Depression: 101
INTRODUCTION
To talk about depression is to in part, talk about my childhood. This is not the easiest thing to do, not that the physical and emotional abuse was an ongoing, daily event. It was the profound influence this abuse has had on me my entire adult life.
I've been wanting to say something ever since I first began to gain insight as why I was suffering such mental/emotional distress. I've made a number of starts over the years, only to have the effort peter out. In a way, this typified what I was going through with the depression. I'd set my mind on something in hopes of lifting myself out of the mire. I would, to varying degrees, succeed, but sooner or later I'd slip back.
The reason I'm attempting again is due to an episode I viewed on the NBC's Today Show, that talked about some people "coming out" about their depression. From my perspective, it was good that I not only understood the significance of my distress, I did something about it too.
At the time though, there was a stigma associated with people having such afflictions. This is exemplified by the reaction in 1972 to the revelation that vice-presidential candidate Thomas Eagleton (D), had a history of clinical depression - "More than a quarter of American adults suffer from a serious mental disorder. Yet mental illness is viewed by many as cause for shame and scandal, fear and fury — as George S. McGovern knows all too well."
Closer to home, when I told my mother that I had sought treatment, rather then being sympathetic, she was absolutely mortified. This reaction hint's as to why I was predisposed to depression in the first place ...
To talk about depression is to in part, talk about my childhood. This is not the easiest thing to do, not that the physical and emotional abuse was an ongoing, daily event. It was the profound influence this abuse has had on me my entire adult life.
I've been wanting to say something ever since I first began to gain insight as why I was suffering such mental/emotional distress. I've made a number of starts over the years, only to have the effort peter out. In a way, this typified what I was going through with the depression. I'd set my mind on something in hopes of lifting myself out of the mire. I would, to varying degrees, succeed, but sooner or later I'd slip back.
The reason I'm attempting again is due to an episode I viewed on the NBC's Today Show, that talked about some people "coming out" about their depression. From my perspective, it was good that I not only understood the significance of my distress, I did something about it too.
At the time though, there was a stigma associated with people having such afflictions. This is exemplified by the reaction in 1972 to the revelation that vice-presidential candidate Thomas Eagleton (D), had a history of clinical depression - "More than a quarter of American adults suffer from a serious mental disorder. Yet mental illness is viewed by many as cause for shame and scandal, fear and fury — as George S. McGovern knows all too well."
Closer to home, when I told my mother that I had sought treatment, rather then being sympathetic, she was absolutely mortified. This reaction hint's as to why I was predisposed to depression in the first place ...
WHY AM I WRITING THIS
I feel that there are several reasons. Foremost is to figure out how I got to where I am today, to try and make some sense of all this. I never had what you'd call a goal, a direction in life, until I was 26. This was largely due to the necessity of having my mind focused on something other then the entity that had taken residence in my brain. No, I wasn't psychotic, but at this point I don't know any other way to describe what I experienced.
I feel that there are several reasons. Foremost is to figure out how I got to where I am today, to try and make some sense of all this. I never had what you'd call a goal, a direction in life, until I was 26. This was largely due to the necessity of having my mind focused on something other then the entity that had taken residence in my brain. No, I wasn't psychotic, but at this point I don't know any other way to describe what I experienced.
BRIEF TIMELINE
I started getting "the blues" at around age 15. This was interesting in a way: a sense of longing, emptiness that was curiously introspective.
Because of my home situation, I was totally unprepared for college. The result was a growing sense of helplessness and frustration.
I was unprepared for life. Around 1970, Jane and I started playing road gigs. Due to our gross naivety, we ended up trapped - slaves so to speak, in a band run by an unscrupulous manager. For a couple of years, we were paid just enough to sustain us, but not enough to save up so that we could move on.
To complicate matters, I started heavy drinking. Being a naive hippie, I was lured into the use of marijuana too.
I became so addicted that from age 23-25, i was high every waking moment. This addiction, combined with the stresses in my life, culminated in what I guess was a nervous breakdown.
