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?

Could A Tire Blowout Cue The Dawn Of Positive Thinking?

Posted on September 12, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

I was loving Utah’s 80 mph speed limit when our rear back tire blew and I mean BLEW, like a small explosion, our car suddenly lopsided and dragging. As I slowed down and pulled to the shoulder, we watched the full rubber ring roll by our window until it settled a ways away. We were 130+ miles away from Sandy, Utah, 130+ miles away from my friend, John Kinnear’s of Ask Your Dad Blog home, the place where most of our stuff remained. We had a flight the next morning. We wouldn’t be taking the Kinnears out for dinner tonight as thanks for letting us crash at their house as promised. Instead we sat at the side of the road, a bit stunned, but safe, in the middle of nowhere, Utah.

Elaine poses w/ our tire ring

Blowout

As I talked with our rental car company and discussed our options (the closest rental car place stood closed 100 miles away, and driving back to Sandy on a donut was out of the question, especially since we’d have to go 40-50 mph) and Elaine used her phone to figure out nearby places we could stay, a Good Samaritan stopped and put on our donut. He refused the $20 bill we offered and instead said, “Pay it forward.”

We drove 15 miles to Fillmore, Utah, where we found ourselves at a Best Western hotel/restaurant. And there we waited 2 1/2 hours for a taxi to come get us and then drive another 1 1/2 to John’s house.

As we sat in the restaurant waiting and waiting and waiting, Elaine expressed her worry that like usual, I’d internalize this maddening experience and let it sour things, allow it to damper our vacation to Bryce Canyon and Zion National Park. And it was at this mention that I, a heavily depressed and anxious person with warped views, an insane ability to take everything personally and a man whose glass remained perpetually empty, not even half empty, but barren, realized I’d somehow…grown? I registered that my first thoughts upon pulling to the side of the road were:

At least it happened AFTER we’d visited Bryce and Zion

At least it happened while the sun still shone

That’s not me. That’s never me. I’m the one who curls into a ball of anxiety at the slightest inconvenience. I’m the one who rails against the gods for raining on my parade without even considering anyone else. I’m the one battling a selfish, narcissistic disease. I don’t look on the bright side. But I did. Somehow I did. And somehow it came naturally and I can’t explain why.

Maybe it’s because Elaine and I had already done a 3 1/2 hour horseback ride through Bryce Canyon, one in which the cowboys seated me incorrectly leading to so much pain that I felt my knee would be wrenched off, one that caused the tops of my hamstrings to scream at the slightest touch or movement later that evening, but one that blew my mind and I’d do again in a heartbeat.

Horseback riding through Bryce Canyon

My beautiful wife on “Sweet Pea” with the famed Bryce Canyon Hoodoos in the background

Maybe it’s because we’d already hiked through Zion, one a sharp and steep incline that led to Weeping Rock, a beautiful rock face that naturally dripped water, another a 2 mile stretch through the darkness during which I got to give my “city girl” wife (born and raised in the Bronx, NY) the stars. At one point she lay down on the path and marveled at all the celestial bodies she’d never seen, at their infinite number and splendor. Was it because during that night hike I moved my headlamp to the right unwittingly illuminating a tarantula (A REAL, WILD TARANTULA) that stood waiting for its venom-filled prey – a large, black, still-flailing beetle – to fall still so it could feast? Was it because I witnessed a large fox cross our path in the night, it’s eyes aglow from our headlamps? Was it because I’d already seen this:

Native American petroglyphs at Zion National Park

Was it because Elaine convinced me to drive back through Zion which padded our return trip by a couple of hours but allowed us to see these:

A desert long-horned ram and mate at Zion National Park

Closeup of a desert long-horned ewe Zion National ParkWas

Was it witnessing and experiencing the majesty of nature I’d craved for so long that filled my glass? Was it sharing my love of these things with Elaine? Blowing her city-raised mind again and again?

