Anne Lamott Gives Us a Reason for Hope

As I often tell people, the writings of Anne Lamott were introduced to me at a time in my life when I was struggling badly. My oldest son was in the throes of addiction. I was battling depression. And I felt like my whole world was falling apart. I was, in a word, hopeless. But my wife was a big fan of Anne Lamott and suggested I take a look at a few of her books. Figuring I had absolutely nothing to lose, I took my wife up on her suggestion. And it literally changed my life.

For someone who was pretty much out of hope, reading Lamott's thoughtful and spiritual musings was the best thing I could've done for myself. It didn't take long to figure out that Anne's words were a beacon that could help guide me out of one of the darkest periods of my life.

"Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up." That passage from Lamott's Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life made me stand up and take notice. Maybe there was still hope for me. Maybe I could navigate the storm I was in the midst of and find some peace in my world. Another passage about hope, this one from Anne's Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, also resonated with me: "Hope is not about proving anything. It's about choosing to believe this one thing, that love is bigger than any grim, bleak shit anyone can throw at us."

Anne Lamott gave me back some hope. Now she’s given us an entire book about hope. And it's wonderful.

Lamott tells us in the Prelude to Almost Everything: Notes on Hope that the book began as a list for her grandson and niece, "who are both exuberant and worried, as I was at their age and still am some days." "Dearest," she writes. "Here is everything I know about almost everything, that I think applies to almost everyone, that might help you someday."

Yes, we're living in tumultuous times. But that doesn't mean we can't be grateful for the good things in our world, too. Lamott makes that perfectly clear in the first sentence of this book: "I am stockpiling antibiotics for the apocalypse, even as I await the blossoming of paperwhites on the windowsill in the kitchen." Those paperwhites? They represent hope. We just have to see and recognize it.

"Hope springs from that which is right in front of us, which surprises us, and seems to work."

Amen, Annie.

In Almost Everything, Anne Lamott explores life, death, love, hate, families (aka, "famblies"), food, writing, and more, and she does it with her usual candidness and (sometimes dark) wit. "I have just always found it extremely hard to be here, on this side of eternity, because of, well, other people; and death." She's also not afraid to throw a little self-deprecation into the mix: "Scientists say we are made of stars, and I believe them, although my upper arms look like hell."

Lamott is so adept at reminding us that things are never as bad as they may seem. If we practice gratitude ("Gratitude is seeing how someone changed your heart and quality of life, helped you become the good parts of the person you are") and see the good in everything--and everyONE ("Empathy begins when we realize how much alike we all are")--our lives will be much more satisfying and fulfilling. We have to do the next right thing and "live in the light, not the dark of the sad past." Is that always easy? Of course not. But having Anne remind us through her wise observations and meaningful stories makes it easier; and it is incredibly comforting, too.

I adore everything Anne Lamott writes, because I can relate to her on so many different levels. She thinks so many of the same things I think, which helps make me feel like I'm not alone. And, best of all, she's a master at pointing out the silver linings--no matter how small--that I may not be able to see. 

This book will make you realize that there is always a reason for hope. "If you arrive at a place in life that is miserable, it will change," Lamott promises. "Some days there seems to be little reason for hope, in our families, cities, and world. Well, except for almost everything."

Looking Back: January 31, 2007

As I've mentioned here at least once before, my writings haven't always lived in this blog. Before I finally got the guts to go public, my stream-of-consciousness thoughts as the father of a son struggling with depression and addiction were tucked away safely on my laptop, in a big-ass Microsoft Word document that I creatively named "journal.doc".

Sometimes I go back and read the stuff I wrote in that journal. I don't know why I do it. Maybe it's to see how I've weathered the storm. Maybe it's to see how far I've come as a person. Or, maybe, I'm just a masochist. Whatever the reason, a couple times a year I'll double-click "journal.doc" and reflect on was happening on this date all those years ago.

I did that this morning. And for January 31, 2007, this is part of what I wrote:

January 31, 2007

6:43am: You know, I was thinking in the shower…I'm in so much pain internally that I don't even seem to feel it anymore. I know it's there, but it's like I've become numb to the feeling. A very weird sensation. I'm hurting, yet I don't hurt. I wonder what that means. Am I losing my emotions? Have I reached a point where I’m just like Jack Nicholson in Cuckoo's Nest? I don't know. But if pain was a visible entity, and you sliced me open, I'm sure you'd see that I was full of it. I heard some injured Winter X-Games dude say something in an interview the other night after he injured his knee skiing or something: "Pain is just negativity leaving the body." If I no longer feel pain, but I know it's inside me, does that mean the negativity is no longer leaving my body? Does that mean I'm just going to become one big ball of negativity? I hope not.

