Depression And The Path Not Taken

Posted on January 16, 2015 by Lorne Jaffe

I nearly had a massive panic attack upon viewing Ava DuVernay’s Selma last week, but it’s not for reasons you might think. It wasn’t DuVernay’s masterful direction especially during the “Bloody Sunday” sequence or David Oyelowo’s gripping portrayal of Martin Luther King, Jr. or the film’s heady and timely content. It was a name that scrolled by during the credits, a simple name that squeezed out my breath sending me stumbling out of the darkened theater and into 1995, the year of my biggest regret.

The name, let’s call her “Joan Morrison,” appeared next to the title “Unit Publicist.” Back in 1995 Joan was a secretary at a publicity firm at which I interned leading to the ONLY positive work experience in my life. Unlike other companies, this particular firm rewarded its interns for their hard work with knowledge and professional benefits. I’d sit for days happily stuffing envelopes until my hands blackened with ink because I knew that around the corner something special would happen – working a press junket for a film and learning exactly how they worked; getting to sit next to Steve Buscemi at lunch and talking to him about his then upcoming directorial debut; working the red carpet for a film’s premiere; sitting in the VIP section with Catherine Keener as the bass pumped and colored lights swirled at the party following a movie screening. The rewards didn’t even have to be that amazing. They could be nuggets into the business’ inner workings, advice on how to succeed in the industry. I treasured every prize I earned and worked harder than I ever did in my life. I loved everyone with whom I worked. There was no tension, no drama, no games. And because of my hard work I received a job offer at the end of my internship, the chance to be a personal secretary for one of the firm’s higher-ups. I held in my hands a golden ticket, an opportunity to work for a company I knew loved to promote from within, one that nurtured and respected me as an intern. And I turned it down. I turned it down because I was 21 and still had a year of college left. I turned it down because I intensely feared my parents’ disapproval. I let them, without them knowing, choose my life’s path. A few years after I turned the job offer down, Joan was promoted to Vice President of Publicity for the entire east coast. Meanwhile, during an awful senior year within which I struggled to concentrate and suddenly found myself lost and near-paralyzed while writing class papers, I suffered my first panic attack.

In a moment of irony, the film’s inspirational theme song “Glory” by Common and John Legend eased from the emptying theater’s speakers as I wobbled towards a wall and slid down until I sat on ugly red carpeting amongst spilled popcorn next to a huge cardboard cutout advertising The Second Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. Heart pounding, my forehead beading sweat, I took out my phone and frantically Googled information on Joan Morrison’s rise as a Peter Jackson-esque battle raged through my head.

That could have been me! That SHOULD have been me!

You never would have met Elaine. You never would have had Sienna. You have the loves of your life.

I could have been famous! I could have been the golden child of the family instead of the black sheep!

You’re NOT the black sheep! This is just where you go!

I am! I failed at work! I’m a failure!

YOU HAVE A BRILLIANT AND BEAUTIFUL AND HEALTHY DAUGHTER AND AN INCREDIBLE WIFE! SHUT THE HELL UP!

My life could have been so different! I could have been a success! I could have had money! I could have been someone!

My shaky fingers scrolled through article after article: a picture of Joan wearing sunglasses on the steps of the Alabama capital building head turned slightly away from the lens preventing me from making a positive ID; Joan and another important woman mentioned in Variety; Joan’s official job title – Vice President of Publicity for Paramount Pictures.

Put away your phone and get up! GET UP!

I turned off my phone and clung to the banister weaving slightly down the stairs. A blast of sharp wind smacked my face as I opened the outside door. A car honked at me in the parking lot because I failed to look both ways. I found my car, got in and sat breathing shallowly with my arms and head on the steering wheel.

I could have been Joan. I could have been Joan. I could have been Joan.

Every so often I regret turning down the job and wonder, but here I was feeling the full weight of my life’s biggest crossroads almost 20 years later just because I saw a name scroll by amongst hundreds of others. Miraculously I made it home without causing a 12 car pileup.