Even when things went wrong during the trip, something seemed to go right. I wanted to give Elaine the stars at Bryce which has the darkest place in the continental U.S. I wanted to look through telescopes and see Jupiter and the Milky Way, but a rainstorm killed all of that. So we went to a local steakhouse, enjoyed a fine meal and a sinful Oreo cream pie despite the severe pain from our earlier horseback ride and then, there it was, right outside our window:

There was so much beauty on this trip. A picture everywhere you turned. It was exactly what I’d wished for. So how could I complain? How could I wail and moan after we’d been so lucky to see so much? My brain knew it…even the irrational part…and it naturally thought about the positives following the blowout instead of the negatives – possible costs, the hassle of the taxi, having to wait for hours. Normally I’d shake and quiver at having to arrange for service. I’d be lost. I’d let my wife take over. I’d call my parents. But instead I was so full of vigor from experiencing Bryce and Zion and so many amazing things that my depression and anxiety never reared their ugly heads.

None of this hit me until Elaine told me she was worried about my mental state and when she did I sat bewildered but strong. I talked to my therapist yesterday and she told me I now have a muscle to strengthen because I have proof that I can fill my glass. The water might evaporate over time if I let it and to be honest, I’ve been a bit sad since we returned. I’ve been afraid to look at Facebook. Would I be forgotten? Abandoned? I’ve been scared to write. But on the flip side I have all of these pictures and more so, I have life experience to conjure if I can. I lived through a blown tire in the middle of nowhere, Utah, and my reaction was one of humor, lightness and positivity, because nothing could take back what I’d already seen and done.

So is this the dawn of Lorne Jaffe, positive thinker? I don’t know. I might fall back into pits of depression as I return to the normality of life as a stay-at-home dad. I might suffer anxiety attacks over ridiculous things. My judgment might be clouded at times, my thoughts muddled, my self-loathing beastly.

What matters is that I fight through it all, that the dad blogger friends I’ve made around the world continue to support my battle, that my family and friends keep loving me, that I keep loving them, that I look at Sienna with wonder and joy. That I remember that just because this vacation is past, it doesn’t mean another one won’t be in my future. And I will fight. And I will remember.

Elaine and I at Zion National Park

Depression is Not a Joke: Thoughts on Robin Williams’ Suicide From A Fellow Depressive

Posted on August 12, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

I lay in bed, phone in hand, reading about Robin Williams’ severe depression, how the disease beat him down to the point where he found suicide the only option. It didn’t surprise me. I’d known Williams’ suffered from the same condition I’ve battled for 3 decades. He’d been in and out of rehab for drugs and alcohol. He’d spoken previously about the darkness that swarmed his brain just as his breakneck wit overwhelmed the world with laughter, though he never revealed its true depth.

The great Robin Williams lost his battle with depression on August 11, 2014.

I’ve been there, though not as close…not nearly as close. I’ve imagined the bottle of pills in my hand. I’ve pictured the heft of the gun, the barrel cold against my temple. I’ve felt the fictional sweet kiss of the razor slicing my wrists. But I’ve never done anything about it. Even at my most fatalistic, pre-Elaine, pre-Sienna, I couldn’t put thoughts to action. Too frightened. Too scared of judgment. Post wife and daughter, the thoughts still appear randomly like fleeting wisps in the night. They’ve been there this past week and a half as I’ve suffered through a deep depressive episode triggered by something I’ve yet to figure out. My therapist and I are working on it, trying to pull me out of this feeling that I’m in the blackest ocean abyss, chains constricting my legs like an anaconda, arms flailing upwards against the crushing weight of the sea and the heaviness in my legs. I’ve had days this past week+ when I didn’t want to get out of bed despite my 2-year-old daughter needing her daddy. Sometimes my mom would come and take Sienna for a few hours so I could sleep (my usual means of recovery). Elaine took care of Sienna one evening last week so I could go see Boyhood, a movie filmed over 12 years about a boy and his family as they grow. The movie just exacerbated my mood as I felt time slip away. Just as the finale of Six Feet Under destroyed me with a montage of each character’s lives and deaths go by quicker and quicker making me lose my tentative grasp on time and causing a tearful breakdown in the car in my wife’s presence, so too did Boyhood, though this time from a parent’s perspective. As I watched Mason (Ellar Coltrane) literally age from 6 to 18 in the span of 2 hours and 40 minutes, I again lost that elusive and impossible grip on time, feeling Sienna grow faster and faster and faster. She’s still not yet 2 and a half, but I saw her graduate high school and I heard Mason’s mom’s (Patricia Arquette’s) heartsick words echoing through my head: “I got my degree. I got a good job.I put you through college. What’s next? My funeral?” (paraphrased). I’m almost never affected by film or television or literature, but I was by Boyhood. Knowing the state I was in, I should have gone to see Guardians of the Galaxy. I’ve had panic attacks this past week+ because I haven’t blogged in so long and I’m afraid readers and fellow dad bloggers will abandon me. For some reason I’ve been unable to even scroll through Facebook as if touching the keys would burn my fingertips and seeing the happiness of others will blind me. I’m terrified that if I don’t share other people’s blogs, if I don’t comment, if don’t hit the “like” button, they’ll all leave me. So I’ve shared some things without reading them. I’ve hit “like” a few times. I’ve made a comment or two. I’ve even posted about this, my most recent fight with this damn disease, and caring people have responded, some have send PMs, but I’ve been unable to read them. I post and run. Post and run. I can’t scroll long. It hurts too much. And I don’t know why.

