WHAT WAS

I had very little memory of my past. The things I did remember were sketchy and in bits and pieces. Most of the time I did not know if what I was calling memories were really recollections from my own mind or if they were a bunch of things I had heard from others and seen in pictures. There was little I was sure of in my past. The information I got from others, mostly family members and friends blended with what I had in my mind as my own recollections so much so that everything was a sort of a blur. I just assumed that this was the way everyone's mind worked -- blurry bits and pieces and little that had any substance.

Until I checked with my wife I thought I was normal. She could remember her first day of kindergarten and high school graduation and so many other items that I thought her memory was exceptional. Then, I discovered that her memory was normal and it was mine that somehow was incomplete and malfunctioning. I made this discovery by listening to our friends talk and they remembered the same kinds of things my wife did. This discovery process took a long time because I didn't even realize what was going on until at some point I noticed the pattern. I noticed that our friends and my wife consistently remembered the same things and that those things were not the same stuff that I could recall.

As foggy as it may have been, I did have something which I called memory and it contained huge gaps. It didn't really matter whether what I called my memory was from within or without, there were some pieces there. I knew that I had been deathly afraid of needles and that around kindergarten or first grade, when it was time for polio vaccinations, I had carried on so badly that my mother had to come to the school and hold my arms and wrap her legs around mine in order for the nurse to give me the scratch. I struggled so hard that mom still has scars on her legs from the kicking I had done to try and escape. I knew that I had trouble in school. I knew that my father had died when I was around two years old. I knew that I was a small and sickly child and suffered from chronic bronchitis and in the small town I grew up in, my temperature could go from normal to 1O4 degrees in the time it took to get across town; about five to ten minutes. I knew that I had suffered from a number of concussions and spent a lot of time at the doctor's and at the hospital. Of the good things I 'remembered,' I only knew that I had loving grandparents who I enjoyed visiting at their farm outside of town.

Most of the rest of my early years were a total blank. I knew that I had the best penmanship in third grade and that was when I first joined a gang and quickly became it's leader. In fourth grade, I was first kicked out of school for trying to hang another kid in the bathroom by dropping a noose over his head while he was in a stall and I got caught by chance when a teacher happened to walk in while it was happening. I knew that my mother had remarried when I was seven and shortly before they got married, I had asked my stepfather if I could call him "dad". I knew that when mom and dad got married we moved to Colorado. I knew several things I had done in elementary school. I used to climb on top of the buildings and spit at the teachers from the rooftops. I was bored with schoolwork. I started smoking at eight, smoked pot at ten and drank, and by twelve, I had at least tried acid and hard drugs. I started stealing candy bars from the supermarket in third grade and by fifth grade, I was stealing whole cartons of cigarettes by slipping them down my coat sleeves. I was very much a loner and generally had only one (if any) friend at any one time.

I was very short and through junior high I was the second shortest kid in the school. I got beat up a lot but, I had two things in my favor. First, although I did not participate in any organized sports, I could run distance better than any body on the cross-country team. Secondly, I had an extremely high intelligence. By fifth grade I had read at least six sets of encyclopedia as well as every book in the library. I used my brain to influence others and to keep from getting beat up. I would steal from the schools or other kids to impress others with my guts. With my intelligence, it was easy to avoid getting caught and if on the rare occasion I did, I could usually lie my way out of it. I did my own thing and started playing the trumpet in fourth grade to keep out of choir. I won awards and enjoyed music and eventually got into guitar and ended up singing and playing with a little rock group. I started skipping school in fourth grade and I used to hop a freight train and travel to another state and back just for the hell of it. I did not set out to be a troublemaker, it just seemed to be the thing to do at the time. Reading and music were my only real escapes from the outside world and everything else just happened on the spur of the moment.

In fifth grade, with a small roulette wheel, some dice and cards, I set up a gambling casino in the cafeteria to make a little money. I had several `employees' and was making quite a handsome profit when one of my people got caught and squealed. While waiting in the principal's office to be kicked out, I rifled his desk and stole all of the keys to the school. Since I wasn't large enough to physically fight back, whenever someone would irritate me I would break into their locker and steal their books or some other retaliatory action. I also started breaking and entering into houses at around this age. I was never destructive but I always took something small like a deck of cards to prove that I had done it and impress others. When I wasn't isolating in the never-never land of books or music, I did things just for kicks. Breaking and entering or stealing a car or whatever gave me a rush of adrenaline and helped break the boredom. There were other little things like starting fires or hunting snakes including rattlers I did but basically, those things were just another way to pass the time.