I remember feeling that way. I remember it like it was yesterday. Being in so much emotional pain that I couldn't even feel it. Completely numb. Like the post-electroconvulsive therapy version of R.P. McMurphy near the end of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, just before Chief puts the pillow over his face and puts him out of his misery. Devoid of any feelings whatsoever.

That was not a fun time for me. Or my family.

Ten years later, though, I can honestly say I'm in a much better place. Sure, things with my son are better--not great, but better. But I know I've grown as a person, too. (Therapy helped. I highly recommend it.) I don't let things consume me like I used to. And I try to relax and embrace whatever life throws at me, as best I can. Am I perfect? Of course not. I'll be the first to admit that I still have my "moments," when shit hitting the fan can get the best of me. But even when that happens, I am usually able to recover relatively quickly. That, my friends, is progress. And life, like recovery, is all about progress, not perfection.

Thank God I didn't become that big ball of negativity. That means there's hope for everyone.

"We have a choice. We can spend our whole life suffering because we can't relax with how things really are, or we can relax and embrace the open-endedness of the human situation, which is fresh, unfixated, unbiased." --Pema Chödrön

Causes and Effect, 12/9/17: NAMI and Support for Tracy and Zack (GoFundMe campaign)

The the third post of my six-day-long stint as writer of the Causes and Effect: My Year of Giving Daily blog can be found over at Tumblr. Here's the link to today's post:

NAMI: Speaking up for Those with Mental Illness

Today, my family is making two donations of $10.00: One to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI), and one to the Support for Tracy and Zack GoFundMe campaign.

If you would like to make a contribution to NAMI, you can do so here:

The National Alliance on Mental Illness's donation page

If you would like to make a contribution to the Support for Tracy and Zack GoFundMe campaign, you can do so here:

Support for Tracy and Zack GoFundMe campaign donation page

Three down, three to go.

Peace.

Of Depression, Parenting, and...Cat Pee

It's been a difficult week in my world.

On Tuesday, a Facebook friend of mine's status update was, in fact, a suicide note. It started with "I began to think about ending my life several weeks ago" and ended with "I'm tired. SO I got the gun, loaded it up, and blew my head off." Despite a long thread of comments begging and pleading this person to please, please, please reconsider taking his own life, he went through with it. Now a teenage girl is left without a father.

On Wednesday, another Facebook friend posted that her 21-year-old son had gone missing. He left the house for school at 4 o'clock in the afternoon and hasn't been heard from since. They found the car he drove to school, but that's about it. It's a parent's worst nightmare and I'm praying hard for a happy ending for this family.

On top of those two things, my older son is still stuck in a major depressive episode. I know I recently wrote that I wasn't going to focus on my son and his issues in my blog posts anymore, but I feel I would be remiss if I didn't at least mention his ongoing struggle.

Pardon my language, but depression is a fucking bitch, and like addiction it's a family disease. When one of your children is battling depression and talks about wanting to die more than they talk about wanting to live, you can't help but be consumed by it. Especially when that child refuses to try so many things that could possibly help them feel better.

Depression is a black hole of despair. When someone is in it, it's so incredibly hard for them to think there could be a way out. So they build walls around themselves and isolate. Deep down inside, they may actually want help, but they firmly believe that nothing will make a difference; so they don't even try. It doesn't matter how much you love and encourage them. The circular thinking--I want help but nothing will help me so why try anything because it won't help?--is maddening to the people who care the most.

Especially parents.

Yesterday my wife and I took one of our cats to the vet for a check-up because the cats in our house have been acting kind of strange for a while. (For what it's worth, our cats fit perfectly into our family. One of them even takes birth control pills for dogs to help him with a chemical imbalance in his brain.) We got to talking with the doctor about changes in our household environment that may be influencing the cats' behavior and mentioned that our son was back living at home and going through a major depression.

