Before reading this, I suggest you go back to last week’s post for “Part 1.” Don’t jump into my story somewhere in the middle. That would be ridiculous!

The Bottom, Part 2

I hit the proverbial bottom that fall, the fall of 2017. One would think that the bottom would have been right after my brother died. While that was indeed a miserable time, I kept pushing a lot of my emotions into that busted box. I don’t remember what day it was, but the actual moment is forever in my memory. For several weeks before, I had trouble controlling my emotions. And for a while, I hid it well. My wife—God bless her!—was the only one who truly knew the extent of my struggles. For a really long time, she was my only outlet. She was the one who kept everything together when I was clearly falling apart. But that one day, others were thrust into my broken world. My strength was finally gone.

Let me back up just a little. Prior to that day, I had tried a few things in an attempt to keep the cheese from falling off my cracker altogether. Around the time that Kevin died, I had tried an antidepressant, Escitalopram, and had horrible side effects. I told myself then that I would never try meds again. (What can I say, I’m a lightweight when I don’t feel well.) I had also seen a couple different therapists over the previous several months but found no real relief. I really didn’t know what else to do. I figured that this was my new lot in life. I just tried to “focus on the positive” as much as possible and place all of my strength into making it through Each… And… Every… Day…*Sigh*

This is exactly what I was trying to do that day. I mustered up every last ounce of energy just to get out of bed. I hadn’t slept the night before, which was now “normal” for me. Throughout the previous few weeks, I was simply surviving. I did go back to my doctor and asked for another medication—never say never, eh? He prescribed Sertraline this time, but it wasn’t helping yet. (I knew it could take a few weeks to experience any semblance of relief, but at this point, I was just thankful that the side effects weren’t as bad.) I was relying solely on my own failing strength—and prayers that seemed to go unanswered.

Somehow, I did get out of bed and got ready for work; again. I drove to work, fighting back tears; again. I prayed to God to help me make it through the day; again. Just survive, just survive. I repeated this phrase—my new miserable mantra—over and over as I walked up to the fire station door.

At this point in my downward spiral, it was more than me being sad. “Sad” is an emotion we all experience from time to time. No, this was full-on clinical depression. And not to be outdone, depression was now joined by his nettlesome cousin, anxiety. Here’s how it worked—or, in a matter of speaking, didn’t work—for me:

Depression had me down and out. I no longer felt purpose. I was drained, both physically and emotionally. All I wanted to do was lie in bed. My thoughts swirled around everything negative. In essence, I hated what my life had become. And when one hates the trajectory of his life, he begins to question nearly everything. And that’s what I was doing as I approached that firehouse door.

What if something terrible happens today? Can I perform? Can I lead? What if someone in my charge gets hurt? What if someone dies? What if? What if? What if…?

I opened the door and quietly made my way to the captain’s office. (I would be the acting captain for the shift.) I think I halfheartedly listened to the outgoing captain give his report and then sat down and stared at the computer screen. What the hell am I doing here? My tear ducts began to engorge. Fight, damn it! (My inner voice has a potty mouth.) Fight I did and I carried on with the morning routine; barely.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention an important detail about my personality. I like to have fun. (Well, I did before life handed me a crap sandwich or two. Spoiler alert: I like to have fun now, too! I’m getting better!) I may also have a reputation around the firehouse as the dude most likely to give you a hug. It’s my way of spreading love and cheer—and, honestly, I enjoy watching my buddies squirm! But to bring an even better visual to my personality, I have been told by several of my friends that they cannot watch the movie “Elf,” starring Will Ferrell, without thinking of me! (I find that to be a compliment of highest honor, by the way.)

I hardly came out of the office that day. In fact, over the past several shifts I had become more and more isolated. This was not me. I love these people. And it’s much more than cliché when I say that these men and women are my second family. I wasn’t doing this on purpose, I was just trying to survive. More than that, I didn’t want them to be concerned about me. I wanted them to be able to trust me. I wanted them to know that I was still able to do my job, to keep them safe, to lead when it counted. I didn’t want them to see me floundering.

Honestly, I don’t remember much more about that morning and afternoon, but I do remember that the day was dragging on. Most of the time, I sat in the office, staring at the computer screen; often with tear filled eyes. But I managed. I was able to “suck it up” and take a few minor emergency calls. However, with each passing moment, my emotions were getting harder to fight back.

“Chow!”

As the word was barked over the station PA system, I knew two things to be true: 1) I had survived until dinner time. 2) I just couldn’t sit around the table and pretend I was okay; let alone eat. I sat in the office debating for a few minutes but I got up and reluctantly headed toward the kitchen—someone would have soon come up to get me anyway. As I walked into the kitchen, I quietly told the crew that I was not hungry and turned around to head back up front to the office; my lifeboat.

Now is probably a good time to note that my shift mates were much more intuitive and concerned than I realized at the time. Almost all of them, at some point over the past several shifts, had asked me if I was okay. I lied. I mean, I did mention that I was “dealing with some stuff,” and they knew I struggled when my brother died, so my simple phrase was enough to appease. What I didn’t tell them is that I was scared to death. I was losing hope that I would get better. Heck, I was clueless at the time as to where all of this was coming from. (Hey, I told y’all in “Part 1” that I’m a moron!)

When I walked into the living room, three of my closest buddies were there. They had stopped into the station for a union campaign detail. I was feeling guilty because I hadn’t been participating in the important detail on my days off and I wanted to express this to them. I stopped them and began to explain that I was not doing real well lately. And as I talked, the levee holding back my tears was breaching. I couldn’t completely control my emotions any longer.

I think they were taken aback. But these were my friends. They were concerned. And they, like me, didn’t know what to do to help. I opened up to them a bit about what I was feeling, that I was scared, that I had no idea what was going on with me. They were very gracious and I knew in that moment—as I had already known—that they had my back. But it’s pretty hopeless now, I thought. Nobody can help! They offered their consolations to me as I proceeded back to my lifeboat. I was glad nobody from my shift witnessed my minor break. I needed to pull myself back together. I needed to “stay strong” for them—whatever that meant. I again sat down and stared blankly at the computer. Just survive! Just survive! But I was done. My strength? GONE…

“Part 3” next week. Now don’t fret! Things start looking up soon, I promise. And don’t forget, make sure you share Jim Ladiski Writes with all of your friends and family.

Be well…

P.S. If you have a story to tell and would like to join Jim Ladiski Writes as a guest blogger, please contact me!