At age 26 I sought psychiatric help, something I've continued on and off for the rest of my life. The other important decision was to pursue the study of jazz piano.
Ending the heavy drinking was easy. I just stopped. The marijuana was much harder due to the psychological hook, but by the late 1970s, I was free.
For the next 15 years or so, Jane and I pursue our music career. That all ended with her sciatic nerve injury in 1996, a life changing event for the both of us.
(to be continued)
I started getting "the blues" at around age 15. This was interesting in a way: a sense of longing, emptiness that was curiously introspective.
Because of my home situation, I was totally unprepared for college. The result was a growing sense of helplessness and frustration.
I was unprepared for life. Around 1970, Jane and I started playing road gigs. Due to our gross naivety, we ended up trapped - slaves so to speak, in a band run by an unscrupulous manager. For a couple of years, we were paid just enough to sustain us, but not enough to save up so that we could move on.
To complicate matters, I started heavy drinking. Being a naive hippie, I was lured into the use of marijuana too.
I became so addicted that from age 23-25, i was high every waking moment. This addiction, combined with the stresses in my life, culminated in what I guess was a nervous breakdown.
At age 26 I sought psychiatric help, something I've continued on and off for the rest of my life. The other important decision was to pursue the study of jazz piano.
Ending the heavy drinking was easy. I just stopped. The marijuana was much harder due to the psychological hook, but by the late 1970s, I was free.
For the next 15 years or so, Jane and I pursue our music career. That all ended with her sciatic nerve injury in 1996, a life changing event for the both of us.
(to be continued)
CHILDHOOD
Like some of the other entries, this kinda skips around. I feel part is due to the difficulty of reflecting on the incidents - one brings up another and so on. There's also the aspect of having what I can best described as a fractured memory. Though it may have been their earlier, I didn't start to notice problems until about the time Jane had her sciatic nerve injury around 1996-97. Our music career had come to an end in an instant. We both suffered emotionally. Other then losing her vocal abilities due to the weakening of her muscles, the most painful was the loss of many of her supposed friends. She no longer could write the monthly jazz column for Music Monthly Magazine, nor could she reign, like Sunpapers writer Kevin Brown wrote, as "Fell's Point's undisputed Jazz Queen."
- - - - - - - - - -
Well, I have a high IQ and a creative, vivid imagination, though of course I didn’t know that at the time. In fact, it wasn’t until around age 30, when I accidentally stumbled upon a Mensa convention while playing piano in the lounge of what was then the Hilton Hotel in downtown Baltimore that I fully began to appreciate what I naturally possessed.
I befriended some of the people and they suggested I apply. I mentioned that to the therapist I was seeing at the time and she arranged an evaluation for me. I was in the top 2%, which meant I qualified. In fact I got bonus points for completing some sections rather quickly.
The irony was that all throughout childhood, my parents treated me as if I were a dullard.
When I was about 9, my father tried to “teach” me chess. When I couldn’t grasp the concepts after just a few minutes, he walked away in disappointment.
When I got into building model car kits, my father brought this rather complicated wooden airplane kit and laid the blueprint out in front of me. I was clueless and again he walked away disappointed. I’ve seen a photo of him in his late teens/early 20’s, holding a completed model. Apparently he was a natural at it. I wasn’t. My gifts lie elsewhere :)
It didn’t help matters that as a way to make money, my parents would buy and move into a house, then fix it up and sell it at a profit. I attended eight different schools between the 1st and 12th grades.
The problems began when I went to parochial school in the 3rd and first ½ of the 4th grade. They were way ahead in the subjects of math and science, which I hadn’t even had yet in public schools. While I got high marks in deportment and effort, I’d always get failing grades in math and science. That fact that the Monsignor read everybody’s grade out in front of the class didn’t help matters. And of course, my parents always blamed me, never understanding that I was at a disadvantage from the get-go :(
My mother once told me that the only way I’d be successful in life was to get a job at a factory.