I vividly remember being honest to the point of it being an obsession. I often did not say anything but, if caught, I would own up to whatever I had done. One time, when I was eight, my mother noticed some coins missing from her collection. Her idea of justice was to punish myself and my two younger brothers until one of us confessed. She sent me to the basement first since I was the oldest. Dad shut the doors and windows so the neighbors wouldn't hear the screams and she fetched the strap. Mom would dig her left hand fingernails into my upper arm and with her right hand she would swing the strap until she was too tired to hit anymore. I remember this particular incident because I would usually jump around and holler but this time, while waiting, I decided that it wasn't fair that I should be punished for something I hadn't done. So, I made up my mind that I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me suffer and I shut down consciously for the first time. She grabbed my arm and started swinging and I just stood there. I didn't feel a thing and I never shed a tear. I finally shrugged her off and she had a puzzled look on her face. I looked her in the eye and told her she could beat me until I was dead but wouldn't she feel lousy when she found out I hadn't taken her few measly coins. She started crying and ran upstairs and one of my brothers confessed. I had discovered a new power that was wonderful. Without the use of books or music, I was able to turn off all feeling. It was great because mom was an excellent manipulator. She used tears and martyr type stories to play on our feelings of guilt and thus manipulate us into doing her bidding. I had learned of a way to steel myself against this type of abuse. Neither she nor anyone else would ever be able to control my feelings ever again.

Dad was just a joke to myself and my friends. We called him the spineless jellyfish because he was also so subject to mom's manipulations. His only role in the household was to act as the breadwinner. He never played ball or worked on the car or any of the other things typically associated with being a father. Mom dominated over him just like she did with us kids and anyone else in her life. I disliked mom but, even worse, I had no respect for the weaklings like dad who allowed themselves to fall prey to her bullshit manipulations. Since I was the only one to have the backbone to stand up to mom I had to take care of everything in the family. With a sadist for a mother and a jellyfish for a father, I had to look after not only them but also take care of my younger brothers. That's why I spent so much time away from home. It was just too screwed up for me to handle.

I remember very little beyond this except several other times when I was kicked out of school. I did have an occasional person who cared such as a school guidance counselor but they were powerless to get involved. I recall one who was concerned about the discrepancy between my IQ and my grades and when they found out about the family dynamics, they actually urged me to run away from home.

It was nice that they cared but, I did not care. I had by an early age grown hard and cold. The counselor said it was unfair that I had been robbed of my own childhood and had to be the only responsible adult in the family. I just felt that this was the way things were and not having any normal standards by which to compare my family, I accepted my situation as being normal. I made poor grades in school because I didn't care to do homework which I considered just a waste of time. Depending how kind a particular teacher was and how much weight they placed on homework, I received grades accordingly. For instance, if I had a by-the-book teacher who counted homework as half of the grade, I could get 100% on the tests and a zero for homework averaging out to 50% which equated to an F. Other instructors who could not in good conscience flunk a student who made A's on their tests gave me either a C or a D. In high school chemistry, despite having the lowest grade in the class, the teacher missed an occasional class and when this happened she left instructions for the substitute to have me run the class. I was also her teaching assistant and tutored others as needed.

The rest of my childhood and adolescence were blank. I kind of lived on a day-by-day basis and promptly forgot events almost as soon as something happened, it was forgotten. The next thing I remembered (other than general rebelliousness) was my first psychiatric incident. By then, I had been married for two years and had one child.