When he heard that, the doctor paused for a moment. He then told us that he had lost his oldest son, who also struggled with addiction, to suicide. We had a good conversation about addiction, depression, stigma, and how it all impacts the entire family. He said our cats may be acting weird because our son is home and feeling so low. And because our son is feeling bad, my wife and I are affected, too. ("You're only as happy as your saddest child," the doctor reminded us. Ain't that the truth.) Cats can sense when the humans they love aren't at their best, and that can sometimes lead to some bizarre feline behavior.

I confess: I don't like cleaning up cat pee from the basement floor or the front hallway. But in the grand scheme of things, it's just a minor inconvenience. So I'll keep doing it as long as I have to. Perhaps the cats' stray peeing will stop if my son can somehow find his way back to a happier place. I know he can do it. But until he decides he can do it--and I hope and pray he will eventually get to that point--I will keep the paper towels and disinfectant close at hand.

"I felt like my heart had been so thoroughly and irreparably broken that there could be no real joy again, that at best there might eventually be a little contentment. Everyone wanted me to get help and rejoin life, pick up the pieces and move on, and I tried to, I wanted to, but I just had to lie in the mud with my arms wrapped around myself, eyes closed, grieving, until I didn’t have to anymore." --Anne Lamott

Getting Mental Health Care Shouldn't Be This Difficult

(Note: I wrote this piece on June 15th and submitted it to The New York Times, hoping they would publish it on their OpEd page. That didn't happen, so I'm posting it here in its original form. It also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site under the title "Getting Mental Health Care Shouldn't Be This Difficult.")

Broken Leg? No Problem. Broken Brain? That's Another Story

As the parents of an adult son who has struggled mightily with severe depression and addiction issues since he was a teenager, my wife and I have been through more health care and insurance ordeals in the last ten years than we can count. Over that decade, one might assume that some major improvements would've been made to "the system." Unfortunately, even though some things may be slightly better today, the system is still broken. And it's maddening.

Our older son is 26 years old and recently experienced a devastating break-up with his girlfriend, whom he'd been living with for a couple of years. He had already been fighting an almost debilitating bout of depression for several months, so the change in his relationship status really hit him hard and sent him spiraling downward to to a new low. My wife and I were so concerned with his well-being that we took him to the emergency room of a major hospital in Detroit to try and get him some help. But all we got was frustration.

If you want to find out how screwed up the mental health care system in this country is, try spending thirteen hours in the ER with someone who needs help but doesn't want to be there. Someone you love with all your heart, who is telling you he has lost his only reason to live. Someone you keep telling, "It’s going to be okay," but whose only answer is, "I can't do this." Trust me: It'll rip your heart out.

Five hours into our ER stay, we were still waiting to see the one and only social worker on duty and were told that there were three people ahead of us. Three hours later, we were told the exact same thing. It wasn't until four hours after that that we actually got to meet with the social worker. A twelve-hour wait for a person in a desperate emotional state to see a social worker at a major hospital in a big city. Does that make any sense at all? (Here's an idea: How about having two social workers on duty? Would that cut into the hospital's profits all that much?)

The social worker interviewed our son and wanted to have him admitted to the hospital. Our son was against that idea, though, because he has had several negative experiences in psychiatric hospitals over the years. (I don't think the twelve-hour wait helped much either.) The next option was to have our son admitted against his will, but the social worker said that doing that probably wouldn’t work out very well. My wife and I agreed with her.

That brought us to option number three, which was a partial hospitalization program at another local hospital. With that program, our son would go to treatment and therapy during the day, then come home at night. It was a great program, we were told, and it seemed like the perfect compromise. Best of all, our son agreed to do it. Finally, after thirteen hours, a glimmer of hope.

The next morning, my wife called the hospital to get our son registered for the program. When she hung up the phone and came downstairs, she had a sad look on her face. "What’s wrong?" I asked. Fighting back tears, she replied, "They don’t have any openings until five weeks from now."

Yes, the mental health aspect of our health care system is barely functional and in need of massive repair. No matter how hard you try, getting someone the help they need is like an Olympic event. If you have a broken leg, you go to the hospital, get seen relatively quickly, get the help you need, and are on your way. But if you have a broken brain, it seems like the system sets you up to fail. And for someone who is battling mental health issues, that's a recipe for disaster.

Three days after our nightmare in the ER, my wife and I are still trying to find our son help. Although we're frustrated, angry, and sad, we're trying our best to stay hopeful. I won't lie to you: It's not easy. But we love our son and a broken system isn't going to stop us from getting him the help he needs.