Work remains my biggest trigger, the biggest force behind my depression and anxiety. Growing up work was a touchy subject in my family; to me it hovered over everything like a pesticide. I associated my father not with love and family, but with work, with suits and ties (he is no longer like this). I associated my grandfather handshakes, short conversations and work. As each grandchild graduated it seemed to me we were measured by our jobs and salaries. Before my 2nd nervous breakdown in 2010, my core belief was that work equaled identity and that I’d failed in the eyes of my family, especially my father and grandmother. I’d been a lowly secretary for nearly ten years with no hope for upward mobility. Each day I’d scroll through employment ads but my chest would fill to bursting and I’d have to turn to something else. I was that anxious. That scared. That depressed. I despised myself and fell deeper into the abyss with each passing day. Nothing else mattered or if it did (such as marrying the love of my life) despair quickly gobbled it up.

When I got home I immediately grabbed the computer and continued searching for Joan. I found an old Twitter address and sent her a message, but Elaine forced my laptop shut when I told her what I was doing and why.

“It might have been a different Joan,” she said logically. “There are probably tons of Joan Morrisons.”

“The odds of that are near impossible,” I stubbornly countered.

“Even if you had taken that path you don’t know if you would have made it. You can’t predict that your issues wouldn’t have gotten in the way. And you wouldn’t have me or Sienna.”

That much is true, but I couldn’t help to not just imagine, but glorify the path not taken. Of course I would have made it because history proved that that internship was the only enlightening, humanizing work environment I ever experienced – I kept in touch with my former employers through college and when I told them that I’d be traveling through Europe upon graduation, for instance, they hooked me up with a short job at the Cannes Film Festival and gave me tickets to MTV’s enormous gala (for those wondering, the firm did not have any openings when I graduated and the ensuing internships I took were horrible, soul-sucking experiences). Clearly I would have thrived at work meaning no work trigger, no depression, no anxiety. In my head which always extracts the negative from any situation, I convinced myself that none of the issues I experienced during childhood nor my predisposition to depression or the whacked out brain chemical imbalance I have would have reared their ugly heads in my perfect life. Rather, I would have followed what was then a passion and what now alludes me creativity- and work-wise; the passions that are Elaine and Sienna stood right in front of me as I tore myself apart imagining what surely would have been my sublimely accomplished and lucrative life, but I couldn’t see them.

Most depression sufferers do this. When languishing through an episode we can’t see anything but our own twisted minds. We aggrandize the what ifs, the things we don’t have, the choices not made, the paths not taken, at the expense of the positive people, events and choices in our lives. We also refuse to deal with reality or grow because we’re afraid of getting the tiniest bit more hurt than we already are.

Facts:

I am alive
I’m married to a wonderful, intelligent, funny, gorgeous woman who loves me because I’m me; next year is our 10th anniversary
I have a beautiful near 3-year-old daughter who loves life. learning and spouting out 80s catchphrases

My beautiful Sienna

I’ve never had a better relationship with my family including pre-1995; my parents often tell me how proud they are; my sister and I went from no relationship to a great one
I’ve held true to my beliefs in being loyal, kind and considerate and have the same best friends now at near 41 that I did in elementary school
I hold a master’s in media ecology from NYU and bachelor’s in English from the University of Michigan
I am a proud stay-at-home dad
I’ve delivered a speech about depression and fatherhood in front of hundreds of people, I’m published in a critically acclaimed book, appeared on numerous podcasts and I’ve found my place in a community of dads and writers I value beyond words
I may not be growing by the leaps and bounds my mind demands, but I am growing each and every day

Reliving “The Decision” (sorry LeBron James…my decision came long before yours) wreaked havoc on my weekend leaving me splayed on the couch like soft boiled cabbage, eyelids fluttering to stay open, my concerned daughter asking me if I’m “awake” (meaning “okay”). One name appearing on screen during Selma‘s credit roll took me back to the crossroads of 1995 as quickly as Marty McFly’s DeLoreon causing a near panic attack and another bout with depression, but the truth is it was just another trigger. I’ll never know what would have happened if I’d taken that job, but I can’t change the past. All I can do is try not to be so negative about it and instead concentrate on what my life is now – the passions that are my wife and daughter; growing my blog and improving my writing; learning how not to be so afraid. Who knows what’s around the corner?