As for getting help with studying, my father would get so upset at what he saw as my apparent inability to learn, that my mother would keep me away from him when he got home from work, though she herself made no effort either.
She wasn’t completely indifferent to the situation, but apparently felt she couldn’t do anything about it.
However, ahe was also ashamed that I was a bit shorter then average and a “Skinny Minnie,” as she would sometimes yell at me. In fact, it was this specific perception of myself as somehow being physically deficient (though I was very active in sports until I went away to college) that lead to my first break though in therapy.
I made a comment saying I was “small for my size.” He seized right upon it saying, “How can you be ‘small’ for your size?” That sent literal thunderbolts through my mind, as I immediately understood what he was getting at. I was on the long road towards “recovery.”
I had my first experience with physical pain around age 5, when my mom had several of my baby teeth pulled, telling the dentist not to use any pain killers, as a way for her to save money. She honestly thought I wouldn’t remember it, as I grew older.
I once told her I had memories of a house we used to live in on Battle Grove Road, telling her distinctly what it looked like, and how I used to go wading, being that the property sat on a water front. Her somewhat astonished reply was that I couldn’t possibly remember that, as I was far too young – HAH! These are actually my earliest memories from childhood, probably age 3-4.
My father was the source of all the other physical abuse. The slightest provocation would offend him. At times I’d be accused of things that never occurred. It was no use trying to argue with him, because that’d make his self-righteous anger even worse.
Besides a beating, he’d sometimes pull my ear so hard it would bleed, plus there was his yelling and screaming. He’d also repeat this behavior several times.
I thought about maybe running away, but there were no social services in existence at the time. I could see my self getting caught and after being returned home, the abuse would be even worse.
The beatings got worse as I got to be a teenager. The thing was that I was never a troublemaker in school, or a bad kid in the neighborhood.
The beatings became so frequent and severe that I once hid an ice pick in my bed as a way of defense. My father spotted it, and that actually calmed him down for the moment, but soon he was back to his ways.
I once asked my mother why was he so mean. She said that’s because that was the way his father was and I was going to be the same! Hearing that eventually made me decide not to have children when I grew up. I didn’t want to pass the curse onto another generation.
<><><>
Bob Fields
Studying
Secret service.
Studying / grades
“Lunkhead”
Fatten your lip
Blacken your eye
You just wait
<><><><><><>
Escape from father
--- nightmares
--- going away to college
--- going on the road.
Like some of the other entries, this kinda skips around. I feel part is due to the difficulty of reflecting on the incidents - one brings up another and so on. There's also the aspect of having what I can best described as a fractured memory. Though it may have been their earlier, I didn't start to notice problems until about the time Jane had her sciatic nerve injury around 1996-97. Our music career had come to an end in an instant. We both suffered emotionally. Other then losing her vocal abilities due to the weakening of her muscles, the most painful was the loss of many of her supposed friends. She no longer could write the monthly jazz column for Music Monthly Magazine, nor could she reign, like Sunpapers writer Kevin Brown wrote, as "Fell's Point's undisputed Jazz Queen."
- - - - - - - - - -
Well, I have a high IQ and a creative, vivid imagination, though of course I didn’t know that at the time. In fact, it wasn’t until around age 30, when I accidentally stumbled upon a Mensa convention while playing piano in the lounge of what was then the Hilton Hotel in downtown Baltimore that I fully began to appreciate what I naturally possessed.
I befriended some of the people and they suggested I apply. I mentioned that to the therapist I was seeing at the time and she arranged an evaluation for me. I was in the top 2%, which meant I qualified. In fact I got bonus points for completing some sections rather quickly.
The irony was that all throughout childhood, my parents treated me as if I were a dullard.
When I was about 9, my father tried to “teach” me chess. When I couldn’t grasp the concepts after just a few minutes, he walked away in disappointment.