********************

Postscript: It's now eight days after our trip to the ER and we're still struggling. We've tried a couple of things that weren't a good fit. So we'll keep looking. Getting mental health care shouldn't be this difficult.

"There is no point treating a depressed person as though she were just feeling sad, saying, 'There now, hang on, you'll get over it.' Sadness is more or less like a head cold--with patience, it passes. Depression is like cancer." --Barbara Kingsolver in The Bean Trees

Causes and Effect, 12/28/15: To Write Love on Her Arms.

The twenty-eighth post of my month-long stint as writer of the Causes and Effect: My Year of Giving Daily blog can be found over at Tumblr. Here's the link to today's post:

TWLOHA: The Amazing Charity That Started with a Story

Today, To Write Love on Her Arms (TWLOHA) is the recipient of a $10.00 donation from my family. If you would like to make a contribution to TWLOHA, you can do so here:

To Write Love on Her Arms' donation page

Twenty-eight down down, three to go.

Peace.

What I've Been up To

I got to thinking this morning that a lot of you out there might be wondering what I've been up to. After all, it's been more than a month since I've posted a "real" post on this blog. So let me explain.

The last month of my life has been super busy. Between flare-ups of my atrial fibrillation, the decision to finally go ahead with a heart ablation, getting that procedure done, and taking over the Causes and Effect daily giving blog for December...well, let's just say things have been a bit chaotic. And on top of all that, I'm still doing freelance writing, helping moderate online forums about drug abuse and recovery, and looking for a full-time job.

It's funny. I haven't had a full-time job in more than two years now, but somehow I seem to be busier than ever, albeit with less money. And that's okay.

Just know that I'm still around, and that I'm still working my butt off to help break the stigma associated with addiction, although I get a bit sidetracked sometimes.

For the time being, you can expect me to post daily links to my Causes and Effect blog posts. I'm 14 days into that run and have 17 more to go. After that, things will calm down a bit and I should be able to get back on a more regular "My Life as 3D" schedule.

FYI, my ablation happened on the ninth of this month and went off without a hitch. My electrophysiologist said he was "very aggressive" and that I'm "going to be good." So far, he's right. My heart rhythm feels as normal as it ever has. Here's hoping it stays that way.

My son is also doing well. His depression still creeps up on him from time to time, but I think he's close to agreeing to see the new psychiatrist I mentioned here a while back. Fingers and toes crossed on that one.

Thanks for reading my blog, people. I really appreciate the support. You have no idea. And a special thanks to Anne Lamott, who blew my mind over on Twitter today. I'm posting a screenshot of her tweet below, but if you want to see it "live," you can do so at this link:

How Anne Lamott Blew My Mind Today

Peace and hugs.

Mind. F*cking. Blown.

Depression Sucks

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site under the same title: "Depression Sucks.")


Depression sucks.

If I had a dollar for every time I thought that or said it out loud, I'd be sitting on my own private beach somewhere sipping ice cold root beer from a glass with an umbrella in it.

As I've told you before, depression runs in my family. Relatives and siblings have struggled with it. I've struggled with it. My boys have struggled with it.

Right now, my oldest son, whose depression was in remission for a good three years or so, is suffering again. His depression has been almost debilitating for the last couple of months. It's making it difficult for him to get up in the morning, let alone go to work and live any kind of normal life. His confidence and self-esteem are super low. And I'm incredibly worried about him.

My son's been on the same antidepressant (Cymbalta) for a few years, but my wife and I fear that it's just not working anymore. Some people can develop a tolerance to such medications, and when they do, it's like someone flips a switch. Goodbye, happiness...welcome back, depression.

Yesterday, my wife called the University of Michigan Depression Center, an esteemed facility in Ann Arbor, Michigan, that offers some of the most respected assessment and treatment options in the country. Their website offered a ray of hope when we perused it prior to calling about having our son evaluated there.

Unfortunately, getting quality treatment for depression seems to be just as challenging as getting treatment for addiction. The person my wife talked to told her that they weren't seeing any new patients until next year, and that appointments couldn't be scheduled until November. Hardly the kind of thing you want to hear when you have a loved one battling a mental illness that makes you wonder about their well-being. Oh, one more thing: Unless the patient's primary care physician is in the University of Michigan--our son's isn't--you can only meet with the Depression Center people once. And nothing can be done about medications in that one meeting.

