A kick in the ass is not a requirement

It’s been 20 years, almost to the day, since I experienced my first episode of major depression. I was almost 20 years old and there wasn’t any hint that I was about to go through the most difficult period of my life.

My mental illness snuck up on me out of nowhere.

Up until that point, my life was what is considered as ‘normal’. No particular drama. I wasn’t a victim of abuse, harassment or bullying of any kind. I was as normal as it gets. Anxiety, sure, I had some. Occasional mood swings came and went. But, that happens to all of us.

Truth be told, my mental illness snuck up on me out of nowhere. In fact, I still remember my first encounter as if it were yesterday. I was in bed, just about to fall asleep when, all of a sudden, my heart started pounding. It felt like my heart was trying to break out of my chest the same way a prisoner tries to break out of jail, by any possible means. Breathing heavily, I tried to get out of bed and get some help. I was dizzy, my hands were numb and I felt like there was a 200-pound anvil on my chest.

By the time the paramedics arrived, I managed to settle down somewhat. I vaguely remember asking if I had just suffered a heart attack.

“No. Have you had any panic attacks in the past?” the paramedic asked. I was confused, as if he was speaking a foreign language.

“A panic what?” I answered. “Can that kill you?”

The lights were on, but nobody was home.

The months that followed were a nightmare. Completely disjointed, I could barely go about my daily business. Every action required a Herculean effort. Every decision felt like a calculus problem. It was like I was trapped in quicksand or swimming against a strong current.

The lights were on, but nobody was home.

I was trapped in a body that wouldn’t function. It was like my brain decided to take a vacation. “Sorry, we’re closed.” The lights were on, but nobody was home.

While my friends were savoring the beautiful moments of their youth, I barricaded myself in my apartment. They were happy and smiling while I was apathetic, a hypochondriac and a slave to the steady stream of negative thoughts that invaded my brain.

That’s when ‘the words that kill’ were uttered. And not just by anyone.

After the umpteenth emergency room visit and the umpteenth confirmation by a doctor that I hadn’t suffered from a heart attack or that I didn’t have a flesh eating disease, my father, desperate and exasperated from seeing his son in such suffering, looked at me straight in the eyes and said:

“ENOUGH!! Pick yourself up and give yourself a kick in the ass!”

Those words hit me just like a Mike Tyson uppercut, right on the chin, dropping me to my knees.

It wasn’t from lack of effort or determination. It wasn’t laziness. But it was difficult, impossible even, to give myself a kick in the ass. The machine was broken and the mind had succumbed to its new master: fear.

The problem, I know very well now, was never my rear end. The problem was right between the ears. I was suffering from a mental illness and no amount of kicks to the ass could change that single fact.

I needed help and support. The help came, finally, after a few months when a doctor gave me his diagnosis: major depression with panic attacks. The little blue and yellow pills were included with the diagnosis.

The support, however, came from a particular and unexpected source. My girlfriend, my mother and my brother were all there for me but surprisingly; support also came from my father.

My father comes from a generation of men for whom mental illness was a sign of weakness. A man doesn’t cry. A man doesn’t ask for help and, a man definitely does not suffer from a mental illness. Stand up, put on your big boy pants and walk!

However, taboos and prejudices towards mental illness are not all born equal. Some are born from ignorance or lack of education. Often, it is from a desire to ridicule or to judge. Sometimes, however, the source of the prejudice can come from a much deeper source.

The day my father uttered those words will remain forever etched in my memory. I remember seeing, in the blue of his eyes, a deep pain and an immeasurable sadness.

It was a cry from the heart.

A long time had passed before I finally grasped the real meaning of those words uttered by my father that day. It was a cry from the heart. An immense pledge of love towards his son launched through the only words available to him at the time.

I also realized that the only way to change my father’s perception, the way he saw things, was to break the silence and open up a dialogue about my mental illness.

Since being diagnosed over 20 years ago, much water has flowed under the bridge. I stopped counting the number of episodes and panic attacks. I lost count a long time ago and I never wish to start counting again. Although I consider myself incredibly lucky to be under the care of an excellent psychiatrist, I know that depression and anxiety will be a part of me for the rest of my life. It is like a marriage without the possibility of divorce.

I am reassured everyday by the fact that I have the unwavering and unconditional support of my family and friends.

I also know that, if there is a storm on the horizon, my father will be there to look me in the eye and say: “Come on, let’s talk about it.”

Albert Einstein once said: “It’s easier to split an atom than a prejudice.”

My father is certainly not a physicist but he is living proof that a prejudice can be disintegrated with a bit of open mindedness, listening, and love.

It takes time. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And…a kick in the ass is not a requirement!