What are your biggest regrets and how do you prevent them from overwhelming you?

The Fault In My Stars

Posted on July 2, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

I watched The Fault in Our Stars last night and then couldn’t fall asleep until the morning’s wee hours. Not because the movie got to me. I’m always able to distance myself from film, television and literature and found, well, faults in the cinematic adaptation of John Green’s terrific novel. While the movie opens with a voiceover of Hazel Grace Lancaster (Shailene Woodley in yet another wonderful performance) telling us cancer is real and unpolished, not like what we see in theaters, the movie ironically lacks that authenticity and instead feels glossy and melodramatic despite great acting. I blame the score and part of the script, but I digress.

Yet my mind spun all night. I’m not a hypochondriac, but I’m the type of person who feels an ache and immediately thinks cancer, like I’m just waiting for that bombshell. I tried to imagine what it would be like to be a parent of a dying child, but I couldn’t. I’m unable to do hypotheticals. I’m unable to invent feelings. I feel what I feel when I feel it even if it’s irrational or circumspect or all out wrong. It’s something my therapist and I argue about on a consistent basis. She asks me to imagine being happy, but I don’t know how to do that. So I couldn’t conjure up what a parent of a child with cancer might endure just as I’m unable to picture myself losing an arm in a shark attack. But I could put words to it: devastation, heartbreak, fear, loss, agony, self-pity, rage.

And that made me think of Oren Miller, the founder of the Facebook Dad Bloggers site, the man known as a Blogger and a Father, and the person who by welcoming me into the group as a writer and friend somehow changed the course of my life. Oren went into the hospital for back pain, what he thought was a muscle strain. It’s something we all experience at one time or another. Some weird pain that won’t go away. Some don’t worry. Others like me automatically think cancer! I don’t know what Oren thought when he went to the hospital for his mysterious pain, but I’m sure he didn’t envision a diagnosis of stage 4 lung cancer and a prognosis of maybe a year left to be with his wife and two kids and friends and pets and trees and beauty and sadness and the world that he’s known all his life. How can you predict that even if you’re like me and expect the worst?

In what can only be described as gorgeous, Oren laid bare his soul about the horrors he’s facing, the positive attitude he’s taking (or trying to take), the epiphany he had 4 years prior about being so worried and annoyed and uncomfortable that he didn’t realize he was having the time of his life. Read his words. Are they beautiful? Heart-wrenching? There’s no doubt they are and the dad blogger community came out in droves to support him. Brent Almond of Designer Daddy started a fundraiser with the meager goal of raising $5,000 which was blown away in a matter of hours. Weeks later more than $30,000 is there for the Millers and a new goal of $35,000 has been set. I have no doubt it will be surpassed. More than 40 dads blogged about Oren, his leadership, his friendship, his fight. I did so myself. John Kinnear of Ask Your Dad Blog wrote about Oren and the fundraiser for Lifetime Moms. Carter Gaddis of Dadscribe covered us dads rallying around Oren for Today.com. Even the Chicago Tribune profiled our rally and Oren’s fight. Men left and right shed tears as words poured from our hearts onto the screen.

But still…

I can’t imagine what Oren’s going through. What is it like to be 40ish, have a beautiful wife, 2 amazing children, a dream house and be told that cancer’s eating you alive so quickly that you might have one year left on this planet? Is there something wrong with me that I’m unable to feel what my good friend Oren is feeling? Does it mean I can’t empathize?

This is what kept me up last night. I lay in bed in darkness, at times feeling Elaine’s body heat when she rolled close to me or I close to her, trying to imagine those words: “You have a year to live.” Trying to imagine the ravaging mental and physical pain. Trying to feel. How would I react if got such news? Would I shatter like stained glass dropped from a rooftop? Would I put on a brave face and walk into battle, head held high. Would I sit alone in a room, shunning my loved ones as my father’s late friend did when he learned he had cancer? I don’t have a clue. I don’t have answers. And I feel like an awful person because of it.