Sometime in 1974, following a hard day at the office, I arrived home and found the apartment empty. I was in a bad mood anyway and when I couldn't find a note telling me where my wife was, I felt a little aggravated. I kind of ignored the feeling and went to the kitchen to get something to eat. We had some ham leftover and I spent nearly half an hour meticulously shaving the meat by hand. In the end I had a fair sized plate of shaved ham to munch on. I got comfortable and sat on the couch to enjoy my snack when in bopped my wife all bubbly and cheery. She sort of bounced over to where I sat and grabbed a small handful of ham. I don't know whether it was the lousy day I'd had or her good mood or what I perceived as a lack of consideration in not leaving a note or whether it was the fact that she helped herself to the snack that I had worked so hard at preparing or some combination of all of these factors, but, I flew into a rage. I screamed that if she wanted the ham, she could have it all and I started to shove it at her mouth. She got frightened and ran to the bedroom and I threw the plate smashing it against the bedroom door. She was panicked and hollering and I went on a brief smashing rampage in the kitchen.

Suddenly, something in me snapped and I became afraid that I might hurt her and I sat on the couch and everything went blank. I held my head between my hands with my elbows resting on my knees and I simply froze. My wife came out of the bedroom and saw me sitting there totally unresponsive and hyperventilating. She called an ambulance and when they arrived, it took two large men several minutes to straighten just one arm. I was taken by ambulance to a hospital and treated with muscle relaxants and when my breathing was back under control, I was told to seek psychiatric help. I was given a referral to Dr. Cutolo in Cleveland and released. It was then that I received my first psychiatric diagnosis -- Undifferentiated Schizophrenia, catatonic type. I received several months of psycho-therapy as well as being forced to take various combinations of very potent psychotropic medications. None of this treatment was effective and fortunately, I suffered no ill side effects except going through the trauma of the treatment itself.

Following this, my life proceeded rather normally. I held several jobs all of which carried some promise of betterment. I went from working in the home office of an insurance company to being assistant plant foreman at a printing plant to being the maintenance foreman at a food processing plant to being assistant manager with the possibility of becoming a partner in an appliance repair business. In all cases, I either received more money or the promise of a better future. In the winter of 1978, I was working as a construction foreman and developed a severe case of pneumonia. I had to quit work. At first, I was thought to have a mild case of bronchitis and I was given some cough syrup. Within a week, the coughing had become so bad that my body was racked with pain every time I coughed even a little. Stronger cough medicine was prescribed and despite my insistence that something more serious was wrong, the doctor refused to act more aggressively in his treatment. Finally, after another couple of weeks, I was in such pain that breath itself hurt and my wife called the children's pediatrician. That evening, my wind pipe had swollen shut and I was rushed to a hospital where the pediatrician literally saved my life. I was as weak as a kitten and when I was released to home I undertook upon a long course of ~ convalescence. I had to be helped to the bathroom and fed like an invalid. I was very angry at the doctor who had not listened to me when I reported something more serious was wrong. I was also angry at myself for being so weak. It felt very degrading. As I lay helpless in bed I slipped into a deep depression. My wife was pregnant with our third child and with the values I had grown up with, a man's worth was measured by his ability to support his family which I could not do. I felt as if everything was my fault and that I was not only a failure but, that I was just an extra burden on my family.

I became very suicidal. I would lay under the covers of the bed in a fetal position and refuse to eat or talk with anyone. The guilt was horrible and if I had possessed the strength, I would surely be dead now. Having had psychiatric treatment in the past which was essentially useless, the thought of seeking help never crossed my mind. I was obsessed with my worthlessness and as I looked back over my life, I relived every negative experience I could recall. I remembered how at the insurance company they had hired someone with a college degree and even though I trained him and constantly helped him, he got all of the accolades and almost double my salary. I remembered how I had lost other positions to less competent people who sucked up to the boss. When I had been between construction jobs and was painting a fence by hand, I recalled thinking that a monkey could be trained to do this work and I felt as if my mind were turning to mush or like a stagnant pool of water, I was not doing anything to improve my mind. I had progressed as far as I could without further education and that seemed like an impossible dream. I felt an immense weight of worthlessness as I felt how unable I was to support my family. Especially, with a new baby on the way I felt even more of a burden and not worthy of living in decent society. With the diversity of jobs and skills I had possessed, I felt as if I had nothing marketable. It seemed as if employers wanted twenty years experience in a person nineteen years old.

