Very early beginnings of a book...
When I was 17, I learned there was no help for me out there.
Now, I know that seems a bit stark, but let's discuss the context. I was a depressed teenager. This shouldn't come as a great shock to anyone that has allowed a teenager to live in their home, but I was a really depressed teenager. I had few friends. I couldn't form meaningful relationships. I refused to go to school. At school, I couldn't be bothered to do homework. I was depressed.
My parents had split up a year and a half before and my dad had basically done a vanishing act. His business had failed and felt ashamed that he was driving a cab for a living. Nonetheless, his already distant method of fatherhood had become more distant. Mom was doing her best, but she fell into the traps that the 1980's and 90's had set for people dealing with a depressed teenager: tough love. The child must behave.
I didn't. I just didn't feel like it. I was miserable in school and at home. My extended family ranged from distant to moderately emotionally abusive. Rather than a source of strength and understanding, dealing with them was painful. I was already in pain, so I withdrew further.
Finally, I screwed up at school. I mean screwed. Up. A buddy of mine and I were in JROTC and we were allowed to be in the ROTC room during lunch. We abused this privilege. Comrade in Stupidity (I'll not use his name here) put a pirated copy of Heavy Metal into the classroom VCR and we and the rest of the gang that hung out with us watched about twenty glorious minutes of poorly animated boobs and violence before we had to head off to our next class. By the time we got to our actual ROTC period, word had spread. I was in trouble.
I wasn't going to be expelled.
I wasn't going to be grounded.
A disciplinary note would be placed in my ROTC file and it would stay there. Forever.
Here, we come to the event that exposed the sea of depression I was living in. This was the end of the world. I could see no possible way out of this. My life was over. This would destroy my ROTC career. I would lose the few friends I had. Already a pariah for most people at school, I would now be completely isolated.
Some of this is, to a more mature eye, nothing more than a teenager's lack of perspective. It's true. I as a teen lacked perspective. What it also was, was damning evidence that my brain was not functioning entirely as it should.
My partner in this foolishness slept that night. He was facing what would certainly be minor discipline and could see no way he would not simply ride it out and, if there were indeed any actual repercussions, they would be finite. He was a little sad. A little down. He was not depressed. He was busted. Tomorrow would suck. Then it would be the weekend. End of story.
This is not the future I saw. All I could see was that this was failure. Utter failure. I had disappointed Sergeant Major Barnett, our instructor, and that meant I was dismissed. Useless to him and everyone whose approval and love I so craved. No one would ever love or respect me again. How could they? This was unending shame that would last forever.
For the first time in my life, I decided that it would be best if I killed myself.
This is depression.
Upon voicing this desire, my mother did the only responsible thing she could: she called my psychiatrist, who told her to bring me to Green Oaks Mental Hospital in the morning.
It was at Green Oaks that I discovered that there was no real help for me in the one place there really, really should have been.
I was admitted to the teen ward at green Oaks. I was about the middle person in age. I was certainly the fattest. I was by no means the most violent.
At Green Oaks I attended a battery of therapeutic exercises. I made a pair of moccasins. I attended music therapy and dance therapy. I had a daily progress evaluation to see how many points I would have for the next day. The more points, the more privileges you got. The big one was being able to leave the unit to go to the other therapies and eat with the other kids in the cafeteria.
The first unique thing that got added to my points was how I dealt with food. The staff had decided that I was too fat. My food intake would be curtailed. Further, I wasn't making friends. I had to be in control of conversations and relationships and I should be more open to others. If I did not meet these expectations, I lost privileges. If I objected, I was punished.
The pain I was in was clear to anyone who observed me, especially with the trained eye of a health care professional. I didn't form healthy friendships. I was attention seeking, almost solicitous. I ate. I ate to feel good. I at because I felt bad. I ate because I needed to be disgusting to people so they wouldn't get close to me. I desperately wanted to fit in, yet was unfriendly to others. Sarcastic. I kept them at arm's length. I detested groups. I detested school.
