapy sessions seven years ago taught me that my sense of self was consciously and unconsciously shaped by being the opposite of my own father.)
My goal of becoming the perfect husband fell apart now that I’m no longer married. And with the loss of my wife’s income, I began struggling with expenses. I have full-time physical custody of my kids, and now my goal of becoming the perfect dad began falling apart because I’m struggling to adequately provide for my children. A major depression descended upon me, and I had trouble going to work. I couldn’t face my students at the college, I couldn’t teach, I began cancelling classes, and my role as the perfect educator began falling apart.
I had trouble focusing, my sleep was WAY off, I wasn’t doing any homework in my grad school program, I stopped going to the gym, and I was showering probably twice a week. I was a mess. I tried to keep all of this away from my kids as much as possible, but it wasn’t working.
The first week of November began with my tire blowing out on the freeway. After spending over $200 to replace it, I spiraled deeper into depression. I left the tire shop that morning and sat in the parking lot of a Buffalo Wild Wings waiting for them to open so I could drown my sorrows at the bar.
While sitting there in the parking lot, I kept thinking of ways to make ends meet, but I couldn’t come up with anything. The worry escalated into overthinking, which then escalated into anxiety and panic. The only large amount of money to my name was tied up in a life insurance policy with my kids as the beneficiaries.
Somehow, sitting in my car in that parking lot, I had the courage to text my therapist. I sent her six little words: “I think I need some help.” I also sent my boss an emailI with the same six words as the subject line. My therapist asked me what was going on, and I texted “I can’t move or focus right now. I’ve been parked in this same spot for the last 2 hours and 49 minutes.” She called me and we talked on the phone for a few minutes about everything I was thinking. We agreed to have an unscheduled session later that night.
I sat in the car for a little while longer wondering how I got here. After having spent more than three hours in that parking lot, I decided to go inside the Buffalo Wild Wings. I sat at the bar and saw the bartender who introduced me a year ago to mango habanero whiskey. But something happened when I sat down. Instead of greeting me like she usually does and asking if I wanted the whiskey, she looked at me, tilted her head, and just stared for a moment. Then she said “Let me get you some water.” I’m not sure exactly what she saw in my face, but she periodically checked on me with more water. I ate lemon pepper wings and approximately 32 ounces of water that afternoon, and then I drove home.
Things moved quickly during the next couple of days. I had no idea until later, but the message “I think I need some help” that I emailed to my boss on Wednesday motivated her to move on my behalf behind the scenes. She had contacted someone at our district’s human resources office for help. The next afternoon, I received a phone call from an amazing woman from HR who explained to me that because I’ve been with the district for eighteen years and had acquired so many hours of leave time, I could take a paid medical leave and get some help. She explained that I had enough time saved up to stay home until January when the new semester started. She even completed the paperwork on my behalf and emailed it to me for my signature. I told her that I would decide later after talking it over with my therapist at our regularly scheduled session the next morning.
I hung up the phone and looked out at the huge expanse of sky. It was dusk and the sun was setting. I almost cried.
The next morning, I met with my therapist. She was really concerned with my thinking and my spiraling over the previous couple of weeks. She knew about my history with the depressive episodes I went through seven years ago after my father died. We talked about why it took this divorce to set off the depression this time after seven years of no symptoms. That’s when I think we came to the same conclusion simultaneously. The depression did not resurface after seven years. The truth is that it has been here this whole time because it was never really treated properly in the first place. My therapist explained that she didn’t think it was a good idea for us to work together anymore. We were having our sessions remotely via Zoom, and she believed that I needed to work with someone else who could monitor me in person.
I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder. My therapist referred me to a three-week intensive outpatient treatment program, and she referred me to a psychiatrist for a medication evaluation. I messaged my dean at the college, and she worked with my department chair to find substitute instructors while I was on medical leave. Even though I had enough time saved up to stay home until January if I wanted, I didn’t think I needed to use all of that time. Plus, I felt guilty for abandoning my students so suddenly. Instead, I asked for three weeks with a return date of Monday December 2. So for the majority of November, I was on medical leave.
It’s a strange thing to be enrolled in a graduate program training to become a therapist while simultaneously being treated for depression. I have the academic knowledge about anxiety, depression, and all types of mental health concerns. I know the most commonly used therapeutic approaches to treat depression. I know the stages of grief and the strategies to manage loss. But having all of this knowledge while simultaneously going through it all is mind bending. I imagine it feels like a surgeon attempting to amputate his own leg.
Some strategies work for me and some don’t. Reading, meditating, and playing chess used to work for me in the past, but they’re not really helping right now. However, going for walks and listening to amazingly good music is like a balm for my spirit.
So I’m still learning.
Those women (my therapist, my boss, the woman at human resources, and even the Buffalo Wild Wings bartender) were all angels for me. They did what they could do using the power they had to move on my behalf, and I am grateful. In my slowly unfolding story, these angels are all part of this chapter that began with those six small words “I think I need some help.”
For more information on trauma and trauma informed care, please visit our resources on our website.