As a person who instinctually isolates, I’ve now learned that I can’t do this alone.
I sit here, just a few days away from my 42nd birthday, reflecting on how I spent my 41st birthday. Almost one year to the day, I drove myself down to the local VA hospital because it was the only thing that I could think of that could possibly help me.
Already familiar with the layout of the entrance, I knew I would be greeted by a Veteran who could always be found manning the volunteer front desk. I knew where I needed to go but not how to get there. Very soft-spoken, my words cracking and my eyes welling up with tears, all I could get out was, “I need some help…” or something to that effect.
After making it up to mental health services, I struggled to keep it together when talking with the department’s front desk receptionist. I struggled to keep it together in the waiting room, waiting to be seen. I struggled to get anything out when I first sat down in the psychiatrist’s office. I was struggling just to get by.
Finally, I managed to answer all the questions asked of me. After answering “yes” to several of the evaluation questions, I was then asked if I thought that I needed to be held on a 72-hour hold. Yes, I had contemplated self-harm. Yes, I had created a world in my head of what the self-harm would look like and how I would perform said self-harm, but I also imagined how my actions would affect my loved ones.
So, ultimately, I denied the hold and instead was able to be prescribed the medications that I needed, along with drawing up a safety plan with the doctor. Somewhere in between the cacophony of barely intelligible self-harm thoughts, the idea of using or having a drink came in, the addict in me probably sensing my vulnerability.
I hadn’t used or had a drink since November 23, 2008, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt the urge. It was surprising—though not entirely, given my fragile state. What I did know was that I couldn’t bear the feelings I was carrying, and I didn’t want my family to have to pick up the pieces of the shattered glass broken by my hands. I knew, then, that I had to ask for help.
Teenage Years
The first time I experienced any kind of depression symptoms was when I was about 17. At the time, I was smoking pot on a daily basis and drinking and doing other drugs as often as I could. For some reason, pot was the easiest thing for me to get my hands on, so I naturally gravitated toward that.
I can’t say what brought my depression on—I just remember this cycle of always being loaded and crying. I had no one to turn to because everyone in my family was battling their own alcoholism and/or drug addiction, so I kept to myself and isolated.
The one thing that I did find that helped quiet the noise in my head was writing. I began to journal and write poetry and found that getting it out, even if there was no feedback to my scribbles and thoughts, started making me feel better. I was still using every day, though—everything from pot and alcohol to meth, ketamine, coke, ecstasy, and pills. Nothing was off limits.
I grew up in a small farm town in central California, and with few opportunities and prospects, I decided to join the Navy. Many of my friends were doing it, and I figured that was the quickest and easiest way out of town. When I told my parents this, the first thing out of my stepmom’s mouth was, “You know you have to be clean, right?”
Early Adulthood
Bootcamp was a breeze for me, and during my first underway at 19, my drug of choice quickly shifted to alcohol. After our first port visit to Hawaii, I was well beyond the drinking age in all the other countries that we ported in, so I learned from those who had been around a while how to drink heavily and as quickly as possible. After a 9-month deployment overseas, my biggest takeaway was the increase in my alcohol tolerance.
The party continued almost daily, and other drugs crept back into my life along with some new ones. In the military, we had to be a little creative due to the zero-tolerance drug policy. We were getting loaded on Robitussin, VCR cleaner, and Dust-Off.
One night at a Modest Mouse concert in Seattle, I was caught smoking pot and received an Other Than Honorable discharge after being reported. I was angry at the time, but after reflection and growth, I knew that I deserved it. I reflect back on the series of events that occurred and am grateful. Prior to my discharge, I was admitted into an outpatient substance abuse treatment, and it was the first time that I was introduced to AA.
Shortly after my Greyhound bus trip back to California from Washington, I was married to my long-term girlfriend, and we started our life together. I was able to rack up a couple of years of clean time but soon relapsed after the death of our first-born son at just four days old in 2008. I was using in secret and behind my wife’s back. It almost destroyed us.
Starting Over
Shortly after, I found recovery in the rooms of NA and actually started working the program. My wife and I were able to pick up the pieces, and in 2010, we had a healthy baby boy. Late in 2013, we got pregnant with our third, this time a girl. Because it was a high-risk pregnancy and her growth wasn’t where it needed to be, my wife was put on bed rest in the hospital for three weeks before she delivered her. Our daughter lived for two days in the NICU.
Obviously, I was devastated. We were both devastated. We held each other for support, along with the support we received from a group for parents with infant loss that we were involved with after our first-born passed away. We put one foot in front of the other and just lived for our only surviving child.
Midway through 2015, though, I kinda flipped my own world upside down again. Maybe it was my grief that held off long enough to just get through. I don’t know. I went down a depression hole where I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about giving up on life and just wanting to die. This time, I did not isolate myself. I had my wife to support me, and I also reached out to gain mental health services. Through therapy and the right medications, I was able to get through one of the darkest times in my life.
Discovering Myself at 40
The trauma that I went through as a young boy shaped me as I grew into my own person, for the good and the bad. I’m very introverted, but also a people pleaser who often refuses to ask for help with anything. With the chaos that I lived through, I went to great lengths to avoid conflict, and these things created internal chaos. I have noise and constant chatter in my head, and I have difficulties sleeping because of that.
This last year has taught me more about me than I think I’ve learned about myself in the previous 40 years. I’m prioritizing my recovery, even after 16 years of being clean and sober. I’m actually learning what brings me joy. I’m learning how to breathe and be present. I’m learning to have a voice, and I’m discovering awe in the world around me.
As a person who instinctually isolates, I’ve now learned that I can’t do this alone. With a community that understands what I’ve been through, even the worst of the worst can be faced without using, and I owe it all to having a voice and reaching out.
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