This isn’t my first battle as I’ve said. I was unofficially diagnosed at age 9, 31 years ago. I kept everything inside until 1996 when I had my first nervous breakdown and then went back to bottling it up until my second nervous breakdown in 2010. I’ve been on so many different medications I’ve lost count. I’ve seen 4 different therapists and 4 different psychiatrists with my most recent ones being the best. I can be fine for months and then something can trigger an episode, something seemingly innocuous that leads to irrational thought after irrational thought until my brain might as well be a Sharknado, turning and twisting and biting. Each waking second I feel like I’m up against a Mt. Everest of negativity, 31 years of incongruous thought processes and feelings – wrong thoughts and feelings as my therapist will be quick to point out.

Depression is a fiercely selfish disease. When you’re deep inside its clutches, you can’t see how you’re affecting others. My sister taught me that years ago when she lectured how the world walks on eggshells around me, how no one knows what will set me off. I keep that in mind as best as I can but I still succumb at times. I’m better than I was 18 years ago, 10 years ago, 4 years ago. My episodes don’t last as long. Suicidal ideation is rare and cursory. But the triggers, those bastards, still exist and often I don’t see them coming and need time to work through them. And that’s what I do. I work. Hard. Each and every day. And I’ll never commit suicide. I have a responsibility to those I love. I can’t ever hurt Elaine and Sienna like that.

Robin Williams’ decision to end his life wasn’t fair to his wife or his children, family, friends. But was it wrong? I can’t say that it was. He was tortured. Another tortured genius like Hemingway and Woolf who could no longer battle his demons. Depression, like most mental illnesses is a cancer of the mind. If the pain gets too intense, who am I or who is anyone to tell a person to keep going if there’s no fight left, if each breath, each second is a waking nightmare. If someone has cancer, is in unending pain, sees no light at the tunnel and wants to end it, isn’t it just as selfish of us to ask him/her to keep living and fighting because we want them in OUR lives? I wouldn’t kill myself, but I can’t say Robin Williams is wrong for taking that road. Who knows how deep his depression went? Who knows what he thought in his last moments? This is a man who covered his sickness as best as he could, who made millions laugh as his own brain probably screamed he was a failure. We were robbed of so many more laughs created by Robin Williams, but not by Robin Williams himself. We were robbed by Depression.

I couldn’t sleep last night after reading about Robin Williams. I kept envisioning his last agonized moments. And then I’d wonder if his death would push me over the unable-to-blog hump and I’d chastise myself for it. Then I started thinking about all of the bloggers that would beat me to the punch and/or write with a more poetic touch. And I felt so egotistical. So disgusted with myself. At 3-something in the morning I posted on Facebook about my insomnia, Robin Williams, and my warped warped thoughts and fears. I’ve yet to read any responses, though my mother said I received a ton of support. If I can I write this then I can read those responses. I’m proud of myself for writing. I think. I hope.

