Upon returning from Texas, I promptly began going through an outpatient rehabilitation program at the Hospital in Naperville. I went from being a pretty much everyday drinker to quitting cold turkey—it was harsh. Shakes, nausea, all that fun stuff. I can remember being very concerned in the aftermath that I had turned my liver into Swiss cheese. Besides all of the physical issues that came along with this process, there were the inevitable mental and emotional problems as well. I had been through bouts of severe depression in the past, and it was becoming all too easy to slip into that frame of mind in my position at this time. About this time, I went through a turning point in my relationship to, and understanding of, my disease.

My first meeting with Dr. Lostant was not a friendly one. I don’t remember a whole lot of details about our conversation, but I do remember being extremely adversarial and very abundant in my use of the f-bomb. I had at this point—and I believe rightly so—become convinced that the fundamental problem that I had is that I was bipolar. It just seemed to make such complete sense to me, looking back on my experiences as a depressed young adult. I had not only been depressed frequently, but also had a penchant for risky behavior such as drinking and drug abuse. As a teenager, I experimented a lot with pot, mushrooms, acid, cocaine, and alcohol. Never did touch heroin, crack, or methamphetamine, thank goodness. (Although I later became as hooked on gambling as the most dire heroin or meth addict) While I was not sexually promiscuous, I have always been obsessed  , one of the many symptoms of manic

depression or bipolar disorder. Sometimes I feel as though neither of these trademark names for the disease is adequate, and that it should simply be called the Ultimate Mind dissapointment..

In any case, Dr. Lostant and I were not off to a good start. He sat there and took my “forget this and forget that” attitude that is to be expected of a distressed alcoholic mental patient in good stride, like a good psychiatrist should, but I don’t think he was real happy about it.

I came home to my wife saying that my program counselor had called her and said that they weren’t sure that I was cut out for their program. Now this really was bad, since they were pretty much my last and only option. I called my program counselor and politely ripped her a new one for placing me in such a predicament with my wife, but I cleverly stayed within the bounds of decency so as to ensure that I wouldn’t totally get kicked out of the program.

This initial explosion of mine was, now that I think about it, one of the last times I can remember being genuinely, out-of-control angry. Prior to going into rehab—as a younger man—I would do stupid things like punch walls (brick or otherwise—the harder the better) or break things in order to try and dull the pain that I felt inside. It is impossible to describe to someone who has never experienced it, the anguish that goes with depression. It is quite simply inconceivable to the healthy human mind that one would feel so really out of sorts that death seems like the only option. Yet that is precisely what serious depression does to a person. As William Styron says in his incredible book, “Darkness Visible”:

What I had begun to discover is that, mysteriously and in ways

that are totally remote from normal experience, the grey drizzle

of horror induced by depression takes on the quality of physical

pain. But it is not an immediately identifiable pain, like that of

a broken limb. It may be more accurate to say that despair, owing

to some evil trick played upon the sick brain by the inhabiting

psyche, comes to resemble the diabolical discomfort of being

imprisoned in a fiercely overheated room. And because no breeze

stirs in this caldron, because there is no escape from this smothering

confinement, it is entirely natural that the victim begins to think

ceaselessly of oblivion.