When I got into building model car kits, my father brought this rather complicated wooden airplane kit and laid the blueprint out in front of me. I was clueless and again he walked away disappointed. I’ve seen a photo of him in his late teens/early 20’s, holding a completed model. Apparently he was a natural at it. I wasn’t. My gifts lie elsewhere :)
It didn’t help matters that as a way to make money, my parents would buy and move into a house, then fix it up and sell it at a profit. I attended eight different schools between the 1st and 12th grades.
The problems began when I went to parochial school in the 3rd and first ½ of the 4th grade. They were way ahead in the subjects of math and science, which I hadn’t even had yet in public schools. While I got high marks in deportment and effort, I’d always get failing grades in math and science. That fact that the Monsignor read everybody’s grade out in front of the class didn’t help matters. And of course, my parents always blamed me, never understanding that I was at a disadvantage from the get-go :(
My mother once told me that the only way I’d be successful in life was to get a job at a factory.
As for getting help with studying, my father would get so upset at what he saw as my apparent inability to learn, that my mother would keep me away from him when he got home from work, though she herself made no effort either.
She wasn’t completely indifferent to the situation, but apparently felt she couldn’t do anything about it.
However, ahe was also ashamed that I was a bit shorter then average and a “Skinny Minnie,” as she would sometimes yell at me. In fact, it was this specific perception of myself as somehow being physically deficient (though I was very active in sports until I went away to college) that lead to my first break though in therapy.
I made a comment saying I was “small for my size.” He seized right upon it saying, “How can you be ‘small’ for your size?” That sent literal thunderbolts through my mind, as I immediately understood what he was getting at. I was on the long road towards “recovery.”
I had my first experience with physical pain around age 5, when my mom had several of my baby teeth pulled, telling the dentist not to use any pain killers, as a way for her to save money. She honestly thought I wouldn’t remember it, as I grew older.
I once told her I had memories of a house we used to live in on Battle Grove Road, telling her distinctly what it looked like, and how I used to go wading, being that the property sat on a water front. Her somewhat astonished reply was that I couldn’t possibly remember that, as I was far too young – HAH! These are actually my earliest memories from childhood, probably age 3-4.
My father was the source of all the other physical abuse. The slightest provocation would offend him. At times I’d be accused of things that never occurred. It was no use trying to argue with him, because that’d make his self-righteous anger even worse.
Besides a beating, he’d sometimes pull my ear so hard it would bleed, plus there was his yelling and screaming. He’d also repeat this behavior several times.
I thought about maybe running away, but there were no social services in existence at the time. I could see my self getting caught and after being returned home, the abuse would be even worse.
The beatings got worse as I got to be a teenager. The thing was that I was never a troublemaker in school, or a bad kid in the neighborhood.
The beatings became so frequent and severe that I once hid an ice pick in my bed as a way of defense. My father spotted it, and that actually calmed him down for the moment, but soon he was back to his ways.
I once asked my mother why was he so mean. She said that’s because that was the way his father was and I was going to be the same! Hearing that eventually made me decide not to have children when I grew up. I didn’t want to pass the curse onto another generation.
<><><>
Bob Fields
Studying
Secret service.
Studying / grades
“Lunkhead”
Fatten your lip
Blacken your eye
You just wait
<><><><><><>
Escape from father
--- nightmares
--- going away to college
--- going on the road.
By the late 1990's, I'd been dealing with depression for over 25 years.
Jane's life had changed dramatically due to her sciatic nerve injury. Though she eventually acquired a whole new group of friends, she felt hurt and harbored bitterness at those who's friendship vanished when she was no longer able to perform as a jazz vocalist, or function as a columnist for Music Monthly Magazine.
It was around this time I started taking Prozac, a few years later, I moved onto Effexor XR.
I had created visual art starting in the 1970's as a way to express and possibly come to terms with what I was experiencing. Some were actually interesting. Over time, these changed from paintings to pen & ink drawings. By the late '90s, these were hardly more then an occasional angular scrawl, eventually stopping entirely.