More than eating and obesity, I catastrophized. I existed in a world where you were only as good as the last thing you did. IF someone was angry or disappointed, it was forevor. I would never have their love again. At some point, I had failed in the eyes of dad and he had been distant for my entire life. I didn't know what I had done, but I found that accomplishment was no solvent for failure. I would screw something up, and he would be furious, then withdraw emotionally. I got the message. I would not have his approval. He would think me a failure and call me so. I remember the last good report card I brought home. It was all A's and A-'s. There was no extra love from Daddy. All there was frustration with those minuses. Why did I not know my multiplication tables? I had to know them by heart. I was drilled. I tried to remember them, but it just wasn't my thing. He was dejected. I was a failure.
Another incident convinced my father that I was unclean. He spotted some red marks on my arm and flew into a rage. "Ringworm!" he shouted. "My fucking kid has ringworm. Jesus, don't you ever take a fucking bath? Poor people get ringworm!" I was unclean. I was dirty. He would remind me of it often. WEll, it turns out it wasn't ringworm. It was contact dermatitis. I was allergic to one or more of the many chemicals in his pet supply store. It was a red, nasty allergic rash. There was nothing I could have done. It was gone in a few days, but I swear he never looked at me the same way again. I was 13.
There were other things. Things I don't want to get into here, but things that filled me with such shame and hatred of myself that I had to create a shell around myself. I still have it. It's 400 plus pounds of ugly fat and it keeps people from getting close. It makes me unappealing so no one will want to touch me.
All these outward signs: the obesity, the eating, the anti-social behavior, the soliciting of attention are all symptoms of several pathologies. No one at Green Oaks ever asked me any leading questions. They never asked what was going on in my head. They just wanted compliance. I wanted to feel a sense of trust in adults that I didn't have.
That's when I knew there was no help for me there. You see, what needed to happen was for someone, anyone, in authority to ask me WHY I objected. WHY was eating so important to me? Why didn't I connect? Why was the prospect of losing weight terrifying to me? Why wouldn't I just let the other kids in?
None of the therapists or psychiatrists or staff at the facility ever felt the need to inquire as to why I was so closed off. No one ever said, "Dave, compulsive overeating is usually to compensate for great pain. Are you okay?"
No, I was just fat and defiant and by G-d, they were going to fix me. Even in therapy. Say the wrong thing? You're not taking your treatment seriously. You lose points. Talking to the other inmates? You were talking about old war stories. Not allowed. Points off. Didn't exercise while the other kids got to have some free time and goof off? Points off.
I realized, after a while, that they didn't care about treating my depression. They wanted to modify my behavior. My behavior was a product they were selling to my mother. My happiness was entirely irrelevant.
I became openly contemptuous of the facility. I wanted nothing more to do with them, and it would all be over when my insurance ran out. It was a massive missed opportunity. I was in the heart of my depression. I was alone and with unfamiliar kids. I was in constant emotional pain from an upbringing that taught me to hate myself. I was supposed to somehow open up to these people who punished me for eating to make myself happy and wanting to fit in, to feel good. No one ever asked what was wrong.
Why, in that environment, would I ever actually cooperate with them.
Between my parents and the insurance shelling out a grand a day, no one cared why I felt so bad. No one cared what was causing the problem. Certainly, no one was interested in looking at themselves for reasons why I was defying their attempts to "reach me." They weren't interested in my happiness. They were interested in my behavior, and not much else.
I still hurt as much as I did then. More really. The triggering incident was just that, an incident. I was in incredible pain from a ton of childhood incidents that I'll discuss at some length later. I carried those incidents with me in that classroom at school, that night as I wanted to die, and through my time as a mental patient. No one asked me if I was hurting. The system they created was designed to be oppositional. They break kids wills and get them to behave. No one asked if I was okay. No one asked if there was something I'd like to talk about. No one noticed the clear pathologies that are presented by morbid obesity and compulsive overeating and said, "That kid clearly needs help, maybe we should help him."
That's colored my view of psychiatric care. I've needed to be in-patient a few times since then, but I don't see the point. I'm not interested in behavior modification. Unless you have some real idea as to how to make me happier or to feel whole, I'm not interested, and that's just not what the mental hospitals I can get into are about. There's no help for me, on that respect, out there. This is not about meds. I'm on meds. I'm on tons of meds. This is about the start of a journey as I explore the nature of my depression and the things that shaped the person I am today.