If there’s any positive in this tragic loss it’s that Robin Williams was such a high profile figure, such a supposedly kind and humble man in person, such a dynamo on film and stage, that maybe the light will finally shine on mental illness. Maybe more information about mental illness will be available to the masses. Maybe the government and insurance companies will do more for those of us who suffer either aloud or in silence. Maybe they’ll do more to create affordable therapies and medication. Most importantly, maybe we’ll all talk about it more. People will look to Robin Williams and no longer be afraid to speak up. I’ve found that talking about my disease with fellow sufferers has been a huge form of therapy. They get me. And there are millions of us.

It’s time to stop being afraid if you suffer from depression or any mental illness for that matter. It’s time to stop fearing judgment. Step into the light and talk about it. If you’re feeling suicidal, call someone. Call a hotline. Seek help. Because we’re in this together. YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

As proven by the unfortunate loss of Robin Williams.

Time To Fight My Fears Of Success And Failure

Posted on January 20, 2014 by Lorne Jaffe

“I can’t…I can’t…do this.”

“Look at me!” Elaine grasped my arms, her eyes trying to magnetize my own so I’d stop staring everywhere but at her. “You can do it. You can. Stop saying you can’t. You can. Say you can.”

“I ca…ca…can’t.” Chest locked in a vice. Left side of my face twitched wildly.

“You can. Don’t say you can’t. Not in front of her.” Her grip tightened. I looked down and saw my daughter, my beautiful little girl. Her eyes a mix of confusion and concern with maybe a dash of fear. I took a deep a breath.

“I can….I can…I can…I can…I can…”

“Ok. I got this,” Elaine said. “Hug me and then go to the bedroom. We’re a team. You take care of me. I take care of you. You have nothing to prove.”

We hug. I set off for the bedroom, my mind imprisoning me once again. I try to read – ironically Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom. No attention span. Sleep. I need to sleep. I sleep for 4 hours.

How did I get here? Just 20 minutes before we were at Sienna’s music class and having a good time. But it was her last class and I had to sign her up for a new one which cost $470. That’s a lot of money. I have to pay off a few thousand dollars of credit card debt in the next month. Our finances are weak and it’s my fault. It’s my fault. But I’m getting birthday money in a few weeks. In a few weeks I’m turning 40. 40! How? How can that be? And I’m going to see my grandmother for the first time since she learned about me speaking at Dad 2.0. I’m not sure how much she understood of what my mom told her, but apparently she’s thrilled for me. She keeps reading my Sienna and the Moon blog and crying. She said it’s a huge honor. That’s not what I expected. I expected something along the lines of maybe he’ll actually do something with his life. Within 20 minutes I went from quality family time to being gripped by the cold hands of anxiety thanks to an insane thought process coupled with physical manifestation of emotion…again.

“I’m so glad they chose you to speak!”

“You’re an incredible writer!”

“I’m really proud of you and how far you’ve come with your blog.”

“The star of our NYC delegation will be Lorne Jaffe, who has been selected as one of five ‘spotlight’ speakers. Lorne will read one of the many frank, touching posts from his blog.”

I can’t take the validation even though I’ve craved it my entire life. WHY CAN”T I ACCEPT IT?? I don’t understand! The compliments enter my ears only to be instantaneously attacked by black thoughts and accusations as if they were extremely malevolent viruses.

“You don’t deserve this!” “You’re not worthy of it! “You still won’t amount to anything!”

I had a piece I’d written years ago just accepted by The Good Men Project (GMP). They even asked me to be a regular contributor. I felt a moment’s elation following by relentless skepticism and vehement negativity. I’m not being published in print so it doesn’t count. I didn’t receive any money so it’s meaningless. The site must accept everything. The site probably asks everyone to be a regular contributor. It couldn’t possibly be that what I’d written is actually good. I had to post in the Dad Bloggers group to ask if GMP accepts everything and was assured that they don’t. That was almost a week ago. I frantically check my e-mail awaiting a report that my piece is live. Will it ever happen? Did they forget about me? Does it even matter?