While I didn't stop composing, two of the works, presented at Baltimore Composers Forum concerts,
Tales of the Orobus, and The Apostate and the Apprentice, were rather dark.
Jane's life had changed dramatically due to her sciatic nerve injury. Though she eventually acquired a whole new group of friends, she felt hurt and harbored bitterness at those who's friendship vanished when she was no longer able to perform as a jazz vocalist, or function as a columnist for Music Monthly Magazine.
It was around this time I started taking Prozac, a few years later, I moved onto Effexor XR.
I had created visual art starting in the 1970's as a way to express and possibly come to terms with what I was experiencing. Some were actually interesting. Over time, these changed from paintings to pen & ink drawings. By the late '90s, these were hardly more then an occasional angular scrawl, eventually stopping entirely.
While I didn't stop composing, two of the works, presented at Baltimore Composers Forum concerts,
Tales of the Orobus, and The Apostate and the Apprentice, were rather dark.
Dodging Another Bullet
People who struggle with chronic depression already know that that they are pathetic, worthless losers. For me, even with all the anti-depressants, that darkness is always lurking nearby, waiting for something to render all those years of therapy into nothingness.
Yesterday was one of those days. The only reason I’m writing now is that I was able to eventually convince myself that I needed to go on and continue developing my websites. I still have a long way.
In my effort to counter being raised a physically and emotionally battered child, I’ve produced innumerable visual and music work: The visual as a way of understanding and coming to terms with the agony: The music as something to grasp on to, to give purpose to my life.
I would have hoped with all the effort I’ve put in over the years, there would have been some acknowledgement by the “arts” community, but that is not to be.
The reason became all to clear last year at a Maryland State Arts Council sponsored meeting, where a representative of Baltimore Promotion and the Arts told me, in front of the audience, that what I represented wasn’t “popular” enough. This is from an organization that is supposed to support the arts.
It had been my understanding that the National Endowment for the Arts was formed to give real artists a hand up over commercial ventures, but that’s obviously is not true.
I’m sure the Maryland State Arts Council really believes it when they tout “Excellence” in the Arts, “Building Community,” and establishing legacies. For me, all those claims are meaningless.
So getting back to the beginning of this post, it’s up to me and me alone to establish my legacy, and so long as I do, I have a reason to live.
September 19, 2014 3:00am
People who struggle with chronic depression already know that that they are pathetic, worthless losers. For me, even with all the anti-depressants, that darkness is always lurking nearby, waiting for something to render all those years of therapy into nothingness.
Yesterday was one of those days. The only reason I’m writing now is that I was able to eventually convince myself that I needed to go on and continue developing my websites. I still have a long way.
In my effort to counter being raised a physically and emotionally battered child, I’ve produced innumerable visual and music work: The visual as a way of understanding and coming to terms with the agony: The music as something to grasp on to, to give purpose to my life.
I would have hoped with all the effort I’ve put in over the years, there would have been some acknowledgement by the “arts” community, but that is not to be.
The reason became all to clear last year at a Maryland State Arts Council sponsored meeting, where a representative of Baltimore Promotion and the Arts told me, in front of the audience, that what I represented wasn’t “popular” enough. This is from an organization that is supposed to support the arts.
It had been my understanding that the National Endowment for the Arts was formed to give real artists a hand up over commercial ventures, but that’s obviously is not true.
I’m sure the Maryland State Arts Council really believes it when they tout “Excellence” in the Arts, “Building Community,” and establishing legacies. For me, all those claims are meaningless.
So getting back to the beginning of this post, it’s up to me and me alone to establish my legacy, and so long as I do, I have a reason to live.
September 19, 2014 3:00am
Have I made mistakes? Have I made bad decisions? Do I have bad habits? Yes, yes, yes, and yes – but who hasn’t?
There are people that see you in a moment of weakness, and they think they know who you are, and judge you, not realizing the hell you are going through.