As I regained my strength, I would go for long walks and plan how to carry out my suicide plans. Fortuitously, two things happened which gave me new hope. First, I discovered religion and the comfort that fellowship could mean. Secondly, I heard about the employment and training act which, if I qualified would pay the tuition and a stipend for me to go to school. Consequently, I entered Arapahoe Community College in the summer of 1979. Shortly after entering college, I discovered financial aid. Here was a way in which to support my family and develop my mind and achieve the necessary credentials to get into jobs which were not dead ends. I worked very hard and excelled in every course. Although I masked it very well, I was still severely dysfunctional. I was a perfectionist to the point of it being almost self destructive. A 99% was not good enough. I wanted 100% all of the time and berated myself fiercely if I fell short of perfection. When I received a grade report containing all A's, I would toss it on the table and complain, "What good is it?" It won't put more food on the table and we were so poor it wouldn't even buy something to celebrate. I drove myself to try even harder and got involved in numerous extra-curricular activities as well as working at school. By everyone else's standards I was an ideal student but, in my own mind I was still a failure.

I graduated with awards and honors but still felt a big empty spot within. I tried everything. We moved to another town and I went on to get a Bachelor's Degree. Nothing helped. We were still poor. New school, new place, new jobs, new honors and still the same old feelings of inadequacy persisted. Something finally struck me. I realized that everything I had been doing had been to win the approval of my parents. I had studied more than enough psychology to know what was going, on but, I finally felt instead of just knowing. I hated my parents (although I didn't know why) and all of the jobs, schools, honors and everything else had been to try and make some feeble attempt at having them care for me. When all of this dawned on me I started making tentative decisions for myself. I decided to major in philosophy with the intention of going to law school. I really didn't give a damn what anybody else thought.

It was fine that I now had a direction for my life but, circumstances wouldn't allow me to follow the path I had chosen. My family was facing an eviction and I was very suicidal. On referral from the Colorado College doctor, I sought help from the local community mental health center. When I went in, I told the Pikes Peak Mental Health Center therapist, Cathy Sailor, that I was certain that the problem lay somewhere buried in my past in that big empty spot I felt within. The therapist really tried and so did the psychiatrist, Steve Mueller, with whom she worked. I was again put through trials of several very powerful neuroleptic medications. Just about everything was tried medically and therapeutically. As the treatment modalities changed from standard psychotherapy to art therapy to hypnotherapy, so did my diagnosis. I also endured all kinds of tests and with every test my diagnosis changed again. I was labeled as having schizoaffective disorder, schizophreniform disorder, schizotypal personality disorder, schizoid personality disorder, cyclothymia, and borderline personality disorder. I ran the gamut of tests from mental and physical. I took a Rorschach, a TAT, a WAIS, several MMPI's, and various objective, projective and IQ assessment tests. Several blood, brain, and nerve studies were also done. I can't slight the mental health center for trying. They did everything they could but the only result was that they confirmed that I had an extremely high IQ and a mental illness of some sort and that required a label.

I had learned that psychiatry and psychology are very inexact sciences. It seems to be the exception rather than the rule that professionals ever agree on anything. The only thing mental health professionals do seem to agree on is the fact that there needs to be some common linguistic terminology by which they can communicate with each other. This is easier said than done because the terminology lacks definition. Also, those in the mental health field appear to have a strong need to be recognized as legitimate in the scientific arena and therefore, despite the unclear terminology, they must cling to labels which meet this need by giving them the appearance of credibility. One of the major problems with labels is that they tend to serve and fulfill the needs of those on the treating side of the table rather than taking into proper consideration those being treated. Labels detract from the person being treated by typecasting people into neat little boxes. I soon found out how this labeling stigma works.

Even with the labels, the mental health center was unable to hear what I had said. I knew that my problem lay buried within and I asked for help. Instead, what I got was tests and labels. I also received many prescriptions for some very powerful medications and I had hoarded these pills. When the pressure of facing an eviction was tied to my already low self-esteem about my inability to support my family and that in turn translated into even greater feelings of being a burden on everyone around me, I hit bottom. The actual trigger was reading in various papers about all of the assistance available to single parents and especially, women. I had once lost a job to a woman because of affirmative action and even though I was better qualified, there was nothing I could do about it. Now, I felt that because I had somehow managed to remain happily married for almost ten years, my family and I could not receive help. If I had beaten my wife and/or children, we could have gotten help but, because I didn't beat or abandon them, we faced hunger and loss of our home. So, in my depressed mental state I decided to make my wife a single parent so she and the kids wouldn't go hungry.