In 10 days I’ll be on a plane to New Orleans. In 11 days I’ll be at a podium reading from my blog in front of more than 300 people.

I am petrified.

What happens if I falter? What happens if I succeed? How can I top it…ever? I don’t have the artistic talent that so many other bloggers seem to possess; ones who write and illustrate brilliant and creative children’s books; ones who draw remarkable cartoons emanating the joy in even the most mundane aspects of being a stay-at-home dad; ones who post 3-4 times a week; ones who come up with scintillating titles that immediately make you want to read their words; ones who blog like poets and apply fantastic quotes to their lives.

And hence the comparison game continues. Why can’t I just accept myself for who I am? Why can’t I stop hating myself?

It’s all happening so fast, squeezing me so hard I can’t breathe. New Orleans approaches like a tidal wave. Compliments I can’t comprehend fill my ears, but my mind bars them from taking root and growing.

What happens when I get back from Dad 2.0? What happens when it’s all over?

I’m terrified this is the pinnacle of my life, of my achievements. It’ll be like a deflating balloon, an unfed fire. I’ll never be able to top it. I’ll never be able to sustain it.

This is what’s been going through my mind the last few days, this almost tangible fear of success and failure. This is all so weird! (A term my therapist claims I use whenever something is good and drags me out of my mental hell of comfortable pessimism).

Am I doing this for everyone else or am I doing it for me? I feel like I’m doing it for everyone else, but that’s just my old screwed-up brain talking. This is about me growing as a person and a father. This is about me facing and tackling my fears. This is about me standing at a podium, reading from my blog, imagining I’m a hero to Sienna. This is about me learning to accept accolades because I deserve them. This is about me having the guts to send what is an emotionally raw piece to GMP whether they accept it or not, whether they pay me or not. This is about me trusting Elaine when she sees I’m having trouble instead of me trying to prove that I can handle everything. This is about me letting my mom know (as I did today) that I was struggling and didn’t want Sienna to see me like this…could she please take her for a bit? This is about me pouring my heart and soul into this blog and helping others stricken with depression and anxiety.

It’s time to realize that my speaking at Dad 2.0 will not be the zenith of my life or achievements. It’s a milestone. It’s an honor. Nothing less, possibly more.

The real pinnacles (because there are many) of my life and achievements migrate each and every day when I see Elaine and Sienna; when Elaine tells me she loves me; when Sienna speaks new words; when I’m stunned again and again by Elaine’s beauty; when Sienna kisses my nose; when Sienna sees Elaine and I embracing, happily yells, “HUG!” and vaults herself into our arms until we’re wrapped together as a family.

My fears of failure and success will not dissipate like overnight mist. They might be with me my entire life. But it’s time I fight. It’s time I yell and scream as loud as they do. It’s time I realize I have lots of people in my corner and it’s time I accept that I deserve them.

I never again want to stand trembling, stuttering and look down at my daughter and see a mix of confusion and concern with a dash of fear. I want her to see a person ready to stand up for himself TO himself.

I want Sienna to be proud to have me as a father.

Most importantly, I want to be proud of myself.

O The Places My Mind Goes – Part 2

Posted on December 22, 2013 by Lorne Jaffe

The first part of this blog entry sapped most of my energy, but it was worth it. I received a ton of encouragement from friends, family and fellow dad bloggers urging me to remember that I’m not alone in feeling depressed, anxious and overwhelmed, nor am I the only one whose brain can go from stressing over writing a blog to suicidal thoughts in a matter of seconds. I greatly appreciate all the kind words written about my last post. It reminded me that I started this blog about raising my daughter while battling depression/anxiety for the reasons many of you proclaimed – to comfort those with similar issues, to show they’re not solitary entities. I’ll do my best with this second part. I hope it’s up to par.