Really? So much for the Depression Center idea.

And here's a thought: Getting help for a mental illness shouldn't be akin to winning a damn lottery.

Thankfully, I reached out to some people I know and got a recommendation for a top-notch psychiatrist. (Based at--ironically--the University of Michigan.) So today we wanted to call and get things in motion so our son could see this new doctor. But one thing prevented us from doing so: Our son wouldn't get on the phone and talk to the doctor's office. You see, along with depression, he's also frequently paralyzed by anxiety, which makes talking on the phone agonizing for him.

My wife and I talked to our son for a long time today. He was at our house, and we did our best to comfort him and tell him that we understand he has an illness. We also told him that he had to be the one to seek out help. That no matter how much we wanted him to get help, he was the only one who could actually do it. (Damn, depression and addiction are so similar, aren't they?)

I hope my son's anxiety will ease up a bit so he'll be able to call the doctor's office later today. Or at least early next week. With the way he's feeling, I don't think we can afford a lengthy delay. If for some reason he can't call the doctor, I'm not sure what my wife and I will do, because our hands are kind of tied.

The fact that I'm having trouble getting help for my own son isn't lost on me. Believe me, I think about it often. I'm allegedly some sort of plainclothes "expert" at helping people who are struggling with addiction or mental illness, but when faced with my own family crisis, I have to sit back and twiddle my thumbs while I wait for my son to take action.

What is wrong with that picture?

Of course, I do realize that even as a parent there's only so much I can do. (My mom actually reiterated that to me this morning, bless her heart.) Parenting isn't easy, and when you're dealing with a child who's combatting mental illness, it's exponentially tougher. The one thing we absolutely must remember is that depression is an illness.

When my son left our house a little while ago, he hugged me and, in tears, said, "I'm sorry." I told him he didn't have to apologize. "You're not a bad person," I told him. "You have an illness. If you had cancer or diabetes, you wouldn't be apologizing for it. So don't apologize because you have depression. But if you had cancer or diabetes, you would do everything you could to get it treated. So you have to do the same for your depression."

I'm hoping what I said got through to him.

I'm hoping he makes that phone call soon.

I'm hoping he can return to being happy.

Today, it's all about hope.

"Gravity and sadness yank us down, and hope gives us a nudge to help one another get back up or to sit with the fallen on the ground, in the abyss, in solidarity." --Anne Lamott

I'm Not as Strong as I Sometimes Appear

I haven't put much thought into this post. So if what I'm writing ends up sounding like some kind of stream of consciousness rambling, I apologize.

One thing I've heard a lot from people over the last couple/few years is how strong I am. How I've gone through difficult things in my life but have handled it so well.

Here's a secret: I'm not as strong as I sometimes appear. In fact, I'm really not that strong at all.

I've been going through some tough times of late. I haven't written about them because I just don't want to. But over the last several weeks I've come to view myself as something of a hypocrite, because I can't seem to practice what I preach.

I write blogs that tell people how they should act. Live in the moment. Don't let the small stuff bother you. Practice self-care. But recently I've done anything but those things. Instead, I've let the shit going on in my world get the best of me.

Yesterday, while my wife was out of town, I honestly thought I was going to have a breakdown. I confess: I served my younger son his dinner with tears rolling down my cheeks.

Today? More of the same: stress, anxiety, fear, and lots of self-loathing.

I'm kind of a mess.

Maybe it's some kind of reaction to my being completely off of Klonopin now. (It's been a little less than a week.) I've also reduced the dosage of my anti-depressant--with my doctor's permission--so maybe my body and brain are adjusting to that, too. I'll give it another week or so and see how things are going then.

But the main point of this post is to come clean and let you know that I'm not this pillar of strength with a big shield that allows me to repel all the troubles and negative feelings that come my way. Not even close. I'm just as vulnerable as anybody else; at times, maybe even more so. I still carry around a lot of baggage, and sometimes the weight of that baggage puts a tremendous strain on me.

I know that it's okay to hurt. I know that it's okay to cry. I know that this, too, shall pass. But that doesn't make it any easier.

Namaste.