I had accumulated a stash of over two hundred pills and one day while home alone, I swallowed all of them. I then laid down to fall into the bliss of permanent sleep. After about ten minutes, I realized the trauma my wife might experience at finding me dead in our bed so, I headed out the door to find someplace else to die. By this time, the drugs had started to do their intended work and I was staggering down the middle of the street when my wife happened by on her way home. She helped me into the car and rushed me into the mental health center. They called for an ambulance and while I was in that half waking state between life and death, I had all of my psychological barriers down and for the first time in all the years I could recall, I cried. I bawled like a baby. I carried on like no one in the center had ever seen before.

I acted like a severely wounded animal and curled into a fetal position. I passed out and the paramedics rushed me to the Penrose hospital in Colorado Springs. My wife was very distraught as my heart went into fibrillation and she witnessed my body jump as I was hit with the paddles to jump start my heart. I awoke in the Emergency room feeling very angry that I had failed to die. I felt like I was such a screw up that I couldn't even commit suicide without messing up.

I spent a few days as an inpatient on the psychiatric unit and I don't recall hardly anything of this. I can only presume that I was primarily there to detox. When I got out, I discovered what stigma and prejudice were for the first time. Before I could return to college I had to fight to prove that I was not some sort of maniac. With appeals to deans and references from my therapists and various instructors, I finally managed to get back into school. I ran into unenlightened people who equated mental illness with retardation. I had to prove myself over and over again and again. I continued to make A's and work and fulfill my duties as a loving parent and participate in a wide variety of extracurricular activities. In spite of my mental state, which remained very depressed, I was better able to maintain a full and balanced life than most other people I knew. I received a little more financial aid from the school and was able to press on toward my dream of law school.

Just before completing my undergraduate degree, we finally ran out of resources and the eviction that I had feared earlier happened. I witnessed the trauma of my infant son's panic as a sheriff with a `big gun' made us leave our home and all of our possessions including all of his toys and clothes. I am amazed that my son remembers that the sheriff was kind enough to let him keep his teddy bear. We lost everything including two precious pets and a record collection worth over $10,000 We lost our clothes, our furniture (some of which were antiques from my wife's parents) and all of the kids toys.

My wife and children went to Denver and after a short stay with friends, they found a shelter they could stay at. It was a battered women's shelter and my wife had it pounded into her daily how rotten I was and how after ten years she should leave me. I stayed on with friends and finished my degree. I graduated with honors and received a piece of paper that said I now had all "the rights and privileges appertaining thereto" but despite the fine sound of these words, we were still poor and homeless. I had lost all of the books and music which had been such a large part of my life since childhood.

We lived in our car when we were reunited and lived in constant fear of being caught. We seldom slept because of the fear of hearing a policeman's wrap on the window and consequently losing our children. We lived from day to day in a struggle for survival just trying to keep our family intact. When it became inevitable that we were going to be evicted, I called on my parents back east for help. I had talked to them and they had promised to let us live with them until we could get on our feet again. With the good grades and other activities, I had been accepted at several law schools including one back in Cleveland. My wife could have gone back to work there and gotten help from her family and we would soon have been climbing back up out of the depths of the gutter. Mom and dad came out for graduation and had a wonderful vacation and when they were ready to leave, dad handed me a $100.00 bill and wished me good luck but, mom and dad had discussed it and felt we would be too much of an imposition on them. The kids had been looking forward to staying with grandma and grandpa and were very hurt when we were literally abandoned by them. It seemed they didn't care if we lived or died.