I love Oren. I’ve met him once in person, but I love him because his friendship opened up a world of possibilities to me. And I’m scared for him, for his family, for myself. I want to run down to Baltimore and be with him. I want to cry, but no tears come because I can’t imagine what Oren’s life is now like.

I tossed and turned trying to envision myself hearing that Sienna might die from cancer, that I’m suddenly thrown into a world of chaos, machines, life support, chemo, pain, pain, excruciating pain. I can say the words, but I can’t feel them. Does it make me a bad person that I can’t answer the hypotheticals? That I can’t see beyond my own damn eyes? That my brain, my selfishly depressed mind, can’t see past my own irrationally fractured stars?

And that I can’t even imagine hypothetical happiness outside of empty words and phrases?

My therapist would say that I’ve only reinforced my negativity throughout this post with words like “can’t” but I’m not sure how else to ask these questions and demonstrate what I am, who I am…currently.

The Fault in Our Stars wanted to show cancer unblemished by Hollywood. The book succeeded, in my opinion. The movie failed.

Oren Miller isn’t living a movie or a book. He’s living his life. His real life. His real life with stage 4 lung cancer that’s spread to his brain. He’s fighting a real battle.

And as much as I want to, I can’t visualize it or feel what it’s like.

What does that say about me?

A Groundbreakering Dad Blogger Needs Our Help

Posted on June 24, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

Oren Miller, Dad Blogger extraordinaire, needs our help

I started blogging about raising Sienna while battling depression and anxiety just over a year ago. In that time my relationships with my parents and sister have improved. My depression and anxiety have lessened somewhat, though they still make appearances. I’ve spoken in front of 200+ people at the 2014 Dad 2.0 Summit in New Orleans about my depression and received a shocking standing ovation. I’ve seen my work published on The Huffington Post, The Good Men Project, and WhatToExpect.com amongst others. I’ve even been published in a book: Dads Behaving Dadly: 67 Truths, Tears and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood. And the fact is, none of this would have happened had Oren Miller aka A Blogger and a Father and the founder of the Facebook Dad Bloggers group, not graciously invited me in and urged me on.

It was a fight for me to put myself out there, but it’s nothing like the fight Oren’s facing right now as he was recently diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. So us dad bloggers have rallied around one of our leaders, one of our own. One dad blogger set up a fundraising site on GiveForward with the goal of raising $5,000. Within days it has surpassed $20,000. But $20,000 can only go so far towards medical bills and taking care of Oren and his family. We need more. I’ve given as much as I can and I hope others will be willing to do the same.

Too many of us, including myself, are bystanders when it comes to things like this. We see fundraising pages and we click on by…until we’re suddenly in the position of NEEDING a fundraising page. I won’t do that with Oren because magic happens when you stop being a bystander. If I give, as I did, and then I write this post which causes someone else to give and/or share the post, we could create a snowball effect and the amount we can raise for Oren or someone else in a similar situation can snowball.

Oren hates being in this situation. It’s not easy for him to ask for help. It’s not easy for any of us to do so. But it’s time. He needs our help. A good friend of mine, a person who changed my life in significant and astounding ways, needs our help. Join in the snowball. Help make it grow to the point where it could fill the Grand Canyon.

Oren Miller needs our help.

Depression Hits During A Father’s Day Week of Success, Envy, Pride and Guilt

Posted on June 11, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

I held the book in my hands and turned to the table of contents. My name in black and white. Twice. “I’m published!” I thought. “I’m really published!” A little electric jolt awoke my stomach’s butterflies. But lurking beneath the jolt like a cancerous cell was envy and self-flagellation and the irrational side of my brain yelled, “So what? You’re not on The Today Show! You’re not on Good Morning America! This is nothing! You’re nothing! You’ll never reach that pinnacle!” What exactly is that pinnacle? I have no idea. But my depressive brain seems to know or at least claims to. The butterflies fell ill, calcified, settled in my chest and belly like stones.