Now, I know that seems a bit stark, but let's discuss the context. I was a depressed teenager. This shouldn't come as a great shock to anyone that has allowed a teenager to live in their home, but I was a really depressed teenager. I had few friends. I couldn't form meaningful relationships. I refused to go to school. At school, I couldn't be bothered to do homework. I was depressed.
My parents had split up a year and a half before and my dad had basically done a vanishing act. His business had failed and felt ashamed that he was driving a cab for a living. Nonetheless, his already distant method of fatherhood had become more distant. Mom was doing her best, but she fell into the traps that the 1980's and 90's had set for people dealing with a depressed teenager: tough love. The child must behave.
I didn't. I just didn't feel like it. I was miserable in school and at home. My extended family ranged from distant to moderately emotionally abusive. Rather than a source of strength and understanding, dealing with them was painful. I was already in pain, so I withdrew further.
Finally, I screwed up at school. I mean screwed. Up. A buddy of mine and I were in JROTC and we were allowed to be in the ROTC room during lunch. We abused this privilege. Comrade in Stupidity (I'll not use his name here) put a pirated copy of Heavy Metal into the classroom VCR and we and the rest of the gang that hung out with us watched about twenty glorious minutes of poorly animated boobs and violence before we had to head off to our next class. By the time we got to our actual ROTC period, word had spread. I was in trouble.
I wasn't going to be expelled.
I wasn't going to be grounded.
A disciplinary note would be placed in my ROTC file and it would stay there. Forever.
Here, we come to the event that exposed the sea of depression I was living in. This was the end of the world. I could see no possible way out of this. My life was over. This would destroy my ROTC career. I would lose the few friends I had. Already a pariah for most people at school, I would now be completely isolated.
Some of this is, to a more mature eye, nothing more than a teenager's lack of perspective. It's true. I as a teen lacked perspective. What it also was, was damning evidence that my brain was not functioning entirely as it should.
My partner in this foolishness slept that night. He was facing what would certainly be minor discipline and could see no way he would not simply ride it out and, if there were indeed any actual repercussions, they would be finite. He was a little sad. A little down. He was not depressed. He was busted. Tomorrow would suck. Then it would be the weekend. End of story.
This is not the future I saw. All I could see was that this was failure. Utter failure. I had disappointed Sergeant Major Barnett, our instructor, and that meant I was dismissed. Useless to him and everyone whose approval and love I so craved. No one would ever love or respect me again. How could they? This was unending shame that would last forever.
For the first time in my life, I decided that it would be best if I killed myself.
This is depression.
Upon voicing this desire, my mother did the only responsible thing she could: she called my psychiatrist, who told her to bring me to Green Oaks Mental Hospital in the morning.
It was at Green Oaks that I discovered that there was no real help for me in the one place there really, really should have been.
I was admitted to the teen ward at green Oaks. I was about the middle person in age. I was certainly the fattest. I was by no means the most violent.
At Green Oaks I attended a battery of therapeutic exercises. I made a pair of moccasins. I attended music therapy and dance therapy. I had a daily progress evaluation to see how many points I would have for the next day. The more points, the more privileges you got. The big one was being able to leave the unit to go to the other therapies and eat with the other kids in the cafeteria.
The first unique thing that got added to my points was how I dealt with food. The staff had decided that I was too fat. My food intake would be curtailed. Further, I wasn't making friends. I had to be in control of conversations and relationships and I should be more open to others. If I did not meet these expectations, I lost privileges. If I objected, I was punished.
The pain I was in was clear to anyone who observed me, especially with the trained eye of a health care professional. I didn't form healthy friendships. I was attention seeking, almost solicitous. I ate. I ate to feel good. I at because I felt bad. I ate because I needed to be disgusting to people so they wouldn't get close to me. I desperately wanted to fit in, yet was unfriendly to others. Sarcastic. I kept them at arm's length. I detested groups. I detested school.
