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The Places My Mind Goes
Lorne Jaffe, Douglaston, NY
From Dads Behaving DADLY: 67 Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2014 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission. By Hogan Hilling and Al Watts.
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I’ve been suicidal a number of times throughout my life, but I’ve never had a serious plan (outside of downing a bottle of sleeping pills) or written a note. I never had the courage to go through with it (and yes, though it’s a selfish act, it does take bravery to actually do it, in my opinion). At best, I’d imagine I was like Huck Finn, watching his own funeral. At worst, I imagined holding the bottle of pills.
I hadn’t thought about offing myself since long before Elaine, my wife, became pregnant. At least three years. Then, suddenly, the thought returned.
The moment began after waking from a nightmare sometime after 3 a.m. I couldn’t remember what it was about, but it doesn’t matter. I’d been anxious all day about my blog. I hadn’t written in more than a week. There were a slew of ideas in my head, but I couldn’t seem to write any of them.
I was awake and frazzled, so I decided to check Facebook on my phone to get my mind off my anxiety. Big mistake.
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I read blog posts from my fellow dad bloggers. My chest began hurting. I’m not good enough, I thought. These guys are so much better than me. They keep pumping out words, heartfelt, poetic words. I’ll never be a real writer.
I saw pictures of decorated houses. The thought occurred to me that I’ll never own a home. Sienna, my daughter, will never have a backyard in which to play, to build snowmen like in some of those pictures.
Negative thoughts attacked like rebellious white blood cells. I’m a failure. I was supposed to be something! I was supposed to have a prestigious job and money! I was supposed to be a success! Friends from grade school have houses! And they’re rich! I’m going to be 40 in a couple of months, and I’ve accomplished NOTHING! Just end it already!
Rationality was out the window. My chest felt like cement.
I went from anxiety about what to write on my blog to suicide in just a few seconds.
My thoughts scared the hell out of me, but they refused to abate. I lay in bed shaking.
I can’t kill myself because of Elaine and my daughter Sienna. I can’t do that to them. Wake Elaine up! Wake her up and tell her what was going on! Have her hold you. Calm you. But I couldn’t. She needed to sleep so she could function at work.
Trembling, I dropped my phone and clung to Elaine hoping she’d feel me and wake up, but I still couldn’t allow myself to actually awaken her. I started hyperventilating.
Breathe! Breathe! Breathe!
I tumbled out of bed and dizzily walked down the hall, my thoughts still racing.
Go into Sienna’s room and watch her. It’ll help. No. I’ll wake her up. Can’t do that. Find the cat. Find Minky.
“Minky,” I whisper, voice hitching. “Minky.”
I found the puffball in the closet. I grabbed and held him so tightly he squeaked. I took him back to the bedroom, concentrating on his purring. He climbed onto my aching chest, his purr like a chainsaw. He nosed my face, licked my hand. I gently stroked him, feeling the softness of his fur. I scratched him behind his ears. Over and over I pet him. But still, the negative thoughts attacked.
FAILURE! How can you think of suicide? How could you do that to your family? SHUT UP, BRAIN! SHUT UP, SHUT UP!
I pet Minky for more than an hour, depressed, shivering, using all my power to concentrate on what was right in front of me. 5 a.m. passed. Elaine still slept peacefully, totally unaware of the storm raging beside her. Finally, I joined her, but it was a restless sleep; the type of fitful doze where you hover between wakefulness and dreaming.
My alarm woke me at 8. 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.
When I finally got 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?
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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 as I do every morning. I had the shakes in the shower but recovered. We spent the morning playing with cars and stuffed animals while I watched the clock, begging for the hours, minutes, and seconds to pass so I could put her down for a nap and perhaps conk out myself.
At one point I dragged myself to the computer and wrote this on Facebook: “Very depressed. Doing my best trying to hold it together for Sienna.” I then shut the computer wondering why I did that fully believing no one would care.
Soon afterward, my mom texted me to say she’d read my Facebook 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.
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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.
Immediately, I couldn’t breathe. My facial tic (a remnant from my breakdown four years prior) spasmed 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.
I returned 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 into 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 into 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 remembered 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.
She was right. The unequivocal father-daughter bond must have been present allowing me to keep fighting despite my extreme fears and vulnerability. 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 a 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, perceptive Minky, curled up next to me and purred.
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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, 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), 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.
But I do know I have people who care about me (I still struggle to understand why – I wish I could just accept it) and I have my blog, 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 anxiety again. I can’t avoid it. But I also know there are people out there who support me even though I’ve never even met some of them.
Most of all, though, 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.
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Lorne Jaffe is a stay-at-home dad of a 5-year-old daughter, Sienna. He struggles with chronic depression and general anxiety disorder and is a survivor of gynecomastia. He is also the producer of This Is My Brave, New York City, a show in which people read poetry, monologues, essays and sing original songs about their battles with mental illness to fight the stigma surrounding it. Lorne writes a blog, Raising Sienna.
Hogan Hilling is a nationally recognized and OPRAH approved author of 12 published books. Hilling has appeared on Oprah. He is the creator of the DADLY book series and the “#WeLoveDads” and “#WeLoveMoms” Campaigns, which he will launch in early 2018. He is also the owner of Dad Marketing https://dadmarketingconsulting.wordpress.com/, a first of its kind consultation firm on how to market to dads. He is also the founder of United We Parent, www.unitedweparent.com. Hilling is also the author of the DADLY book series and first of its kind books. The first book is about marketing to dads “DADLY Dollar$” and two coffee table books that feature dads and moms. “DADLY Dads: Parents of the 21st Century” and “Amazing Moms: Parents of the 21st Century.” Hilling is the father of three children and lives in southern California.
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Originally published in Dads Behaving DADLY: 67 Truths, Tears, and Triumphs of Modern Fatherhood Copyright © 2014 Motivational Press. Reprinted with permission.
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