It didn’t matter that the same day I saw my stories printed in Dads Behaving Dadly: 67 Truths, Tears and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood (available at Amazon and Barnes & Noble), I debuted on WhatToExpect.com with a paid story about the first time it hit me I was a dad and was listed on Mike Reynolds’ awesome site Puzzlingposts.com as an important dad blogger to read. It still wasn’t good enough because I still haven’t hit Huffington Post or appeared in a commercial or sat next to George Stephanopoulos on a talk show set.

I held my book and despaired and screamed at myself to “STOP!” I pinched myself hard enough to leave a welt.

This is such an important week. For the first time I can recall, fathers are being celebrated across the country in a way they never were before. Dove Men+Care debuted a tearjerker of a commercial showing dads as real, significant, beloved, responsible people:

Today Moms changed its name to Today Parents. My friends and fellow dad bloggers attended the first ever summit on working dads at the White House. Friends and fellow dad bloggers, people who have been so kind and supportive to me, have appeared and will continue to be featured on The Today Show and Good Morning America throughout the week. A great friend nabbed a job writing for Time.com. Friends and fellow dad bloggers took park in huge brand campaigns about the changing views on fatherhood. Andy Hinds wrote about how 2014 is the Year of the Dad. And I’m so happy for them. I’m so proud of them. And I feel so damn envious that I’m NOT them. And coupled with that envy is this corrosive guilt, something my therapist constantly reminds me serves no purpose except as ridiculous self-castigation.

I’ve been blogging for less than a year. In that time I’ve created some sort of presence in the dad blogger community that I don’t understand because I feel my work sucks. I’ve spoken at the 2014 Dad 2.0 Summit. I’ve seen my writing appear on The Good Men Project and at the National At-Home Dad Network. I’ve been on the Life of Dad podcast and the NYC Dads Group podcast. The NYC Dads Group blog has shared my blogs as well as original work for their site. And each time something happens I feel that jolt of pride and joy followed almost immediately by that acidic, destructive jealousy and shame.

My brain, my ludicrous, hateful, powerful brain refuses to let me enjoy these successes and realize that having near 290 Facebook likes just weeks after launching my Raising Sienna FB site and near 270 Twitter followers is enormous, that it took some dad bloggers years to reach those numbers, because I’m too busy comparing myself to those dad bloggers with 95k likes. I’m too busy measuring myself up against the “big boys,” the ones that have sweated and worked for 3, 5, 7, 10 years to reach the levels they’re at. I’m too busy telling myself I’m not good enough because I’m not them.

I become obsessed with symbols, be it getting on a big website or television show or having a former teacher promote my work on her site or be picked to participate in a big campaign. Right now that symbol is getting on Huffington Post. Nothing compares to getting my work on HuffPo. I’m desperate to get on the site and each time I see a friend of mine share one of their HuffPo pieces, I’m so proud of them and so so covetous. I’m also extremely thankful to my fellow dad bloggers for lobbying HuffPo to print my work and because I’m so jealous, I don’t think I’m deserving of their kindness. But regardless, the point is that should I somehow reach the HuffPo level, I’ll feel that similar jolt of excitement and then it will be buried by whatever becomes the next symbol. I’m as yet unable to enjoy the present, the gifts I’ve received, the things I’ve accomplished. That’s what depression can do. That’s how strong and insidious this disease is.

I’m working so hard to get out of this treacherous, sickening mindset. I scream at myself. I physically slap or pinch myself to bring me back to rationality, but so far the irrational side of my brain is as imposing as the 700 foot ice wall from Game of Thrones and seemingly just as punishing to conquer.

But I’m not giving up. I REFUSE to give up. I’ll continue to go to therapy. I’ll continue my regiment of meds. And one day I’ll climb that wall. One day I’ll be able to look back at all the things I’ve done as successes instead of thinking about all of the things I haven’t done. One day I’ll be able to hold my next book and enjoy it for more than a few minutes. I’ll bask in my triumphs for days, weeks, months, years. The present will hold deep meaning. And I’ll no longer covet my friends’ feats thus eliminating that horrible guilt from my life. I’ll virtually jump up and down with them and revel in their accomplishments. One day there will be no despair. Nothing but pride and happiness.