"If you have a body, you are entitled to the full range of feelings. It comes with the package." --Anne Lamott

"There Is Still Some Time": A Moving Essay from a Powerful Book

Yesterday I finished reading Jamie Tworkowski​'s book, If You Feel Too Much: Thoughts on Things Found and Lost and Hoped For. For those of you who don't know, Jamie is the founder of To Write Love On Her Arms.​ (TWLOHA), an amazing organization whose mission is "presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide."

The book is a collection of some of Jamie's writings from between 2005 and 2014, many of which appear on the TWLOHA blog (a blog I was honored to write for in March of last year). Even though I had read many of these pieces before, I wanted to take them in all at once, in book form. And I'm so glad I did.

If You Feel Too Much is a book of hope, for sure. It should be required reading not only for people who may be struggling, but for everyone. The messages Tworkowski's essays convey are so important.  They tell us what is actually important in life, and how we should live and treat others. If more people thought and lived like Jamie Tworkowski, the world would be such a better place.

Of all the selections in this book, a couple of them really stand out to me. Of course, there's "To Write Love on Her Arms," which is the piece that gave birth to the entire TWLOHA movement back in 2006. Jamie wrote the story about then-19-year-old Renee Yohe, who was battling depression and addiction, frequently cut herself, and had attempted suicide. After Jamie posted the story on MySpace, it went viral. The rest, as they say, is history.

But of all the writings in If You Feel Too Much, I was most moved by "There Is Still Some Time." It's a short piece. Under 300 words. But those words are so impactful. Here is the essay in its entirety:

THERE IS STILL SOME TIME

If you feel too much, there’s still a place for you here.

If you feel too much, don’t go.

If this world is too painful, stop and rest.

It’s okay to stop and rest.

If you need a break, it’s okay to say you need a break.

This life--it’s not a contest, not a race, not a performance, not a thing that you win.

It’s okay to slow down.

You are here for more than grades, more than a job, more than a promotion, more than keeping up, more than getting by.

This life is not about status or opinion or appearance.

You don’t have to fake it.

You do not have to fake it.

Other people feel this way too.

If your heart is broken, it’s okay to say your heart is broken.

If you feel stuck, it’s okay to say you feel stuck.

If you can’t let go, it’s okay to say you can’t let go.

You are not alone in these places.

Other people feel how you feel.

You are more than just your pain. You are more than wounds, more than drugs, more than death and silence.

There is still some time to be surprised.

There is still some time to ask for help.

There is still some time to start again.

There is still some time for love to find you.

It’s not too late.

You’re not alone.

It’s okay--whatever you need and however long it takes--it’s okay.

It’s okay.

If you feel too much, there’s still a place for you here.

If you feel too much, don’t go.

There is still some time.

(Copyright © 2015 by Jamie Tworkowski)

If you need some hope, pick up a copy of If You Feel Too Much and read it. And if you know someone who's going through a difficult time, no matter what the reason, maybe grab a copy for them and suggest that they read it. It is truly powerful.

Peace.

"You’ll need coffee shops and sunsets and road trips. Airplanes and passports and new songs and old songs, but people more than anything else. You will need other people, and you will need to be that other person to someone else, a living breathing screaming invitation to believe better things." --Jamie Tworkowski (from the essay "Happy Birthday")

Me and Jamie Tworkowski in Detroit in February of 2013.

The Semicolon Project

I posted the above photo on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter this morning. Afterwards, I had a number of people ask me what the photo was all about. Why on earth did I have a semicolon drawn on my wrist???

The answer is simple. The semicolon on my wrist is in response to a request from The Semicolon Project. On their Facebook page, The Semicolon Project posted this photo:

A semicolon represents a sentence the author could've ended, but chose not to. The author is you and the sentence is your life.

Wow. That's powerful stuff.

--------------------------

In January of 2006, my son attempted suicide. It was during a manic episode he had while being weaned off of one anti-depressant and onto another. He intentionally overdosed on anti-depressants and aspirin. For what it's worth, despite its mild-mannered reputation, aspirin can be fatal when taken in large quantities. Fortunately, one of the things our son had going for him was that the aspirin he took was of the enteric-coated variety, which slows down the dissolving and absorption of the aspirin. This may have actually saved his life.

