True confessions
Counselor, heal thyself. As an ordained minister and registered counselor, I have experienced a lot of what the mental health community now refers to as dysfunction. I specialize in Post-Traumatic Stress, Grief and Loss, and Substance Abuse. While I am not trained in Clinical Depression, I have experienced it enough in my various relationships to recognize it when I see it. I have probably suffered from it at various points in my life, although I was never enough of a girly-man to admit it.
I was brought up to believe that a man does not admit weakness. My extensive training in counseling mostly overcame that conditioning. Mostly. Two of my relationships were with women who were clinically depressed. I suffered from the White Knight syndrome, something not documented in the DSM IV-A. I tried to rescue them, even though they did not want to be rescued. That is another story.
Suffice to say that I became intimately acquainted with Clinical Depression. Those who suffer from this disease seem to be evangelical in their despair. They both tried to convince me that I was also suffering from the malady, all indications to the contrary. By witnessing their suffering, however, I was able to learn about the syndrome and use it in my counseling.
Now, I seem to have contracted the disease that I thought I could heal in others. I recognize the symptoms, but I am helpless to do anything about them. On the surface, I have no reason to be depressed. I have a beautiful home with a hot tub right next door to my daughter who loves me as much as I love her. I have a new car and a job that I love, even though it is extremely demanding.
I have a beautiful girlfriend who treats me like a king, although she lives in Canada and the border keeps us from being together as much as we want. I get laid more than any 55 year old man has any right to expect. We’d probably get married if I didn’t have to be caregiver to my 90 year old father.
Hello! There it is!
I won’t ask her to assume the burden of my father. That is mine and mine alone. I am the only son and it is my burden to bear. God forbid that I should share it with anyone. My father and I had a pathetically dysfunctional relationship, only overwhelmed by my sexually and emotionally abusive mother. She died five years ago and my father has been at sea ever since.
So now I have to be his caregiver and the roles are reversed. I am the father and he is the child, a fact he unconsciously recognizes by now referring to me as Pappy. He is 90 years old and has lost cognitive function to the point that he is a two year old. He is incontinent and I have to change his diapers twice a day.
That’s fair. He had to change my diapers, although I suspect he never did. In that day and age, the woman had to handle that task.
Now, back to the point. I have a very demanding job that requires me to meet a lot of deadlines. Ordinarily, that is no problem. I have been a journalist for most of my life and meeting deadlines is part of the gig.
Recently, however, the combination of caring for my father and getting out the mag has become overwhelming. I can’t seem to keep all the balls in the air and, of course, I am blaming myself. That’s the way I was brought up.
I took Dad to a Bellingham Bells game last weekend and things went south. On the way back from the ball park, he had trouble breathing and felt tightness in his chest. He had similar symptoms when he had a heart attack seven years ago. I didn’t hesitate. I took a left turn and got him to St. Joe’s as fast as I could go.
This has happened several times over the last few years. Every time, they have run every test you can imagine and determined that there is nothing wrong with him. He’s just old. But every time I am stuck with the medical bills that Medicare doesn’t cover and that is a strain on the budget.
So why am I thinking about calling up my good friend Dr. Lenz and doing the couch bit?
I find that I have no energy or my usual optimism. I eat too much and at the wrong times. I am gaining weight and suffering a consequent loss of self-esteem. I can’t focus on my writing.
When it comes time to write the monthly magazine, it requires a marathon session of about five 15-hour days. I used to be able to do that. Now, I can’t work that long. I can’t get going as early. I can’t focus and I can’t work for more than about three hours at a stretch. I lose it totally after lunch and have to take a nap.
So I’m not meeting deadlines and feel guilty for not doing so because it puts an unfair burden on the production department. Aside from the magazine, I know that I am being verbally abusive to my father even though I know why. I can’t seem to help it.
He treated me with contempt when I was young because I was not as competent as he was. Now that he can’t do things for himself, I find myself treating him the same way and I hate that I have become what he once was. I know what I am doing, but I can’t stop it. I hate myself for becoming what he instilled in me. Contempt for those who are not competent.
I am a good enough counselor to know what is happening to me, and that makes it even worse. I am a moderate drinker, but I have been drinking to excess a lot lately. It’s the only thing that gives me relief from my dual responsibilities to my father and the magazine. I know that it is a false relief, but I do it anyhow. Then I have to face my magazine responsibilities with a hangover. Ye Gods!
I am optimistic by nature, to a fault. I can see the good in things that others would write off as hopeless. Now, I realize that I have to face something that I have always denied. I may be clinically depressed. I am far from contemplating suicide, but I need to deal with the symptoms that are robbing of my usual energy and enthusiasm.
Interestingly enough, one of the things in which I seek refuge is the Salon blogging community. That is a problem as well as a solution. I would rather read blogs and post comments than face reality. That, too, is part of the problem.
So I am going back on the couch after having spurned psychology for a more spiritual approach. Counselor, heal thyself. Thanks for listening.
3:12:19 AM 
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