Sometime after 5 am I fell into a restless sleep, the type of fitful doze where you hover between wakefulness and dreaming. My alarm went off at 8 (I’m lucky in that Sienna is so quiet in the morning that I honestly have no idea when she wakes up). I hit the snooze button a few times because I wasn’t ready to deal with the day – having to put on a brave face while playing with and teaching a rambunctious toddler; fighting over meals; trying to write a blog about what I’d gone through the previous night. One thing I did know – there was no way I was stepping outside my apartment door. When I did finally get out of bed around 8:30, I struggled down the hall to the kitchen, lower body leaden, head filled with helium, stomach churning, an invisible anvil squashing my chest. Shell-shocked, I moved like something out of The Walking Dead. Suicide? Do I still hate myself that much?

I gave Sienna breakfast, but had nothing myself. The meal was nearly silent on my part unlike most days when I sing her favorites whether it be “C is for Cookie” or the theme from “The Golden Girls” (no idea why, but she loves it). After breakfast I set Sienna down in her playpen so I could shower and do the dishes just as I do every morning. I got the shakes in the shower but recovered. We spent the morning playing with cars and stuffed animals, me watching the clock, begging for the seconds, minutes, hours to pass so I could put her down for a nap and perhaps conk out myself.

I peeked at FB a bit, but couldn’t deal with the pressure. At one point I wrote this: “Very depressed. Doing my best trying to hold it together for Sienna. My brain went to horrible, self-loathing places last night. Some things I haven’t thought about in a long time. Scary. Have purposely stayed off FB but feel guilty for not checking and ‘liking’ things people post or reading other dad bloggers’ words (which is really what set this off to begin with because I couldn’t write myself and became anxious). UGH!” I then shut the computer.

I was supposed to have a phone session with my therapist, but I couldn’t talk. I knew that between Sienna’s running around and my inability to form complete sentences, it would be a waste of time. I texted my therapist and asked if we could postpone saying I’d gone to terrible places the night before and had had an anxiety attack. She urged me to talk, but I apologized relentlessly and claimed i just wanted to sleep. Here are the texts that followed:

Therapist: No need to apologize – breathe and remember you feel like this right now – it won’t last. Just a feeling, it doesn’t define you. Reread some of your blogs (I didn’t follow her advice – the “feeling” was too powerful)

Me: Having trouble writing again. Last night thought of suicide and it scared me. Realized I can’t ever do that now because of Sienna. I have no idea why I thought of that. Looking at people’s houses and knowing I’ll never be able to give that to Sienna. Brain went all over the place. I’m so tired

Therapist: Never say never. You never know what you can accomplish when u get out of your way – and if you ask Sienna which she would prefer – a father who showers her with love and affirmation though he’s not a millionaire or an emotionally abusive millionaire father who would she choose

Me: I know, but still not good enough (my warped view of success impeded rationality as it so often does).

Therapist: That’s your self-hatred and mental issues. It’s not and never will be Sienna’s truth. Would you rather have had a loving father and less material stuff. Stop listening to your illness. It lies and is a huge waste of time and life

Me: I just need to sleep (my illness continued to rule me)

My mom texted me to say she’d read my FB post and asked if I needed help. I mentioned I’d appreciate it if she’d give Sienna dinner – just the thought of putting together a meal and getting her to eat was too much for me to bear. My mom agreed to come over even though she had a cold leaving me to imagine Sienna getting sick as my punishment for being so pathetic.

I don’t remember much of the afternoon. I’m sure I followed Sienna around whenever she grabbed my hand and commanded me to sit so she could show me something or we could play. I struggled to smile. I kissed and hugged her when I could gather the strength to do so. I couldn’t wait to put her to bed.

Was I asleep when my mom rang the bell at 5:30? Was Sienna still in her crib talking to herself in the dark? I can’t recollect. I sat on the couch staring into space while my mom fed my daughter eggplant rollatini. She brought me a salad which I eventually ate, the first food I’d had all day. My mom tried to get me to talk, but I couldn’t. I mumbled. I spoke in short sentences. I didn’t mention suicide despite the flashing neon sign in my mind.

