My Hulk keeping Banner alive

My story begins in elementary school.

I was constantly bullied, constantly beat up. For years. Years. Diagnosed with ADHD, therapy, labeled a problem, constantly told I was a bad kid. A liar, a spaz. Kids loved it when I spazzed. So they pushed, and pushed.

That was the beginning.

But I found an outlet, a bad one

People don’t generally recognize a mental breakdown. They don’t understand the adrenaline dump, the feelings of incredible guilt, shame and embarrassment that follow. Days spent hiding from people. But I found an outlet, a bad one. Those kids forced me to learn how to fight. And I was good at it. All that rage, all that embarrassment, all that shame, all that guilt, went straight through my knuckles, and bled out of my face. People eventually started to leave me alone. And then some people did what some people do… They took advantage of it.

So I spent almost the next decade of my life fighting. Hockey, lacrosse, school, bar, party-it didn’t matter. And neither did winning or losing. I had a role. Every drop of blood, theirs, or mine had a reason to me. A meaning. I wasn’t a loser anymore. I felt accepted. People weren’t picking on me anymore, they were encouraging me.

But silently and slowly the damage was accumulating. Not just physically in the way of stitches and concussions, but more importantly-mentally. A constant cycle of trying to fit in combined with the guilt and embarrassment of what I was doing. Play the tough guy role. Turn all that rage and resentment into something. I was good at it. But it was fake. Then one day something happened-we all became adults. And the role was gone. The only identity I was ever able to grasp became a burden on myself, and everyone around me.

My Hulk keeping my Banner alive

For years I beat my mind down with weed, booze, sex, and denial. College was a blur of insomnia and terrible mistakes. I’ve been close before. Thinking about it. The day I had to give my dog away, it was just another failure to me. Another notch on the loser belt. Then there was the bottle of Valium and that big ass blunt, right there on the table. See ya later. No more embarrassment. No more making a fool of myself. No more pain. No more fear of rejection. No more being a loser that couldn’t control himself. No more guilt. That fucking guilt. But I survived my moment. I didn’t do it. It was that rage, that inner rage that kept me alive. My Hulk keeping my Banner alive. Some people don’t survive that moment. That was 12 years ago.

Today, I still struggle. Every damn day.

Years of ‘toughing it out’, staying silent, drowning the guilt, the fear, and the shame, only made it worse. It got to the point where I had an incredibly hard time just functioning like a ‘normal’ human being. Everything in my life got blown out of proportion. Everything. Constant anger, along with constant frustration. It was as if my outer Hulk was trying to stop my inner Banner from killing himself. I took it out on everybody and everything. That anger, and that frustration was how I protected myself. And everywhere I went, everyone I knew, was judging me. I just wanted to scream at them, “I can’t help it! I don’t WANT to be like this!!”

I bailed out of the backseat of a moving car last year. On a golf trip, with my best friends-the people that accept me the most. The people who I feel the most comfortable with. I was panicking so badly. I needed to escape. I couldn’t breathe. That’s not weakness-that’s sickness. It wasn’t the first panic attack I’d ever had,  and it wasn’t the last.

I cling to my wife and my daughter like a lifeline. But remember, when you have a mental health issue, the people you love the most, are the ones you affect the most. That shame and guilt again. Always there. This realization is what finally drove me to seek therapy.

It took months for my wife to convince me to seek help. Months. Because I was scared. Scared of being judged. Scared of people finding out. Ashamed. Ashamed of my ‘weakness’. You know how many times I’ve heard, “Why are you depressed? What anxiety? You have a beautiful wife, and daughter, a nice house, cars, job. What are you complaining about?” That’s why I didn’t call. That’s why I wouldn’t talk. And that’s why I’m writing this.

But I finally did it. Down in the basement, pacing back forth, the phone number on the screen of my phone for over an hour before I pressed call. It was the hardest thing I ever did in my life. I immediately felt better. Immediately. I was on my way. I was also crying uncontrollably. The crushing weight was still there, but I had a spot. They helped me lift the weight.

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

I did 16 weeks of therapy. Felt like a million bucks. Got back in shape, and reconnected with my family and friends. Work didn’t seem so hard to deal with anymore. I actually didn’t have to sit in the parking lot and list the reasons why I had to walk in the door every day. I was even sleeping. I thought I was out. I felt great, so I stopped going. But to quote a famous Italian “Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

Silently, stealthily, slowly. It came back. And so here we are again. Fighting. Every damn day. Every damn hour. Every damn minute. And can you believe it? I’m still scared. So it’s time to take that first step again. For my family, for my friends, and most importantly, for myself.

I’m not looking for your sympathy, fuck that. I don’t need it. I’m trying to share my story, so maybe, just maybe, one of you will listen to that person in your life that wants to talk. Without judgment, without that stigma. One of you will recognize the signs. And the most important of all… That one of you will make that call. Take that first step. Take it. Stick with it. It will get better.

I’m not weak. And neither are you.