The best thing I’ve done is to not be like my parents. It wasn’t easy though. Even before grade school, I was aware of their bigotry. At age 14, I vowed not to be like them, but even so, the hatred and abuse were so ingrained, that it’s taken 40-some years of therapy to shake the shackles.
Just to clarify, my childhood wasn’t all bad. It’s just that the incidents had such a profoundly negative effect. I now realize the signs of depression started showing up around age 13. It wasn’t until I went away to college though, that the negative impact started showing, like sinister time bombs meant to catch the unwary.
September 19, 2014 2:20pm
There are people that see you in a moment of weakness, and they think they know who you are, and judge you, not realizing the hell you are going through.
The best thing I’ve done is to not be like my parents. It wasn’t easy though. Even before grade school, I was aware of their bigotry. At age 14, I vowed not to be like them, but even so, the hatred and abuse were so ingrained, that it’s taken 40-some years of therapy to shake the shackles.
Just to clarify, my childhood wasn’t all bad. It’s just that the incidents had such a profoundly negative effect. I now realize the signs of depression started showing up around age 13. It wasn’t until I went away to college though, that the negative impact started showing, like sinister time bombs meant to catch the unwary.
September 19, 2014 2:20pm
"It's your brain screwing with you."
In my case, I think there might have been multiple factors. Growing up hearing that you're nothing but a failure doesn't lend itself to one functioning well as an adult - things like my mother saying the only way I'd be a success in life would be to get a job in a factory, or that I wasn't good enough for my wife-to-be.
Then the physical punishment for no apparent reason; I was just your typical kid - not a troublemaker in school, never picked fights, never was a delinquent, yet I never knew when I’d be subject to my father’s wrath.
It wasn’t until years later that I really began to understand that he too might have suffered a mental affliction that caused him to act that way he did. In 2007, I went through a number of old family photo albums, noticing that there were very few pictures where he appeared to be happy.
I remember my mother telling me he acted that way because of the way his father treated him, and that I’d be the same way. But what it really meant though was that my grandfather had been treated that way by his father, and so long back down the line to who knows when.
My knowledge of psychiatry isn’t sufficient enough to determine whether it was solely a cycle of destructive behavior being passed through generations, or if a genetic chemical imbalance was responsible. I suspect it was an interaction of both.
It didn’t help that I was seduced by the lure of drugs, and by age 23 was addicted to marijuana, having a mental breakdown at 25. Perhaps it would have happened anyway. I’ve read medical research saying that if you’re pre-disposed to mental illness, smoking pot is a sure-fire way to make it happen.
September 22, 2014
In my case, I think there might have been multiple factors. Growing up hearing that you're nothing but a failure doesn't lend itself to one functioning well as an adult - things like my mother saying the only way I'd be a success in life would be to get a job in a factory, or that I wasn't good enough for my wife-to-be.
Then the physical punishment for no apparent reason; I was just your typical kid - not a troublemaker in school, never picked fights, never was a delinquent, yet I never knew when I’d be subject to my father’s wrath.
It wasn’t until years later that I really began to understand that he too might have suffered a mental affliction that caused him to act that way he did. In 2007, I went through a number of old family photo albums, noticing that there were very few pictures where he appeared to be happy.
I remember my mother telling me he acted that way because of the way his father treated him, and that I’d be the same way. But what it really meant though was that my grandfather had been treated that way by his father, and so long back down the line to who knows when.
My knowledge of psychiatry isn’t sufficient enough to determine whether it was solely a cycle of destructive behavior being passed through generations, or if a genetic chemical imbalance was responsible. I suspect it was an interaction of both.
It didn’t help that I was seduced by the lure of drugs, and by age 23 was addicted to marijuana, having a mental breakdown at 25. Perhaps it would have happened anyway. I’ve read medical research saying that if you’re pre-disposed to mental illness, smoking pot is a sure-fire way to make it happen.
September 22, 2014