creature so often depicted in slow, laborious ascent, the embers and ashes of its apparent destruction sliding from its golden wings. This imagery serves as one small component of my recovery.
The first signs of my depression surfaced in junior high, when I started to become a little edgy and cynical. Many adolescents temporarily exhibit these characteristics, but they became ingrained in my personality, protective and even fun on simmer but harmful at a boil, and my teenage angst became a long-term love/hate affair with obsessive thinking.
In high school my first serious romance thrived on and fed my dysfunction. To be fair, my boyfriend and I brought out the worst in each other, engaging in intermittent periods of verbal and physical abuse that eventually became the norm until I found the strength to break it off. My parents, divorced now for the second time, were missing in action, and I fended for myself on a number of levels. When my generally loving and doting father tried to reassert his authority during my senior year, I stood my ground; he physically attacked me, and then I moved out. These situations put me in a state of hypervigilance, a place I’ve visited more than a few times since then.
The transition from high school to college kicked off my first serious bout of depression. I managed to excel academically, but otherwise, I made few friends, slept often, gained weight, and cried almost constantly. My first sessions with a therapist shed some light on the roots of my distress, but I continued on a path of dysfunction, not only in my relationships with men but also in my friendships with females and in the way I conducted myself in the workplace.
Despite considerable stigma against help-seeking here in rural Wyoming, where people tend to revere stoicism, I read numerous self-help books and saw therapists through the rest of my twenties and into my early thirties, relying on one in particular to gain significant personal insight and to survive my maternal grandmother’s suicide and my mother’s suicide attempts. I continued to experience debilitating depressive episodes, but I sensed the key to my recovery hovering just beyond my grasp.
My epiphany came after a particularly short but destructive romantic relationship and an online study of abandonment issues. I called my dad’s sister, who had taken me in during times of domestic violence between my parents throughout my childhood. “When did I first come to stay with you?” I asked.
She hesitated. “Well, you were about two and a half, and things were pretty bad between your mom and dad,” she said. “I asked them if I could take you, and they agreed. We even arranged to have custody of you, so we could make decisions in case of any emergencies. In fact, I think we still have custody of you.”
Despite feeling slightly stunned, I laughed a little at that. “How long did I stay with you?” I asked.
“About six months,” she said, adding that I saw my parents only a few times during that period.
I felt immense pity and grief for that helpless little girl and gratitude for my aunt and uncle, who surely saved her from a much more destructive life and an early death. At the same time, I understood that any child who endures trauma, such as a lengthy separation from a primary caregiver before the age of five, is likely to suffer and struggle into adulthood.
After that call, I finally knew what was broken, and I knew I could fix it. I began to ask more questions about my past and consider its place in the bigger picture of my family’s journey, partly to prevent dark history from repeating itself, partly to gain better self-understanding. But I have tried not to spend much time blaming my parents and their parents for the harsh parts of my childhood and the resulting challenges I face today. Instead, I try to compassionately view my elders as my peers in shouldering the burden of the negative aspects of our legacy. Otherwise, wallowing in blame eventually gets me stuck.
I also found that self-reflection plays a crucial role in recovery. This grueling but worthwhile process involves finding the courage and strength to study your flaws and take responsibility for them without beating yourself up, an exercise featured in this workbook. Initially, this means tuning in to, examining, and possibly changing your inner dialogue. In my case, I began to notice an anxious and critical tone to my conversations with myself. That quickly led to another crucial insight: My primary problem is anxiety, which, in turn, underlies my depression. Discussing this discovery with my therapist and friends who work in the mental health field clarified the evolution of my mental illness.
As a child growing up in a sometimes-volatile environment, I learned to prepare for the worst and remain on high alert so I could respond accordingly at the first sign of trouble. If I “failed” to ward off negative outcomes—even those beyond my control—then I took a berating not only from external sources but also myself, which exacerbated my anxiety and led to feelings of worthlessness. “Success” at keeping the peace reinforced my reliance on this survival technique, which, like any repeated behavior or activity, deeply entrenched neural pathways in my impressionable young brain, setting the stage for a general mode of operation that caused more problems than it solved in the first twenty years of my adulthood.
These discoveries and ongoing self-reflection have helped me make considerable strides over the past decade: I married a sweet and supportive man, developed healthy and mutually satisfying friendships, and improved my workplace conduct. Major life challenges during that period, however, threatened my overall recovery from mental illness.
In 2006, I moved from Casper, Wyoming, to Sheridan, a small community in the northern part of the state and my hometown, to spend time with my father and take care of him because I knew his time was short, even if he didn’t. At that point, my depression was in remission, but I began to experience intense pain and spasms in my lower back, among various other symptoms. Running, which had provided me with fitness, weight-control, a competitive outlet, and a certain level of mood management, slowly became unbearably painful. A seemingly never-ending search for answers ensued, and my medical issues forced me from self-employment as a freelance writer and editor into the local nonprofit sector, where I eventually became the county’s suicide prevention coordinator. As I spiraled into yet another depressive episode, I asked my gynecologist to prescribe me Cymbalta, an antidepressant my father had found useful for pain and mood management. Since half of my DNA comes from him, I reasoned, the drug would likely help me, too.
While Cymbalta somewhat alleviated my physical and emotional pain, I still could not engage in running and many of the other activities I enjoy without hurting. Believing that I deserve to live life to the fullest, I refused to give up my search for the underlying cause of my debilitation. Near the end of 2010, at the recommendation of my gynecologist, I underwent exploratory surgery, which revealed the presence of endometriosis. I opted to undergo a hysterectomy, hoping that would resolve my pain. Since I had decided early in my adulthood to forego having children for many reasons, I did not grieve the loss of my uterus. However, I chose to keep my ovaries to avoid going into surgical menopause at age thirty-seven. The procedure did help to some degree, and once I fully recovered, I was better able to narrow down another source of pain: my hip. Still, none of my local healthcare providers could pinpoint the exact nature of my problem.
At the beginning of 2012, my father became critically ill with end-stage chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) and nearly died. For several months after that episode he seemed to rally, and I fell into a false sense of security. Despite my chronic pain and because of my frustration with the side effects of Cymbalta, I decided to stop using the drug. Even with my primary care doctor’s guidance, I found withdrawal physically and mentally hellish, but I eventually stabilized.
That summer, six years after the onset of my chronic pain, I saw a Denver surgeon who concluded that running on a malformed hip joint for years had caused significant damage. When he explained that he could repair the injury and that I would be able to run again, I rejoiced, and we scheduled surgery for October. That August and September, however, my father experienced his second COPD episode, ultimately receiving intensive care in Billings, Montana, 130 miles north of