One day.

Now I’m off to go sign Dads Behaving Dadly for my parents.

The Real Lesson of Dad 2.0

Posted on April 8, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

Dad 2.0 co-founder, Doug French, speaks at the 2014 conference

On March 31, 2014, I tried to write a recap of my experiences at the Dad 2.0 Summit. I’d already written about at the conference, about how reading my blog about having depression in front of 250 people challenged my defenses, but I had stories to tell, pictures to post, impressions of New Orleans to express. My second Dad 2.0 recap had been on my mind since arriving home back in February, and at the end of March I decided I’d procrastinated long enough.

All I wanted to do was post pictures, tell a funny anecdote or two, and write about my overall wonderment during the weekend. It didn’t need to be a linear narrative. It didn’t need to have a moral or underlying theme. But as I wrote I realized I was falling into the trap of feeling like I had to write everything from start to finish and as the minutes and then hours ticked by I became more and more anxious – heart racing, chest filling with granite, tremors infiltrating my fingers, mind simply out of control with hateful thoughts about myself. So I posted on the Dad Bloggers Facebook page:

“Am trying to blog. Am failing to blog. Too much pressure to blog. Trying to do a second recap of Dad 2.0 but can’t figure out how. I don’t think I can be as poetic as so many of you. I have lots of pics and some stories and impressions, but everything feels jumbled and forced. Writing feels jumbled and forced lately. I hate this! I hate feeling like I’m in competition with all of you wonderful writers! I hate that I do this to myself! I hate that this is where I go! I HATE IT!”

Fury. Self-hatred. Envy.

That’s what circled through my addled brain. Immediately people responded telling me to to breathe (I couldn’t). Telling me to hug Sienna (I couldn’t). Telling me that this is normal, that all writers go through this. My narcissistic depressed mind refuted everything and instead doubled, tripled, quadrupled the attack. I shook as I posted this:

“I can’t take this. I’m no damn good. You guys are so prolific and so smart and so poetic and so genius and introspective and observant and it seems (SEEMS) that it comes so easy to you and I’m probably being irrational and I’m getting caught in that web I weave and I need help because I can’t breathe because I’ve sat here trying to write this stupid blog for 2 hours and it’s awful”

Fury. Self-hatred. Envy. Guilt.

More responses. Dads bloggers telling me they knew how I felt in regards to not being able to write. Dad bloggers telling me my reading at Dad 2.0 was amazing, inspirational, wonderful, brave. Dad bloggers telling to get away, get out, take advantage of the nice weather to help break out of this funk. Dad bloggers telling me that writing is subjective and nothing is perfect, that even someone famous like Jane Austen had a hater in Mark Twain. Someone asked if anyone was home with me which signaled worry about myself and Sienna. MY…BRAIN…WOULD…NOT…STOP! I posted again:

“no, it’s just me. I’m still recovering my an ear infection and Sienna’s still sick. I’m just so upset. I’ve thinking about this blog for 2 months. I got my pictures set up and I was all like, I’m just gonna throw out random observations and pics and thoughts and instead I’m getting bogged down in describing the conference from beginning to end. I tried to look at other people’s recaps and that got me on to the comparison game again. I recapped my experience speaking, but there was a bunch more I wanted to say. Maybe I should just forget it. I have like 5 ideas, but I’m getting so stressed because I keep comparing myself to all of the group members going viral and a bunch of people who write brilliant stuff almost every day and I can’t stop and I just hate myself so damn much! I can’t stop hating myself! Why do I hate myself so much?”

FURY. SELF-HATRED. ENVY. GUILT. FURY. SELF-HATRED. ENVY. GUILT. FURY. SELF-HATRED. ENVY. GUILT. FURY. SELF-HATRED. ENVY. GUILT.

Facial-tic going like crazy. Whole body shaking. Hyperventilating.