After dinner my mom stayed with us. I went to change the cat litter and it was like a perfect storm. We have one of those cat litter boxes that you roll over to get the clumps out, but it picked this time, THIS TIME, to fall apart leading to urine-infused litter spilling all over the kitchen floor. IMMEDIATE hyperventilating. Facial tic going like crazy. Sienna kept coming into the kitchen and I stuttered, “Sie-Sie-Sienna ou-ou-out!” I cleaned up the mess on the verge of both tears and my second panic attack in less than 15 hours. My mom hugged me when I finished cleaning. Did I hug her back? I don’t think so. I think I was like a rag doll.

Back to the couch. Sienna picked up ribbons and Mardi Gras-type beads and wanted me to spin and shake them. She climbed on my lap. Minky, the intuitive black, long-haired puffball, curled up next to me and purred. I kissed Sienna’s head while petting Minky, his purr rumbling against my thigh. I still had that 100-yard stare, but my mom observed something else and later wrote in an email:

“After you threw away the cat litter and barely made it back to the couch, your beautiful, wonderful daughter took one look at you and with all the love in her heart climbed in to your lap and cuddled with you. And while fighting through your embarrassment of having her see you this way (yes, I saw that too) she held firm and would not let her daddy go. Tell the world how you both looked at each other and ever so slowly she was able to calm you down (with a little help from a purring Minky) until the softness showed in your face and you were able to begin to play with her. She only had her daddy in her eyes and I watched as the two of you played with the ribbons over and over again and pure glee showed in Sienna’s face and smiles came in to your face. It was a beautiful moment between father and daughter. She was there for you all the way and while you were not free of all the anxiety and panic she helped you hold it together. And because of her you fight on. You were given the powerful gift of pure, unadulterated love yesterday while you were most vulnerable. That is what it is all about. How amazing that a 21 month old has such a gift. That is the perk of being able to share these moments with her. That is something the world and all the stay at home dads need to know.”

I wish I remember things in this manner. I remember Sienna in my lap. I remember Minky. I remember playing with ribbons. I don’t remember my face softening or my brain unlocking or an ease coming over me. All I have are my mom’s words and that is why I included them here as a reminder. She’s right. The unequivocal father-daughter bond must have been there allowing me to keep fighting despite my extreme fears and vulnerability. And though the events my mom witnessed are foggy in my mind as is my collapsing into Elaine’s arms when she got home and my nightmarish confession about my suicidal thoughts, I CLEARLY remember the following morning when I had my phone therapy session and Sienna, a toddler bursting with energy, sat on my lap for 20+ minutes as my tears dripped in her hair and Minky, intuitive Minky, curled up next to me and purred.

Days have passed and I feel much better. I don’t know when exactly I crossed the line into feeling better, but I do know the words of encouragement from fellow dad bloggers after I posted part 1, the emails and phone calls from friends and family, and the unburdening in therapy (I think I spent most of the time crying and repeating my usual “I don’t understand” and “I’m trying so hard” and “When will it stop?” refrains as my therapist pointed out how much I’d accomplished over the past few years – I have difficulty remembering), did help.

I don’t know when I’m going to suffer another panic attack. With depression you’re never out of the woods. There are so many triggers and dangerous thoughts that zip through my brain each and every second that anything can set me off at any time. Some suggested this most recent attack could be seasonal, and I think that played a role. I do tend to get depressed the closer it gets to New Year’s and my birthday in February; it doesn’t help that my next birthday will be my 40th making the insane, absurd expectations and definitions I’ve created for myself regarding “success” (job, money) glare even more – pessimism abounds as another year comes and goes without me gaining that house, elite job status, book deal, million dollar retirement fund. But I do know that I have people that care about me (I still struggle to understand why – I wish I could just accept it) and I have blogs, my own words, to read and reread as proof that I’m gradually moving down the right path. I know I’m going to face blog anxiety again. I can’t avoid it. But I also know there are fellow dad bloggers out there who support me even though we’ve never met. David Stanley, a member of the group, told me Dad Bloggers was a safe place. I hope he’s right.

Most of all I have my little family – an incredible wife, a brilliant, funny, beautiful little girl who gives me “the powerful gift of pure, unadulterated love” and our two cats, one of which always knows when I’m hurting. And as my mom so aptly wrote: that’s what it’s all about.

My Sienna