My wife was the one who found our son in the attic at about 1:30 a.m. He was crying and explained what he had done. When my wife woke me up and told me what had happened, it was like I was having the worst nightmare ever. A hurried trip to the emergency room ensued, and doctors pumped our son's stomach. After being given a clean bill of physical health, our son took an ambulance ride to a psychiatric hospital, where he would stay for a few days (mandatory for a teenager after a suicide attempt).

Physically, our son was okay. Mentally, he was not.

My son's severe depression and anxiety preceded his addiction, which is very common among people with substance abuse disorders. He began self-medicating in order to feel "normal." He simply wanted to make the negative feelings he was experiencing go away.

That night in January of 2006 was the beginning of a long and tumultuous period, not just for my son but for our entire family. It would be July of 2012 before things finally settled down and a sense of normalcy returned to our world. As I type this, my son is 2 years, 9 months, and 2 weeks clean and sober. And you know what else? His depression is under control and he's happy.

Mental illness can come out of nowhere and kick you in the ass. But no matter how bad you feel, suicide is not the answer; instead, it's a permanent solution to a short-term problem.

If you are experiencing depression or some other form of mental illness, please seek help. Please, please, please find a professional to talk to. Or, if you're too scared to do that, at the very least find a friend to talk to. The important thing is to talk. Let somebody know how you are feeling. They can assist you in getting the help you need. Believe it or not, you can feel better again.

Remember: The author is you and the sentence is your life. Make use of that semicolon and keep that sentence going. You are so worth it.

Peace.

P.S. I invite all of you to draw a semicolon on your wrist, to remind you of the struggles many people are dealing with. Even if it's not April 16th anymore when you read this, put a semicolon on your wrist for one day. And feel free to share a photo of that semicolon with me on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.

"The most beautiful people we have known are those who have known defeat, known suffering, known struggle, known loss, and have found their way out of the depths. These persons have an appreciation, a sensitivity, and an understanding of life that fills them with compassion, gentleness, and a deep loving concern. Beautiful people do not just happen." --Elisabeth Kübler-Ross

"6/13/2011"

(Note: This blog post also appears on The Huffington Post's blog site as "Insight Into the Mind of Someone Suffering from Addiction.")

With our younger son off at college, my wife and I are empty-nesters again and we've been cleaning and purging so we don't end up being old people featured on the TV show Hoarders.

Early this morning I was cleaning in the basement and came across a spiral notebook that my older son had used during his attempt at community college a few years back. It was pretty tattered, so I decided to put it in the "recycle" pile. But I decided to flip through it first to see if contained anything of any significance.

Most of the pages were blank. A few pages had some random doodles on them. There were also a couple of pages that had daily schedules written on them from my son's earliest stays in sober living houses.

Some of the pages, though, were oozing with negative emotion and made me cry both tears of sadness--for the past they represented--and tears of gratitude--for where my son is today.

There were four pages that had the words "FUCK MY LIFE" scrawled in giant letters; letters so big they took up all 8-1/2" x 11" of the sheet of paper. But the thing that hit me the hardest--and I mean it hit me like a Mike Tyson uppercut--was a two-page note my son had written.

The note was dated 6/30/11, which was a little more than two months before my wife and I sent our son to Palm Springs for treatment at Michael's House. I will not share the entire letter here because it is much too dark and personal. But I will share this one small excerpt, only to give people an idea of what goes on inside a person's mind when they are suffering from addiction:

"I feel dead inside. It's like nothing can make me feel better, and only drugs can block out all the bullshit, take my mind off of it for any period of time."

Damn.

Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn.

That paints a pretty clear picture of how an addicted person feels inside, doesn't it? They don't want to be addicted. They just want to feel better and block out the negative emotions. They want to clear their mind of the things that make them hurt. And self-medication is the only way they know how to do it.

About 10 weeks after my son wrote that note, my wife and I created a boundary and stuck to it. Our son could either go to rehab or move out of our house. It took a few days, but he chose to go to rehab.

Thank God he did.

When my wife got up today I asked her, "Do you want to see something that will make you feel grateful today?" Then I showed her the note our son had written. She was overcome with emotion just like I was.

I thought about throwing the note away, but part of me said to keep it; not so I can dwell on the past,  but to serve as yet another reminder of how far we've come.

My son is 797 days clean and sober today. That's two years, two months, and five days. And I am grateful for every single one of them.

I love my boys with all my heart.

Peace.

"My mind is a neighborhood I try not to go into alone." --Anne Lamott