More and more responses from fellow dad bloggers but I could no longer read or absorb them. Aaron Gouveia of The Daddy Files IM’d me, asked for my phone number. I gave it and posted:

“shutting comp off…I can’t deal w/ this. I’m sorry I’m failing all of you”

My phone rang.

I can’t remember much of what was said. All I know is that Aaron, this person I met at Dad 2.0, this person with whom I felt I strong kinship, started talking me down, listened to my stuttering, my hysterics, and gave me positive reinforcement by telling me I was going to be okay and so many people care about me. I’m not going to lie. I thought of suicide during the phone call as Sienna sat in her pen, concerned, as protected from her crumbling father as I could make her.

How long did the call last? I don’t remember, but as I listened to Aaron talk about me possibly taking a break from blogging and that if I did it would be fine, that no one would judge me, I began to calm. My hysterics became sobs. My sobs became deep breaths. Despite his kids climbing all over him, trying to get his attention, he would not hang up until he knew I was alright and safe. I promised I wouldn’t do anything rash. I asked him to tell the others that I was okay, that I thanked them for their support, but I needed to take a step back from Facebook as I was drowning once again in social media and self-induced pressures. We hung up. I put Sienna down for a nap. I fell asleep on the couch and refused to open the computer until the following day.

I was still in a bad state when Elaine got home. She took care of Sienna and comforted me. I felt like I’d run a million miles, my body broken, my brain like mush. I went to sleep early making sure to take a melatonin.

I looked at the computer the next day and saw 6 IMs from dad bloggers. I saw a bunch of responses to my final post most of which expressed how I was failing no one, all of them showing worry and reminding me I had this virtual community of dads on which to lean. It took me days to respond to the IMs, but I posted this:

“Thanks everyone. I’m still not doing great, but I’m braving FB because Aaron told me you guys have been really supportive. I can’t bear to look at what I posted. I also can’t thank Aaron enough for calling me. Just embarrassed I was so hysterical on the phone. I plan to read all of and take a lot of your advice. I’m not sure when I’ll blog again. It might be tomorrow or next week or next month. I’m still so down right now and I’m so sorry I haven’t checked so I could share your stuff and comment on it and support all of YOU. Just know how much I appreciate it.”

More responses about how there was no need for me to feel embarrassed, but it took time for me to get it.

As I remained in my depressed state for days, I thought about my failed blog attempt. I began to really read what people wrote to me. I wrote back to those who IM’d me. And I realized the real lesson of Dad 2.0, although it took me a long time to blog about it because I’ve been so scared to write that my anxiety level’s been almost radioactive. It’s a lesson with which I concluded my first Dad 2.0 blog:

I found my tribe.

Dad 2.0 and the Dad Bloggers Facebook site are all about at-home and stay-at-home dads working together, being there for each other when we have difficulties, sharing advice and experiences, reminding each other that we’re not alone, inspiring each other. Some dads suffer depression and anxiety just like me and I’ve written to them about it when they’ve hit hard times. I said I’d be there for them to talk to because I understood. In turn, when I posted what I did, those same dads wrote to ME using similar words, reminding me that I’m not the only one who suffers panic attacks and depressive episodes, telling me they’re there for me should I need them. Further, bloggers I compare myself to (even though I shouldn’t) posted that they too suffer insecurities and often hate what they write. Again, I’m not alone.

That’s the real lesson of Dad 2.o. Even though people have different lives and are scattered across the country, it’s a community of which everyone reminded me I’m an important part despite my irrational fears that they’ll forget me.

I’m nowhere near mentally healthy…yet. My stability remains shaky for the moment, but hopefully it won’t always be. Regardless this realization about Dad 2.0 and the Dad Bloggers Facebook page is significant. What’s even more pertinent is that I got it out of my system. I blogged, I hit “publish” and I shared. I thank every person who IM’d me, posted, worried about my safety, told me I’m not alone. I can’t express how much it means to me. I especially thank Aaron Gouveia for going out of his way (he’ll refute this) to talk me down.

Now I’m off to see my therapist.