More than eating and obesity, I catastrophized. I existed in a world where you were only as good as the last thing you did. IF someone was angry or disappointed, it was forevor. I would never have their love again. At some point, I had failed in the eyes of dad and he had been distant for my entire life. I didn't know what I had done, but I found that accomplishment was no solvent for failure. I would screw something up, and he would be furious, then withdraw emotionally. I got the message. I would not have his approval. He would think me a failure and call me so. I remember the last good report card I brought home. It was all A's and A-'s. There was no extra love from Daddy. All there was frustration with those minuses. Why did I not know my multiplication tables? I had to know them by heart. I was drilled. I tried to remember them, but it just wasn't my thing. He was dejected. I was a failure.
Another incident convinced my father that I was unclean. He spotted some red marks on my arm and flew into a rage. "Ringworm!" he shouted. "My fucking kid has ringworm. Jesus, don't you ever take a fucking bath? Poor people get ringworm!" I was unclean. I was dirty. He would remind me of it often. WEll, it turns out it wasn't ringworm. It was contact dermatitis. I was allergic to one or more of the many chemicals in his pet supply store. It was a red, nasty allergic rash. There was nothing I could have done. It was gone in a few days, but I swear he never looked at me the same way again. I was 13.
There were other things. Things I don't want to get into here, but things that filled me with such shame and hatred of myself that I had to create a shell around myself. I still have it. It's 400 plus pounds of ugly fat and it keeps people from getting close. It makes me unappealing so no one will want to touch me.
All these outward signs: the obesity, the eating, the anti-social behavior, the soliciting of attention are all symptoms of several pathologies. No one at Green Oaks ever asked me any leading questions. They never asked what was going on in my head. They just wanted compliance. I wanted to feel a sense of trust in adults that I didn't have.
That's when I knew there was no help for me there. You see, what needed to happen was for someone, anyone, in authority to ask me WHY I objected. WHY was eating so important to me? Why didn't I connect? Why was the prospect of losing weight terrifying to me? Why wouldn't I just let the other kids in?
None of the therapists or psychiatrists or staff at the facility ever felt the need to inquire as to why I was so closed off. No one ever said, "Dave, compulsive overeating is usually to compensate for great pain. Are you okay?"
No, I was just fat and defiant and by G-d, they were going to fix me. Even in therapy. Say the wrong thing? You're not taking your treatment seriously. You lose points. Talking to the other inmates? You were talking about old war stories. Not allowed. Points off. Didn't exercise while the other kids got to have some free time and goof off? Points off.
I realized, after a while, that they didn't care about treating my depression. They wanted to modify my behavior. My behavior was a product they were selling to my mother. My happiness was entirely irrelevant.
I became openly contemptuous of the facility. I wanted nothing more to do with them, and it would all be over when my insurance ran out. It was a massive missed opportunity. I was in the heart of my depression. I was alone and with unfamiliar kids. I was in constant emotional pain from an upbringing that taught me to hate myself. I was supposed to somehow open up to these people who punished me for eating to make myself happy and wanting to fit in, to feel good. No one ever asked what was wrong.
Why, in that environment, would I ever actually cooperate with them.
Between my parents and the insurance shelling out a grand a day, no one cared why I felt so bad. No one cared what was causing the problem. Certainly, no one was interested in looking at themselves for reasons why I was defying their attempts to "reach me." They weren't interested in my happiness. They were interested in my behavior, and not much else.
I still hurt as much as I did then. More really. The triggering incident was just that, an incident. I was in incredible pain from a ton of childhood incidents that I'll discuss at some length later. I carried those incidents with me in that classroom at school, that night as I wanted to die, and through my time as a mental patient. No one asked me if I was hurting. The system they created was designed to be oppositional. They break kids wills and get them to behave. No one asked if I was okay. No one asked if there was something I'd like to talk about. No one noticed the clear pathologies that are presented by morbid obesity and compulsive overeating and said, "That kid clearly needs help, maybe we should help him."
That's colored my view of psychiatric care. I've needed to be in-patient a few times since then, but I don't see the point. I'm not interested in behavior modification. Unless you have some real idea as to how to make me happier or to feel whole, I'm not interested, and that's just not what the mental hospitals I can get into are about. There's no help for me, on that respect, out there. This is not about meds. I'm on meds. I'm on tons of meds. This is about the start of a journey as I explore the nature of my depression and the things that shaped the person I am today.