After some time on the streets we found a friend, Sue McCarville, willing to take us in for a short while. She only had a two bedroom apartment and while she and her daughter slept in one room, the five of us slept in another. This arrangement was only slightly better than living on the streets and we had the added guilt of being unable to contribute to her limited means of support as well as jeopardizing her lease with her landlord. We found a small shelter willing to help us and we stayed there for a while. I approached the law school in Denver (University of Denver Law School) to which I had been accepted and managed to get an advance against the financial aid I would get when I entered in the fall. with this money, we finally made it off of the streets. We got a small two bedroom apartment and slept on the floor on blankets. By patrolling dumpsters, we gradually acquired some meager furniture and clothing. My wife found work and we were working our way out of the hole we had lived in for too long. Things were starting to look up. We were getting some stability in our lives but, mentally, I was still very despondent over certain things.

I felt the full weight of the guilt for all that my family had been through. I was also extremely angry at mom and dad. My parents had bought my younger brother a car and my other brother who had dropped out of high school and had to get married because he had gotten a girl pregnant were both all right. The youngest had received a full house full of furniture. Both brothers were favored because they still sucked up to mom and dad. I couldn't figure out what I had done wrong. I was the most successful and I was the only one in the entire family to have ever gone to college. I had been accepted at law school but, I was treated as the black sheep. The only reason I could come up with for this behavior was that I had moved away, successfully started my own life and no longer sucked up.

Superficially, mom was proud but in a weird way. She never had a word of praise for me but she plugged my accomplishments to her co-workers so that she could receive some acclaim. I was very angry that she had done none of the hard work but received the praise for what a fine parent she was.

When we got our own place, I called mom and dad to let them know we were all right. I was trying to make amends (for what, I don't know) so I called. They had abandoned us but, I still wanted to keep touch. I was totally shocked at what transpired. I said we were doing alright and that I was calling so that they wouldn't worry. Mom let loose with a rageful tirade about how dad was very sick and the only time I ever called was when I wanted something from them. She said that I was killing dad with worry about us and she never wanted to hear from us again. I was absolutely stunned. She had the gall to blame me. I had not asked for help and as far as killing my dad, I didn't make that connection at all since the only time we had seen them in the past five years had been at graduation. It was they who had abandoned and hurt us and broken promises and yet I was somehow to blame. It didn't make any sense to me and I was really hurt and angry. It wasn't fair and I refused to accept this type of emotional abuse anymore.

In the fall, I entered law school very enthusiastically. I started off doing extremely well but, I fit in about as well as a worn out tennis shoe at a tuxedo party. We had no phone, our car had broken down and we were poor. Law school is expensive and due to my previous mental health problems, I was in a four year program to get a dual degree of a JD/MSW. so that I would be able to help others with mental health problems. I worked very hard but, by the middle of my second semester, I started to feel overwhelmed with the weight of depression again. I figured maybe I was just burnt out and I sought counseling at school with both someone from the professional school of psychology and with the school psychiatrist. Again, I had to deal with psychotropic medications and this time, it was too much. I could no longer concentrate and I had to drop out of law school so that I didn't ruin my academic record. I stayed in counseling until the summer when the counselor went on break. She referred me to a local community mental health center (Arapahoe Mental Health Center.)

I took a job to occupy my time until the next fall when I hoped to reenter law school. I stayed in counseling. When fall of 1984 rolled around, I still felt too burnt out to get back into the pressure of law school and since I had only taken a job for the summer, I was unemployed. When I couldn't return to school, I felt that I had not only lost just about all of the material possessions we had ever owned but, I felt as if all of the hard work I had put in over the past several years was all for naught. I lost hope of ever achieving my dream and I was constantly preoccupied with the hell I had put my family through. Severe depression reared it's ugly head again and I was very suicidal. The mental health center counselor (Jean Milnor) didn't know what to do because I was unresponsive to medication. In the early years of my marriage, I had gone out to bars with a friend and frequently closed them down. Even though I had not touched any booze or drugs for years, the therapist thought I might have "drydrunk" syndrome so, she sent me to alcohol and drug counseling.

I entered a thirty day treatment program at Harmony House in Estes Park, Colorado but, after three days, they decided I was too suicidal for their program and I was sent back to Denver to Mount Airy Psychiatric Hospital as an inpatient. I was put on a regimen of medication and the structure of group and individual therapy that was perceived to be in my best interests. Over a thirty day stay, I saw a psychiatrist (Steven Popkin) regularly and lied to get out. I started on suicide watch with fifteen minute checks. I still managed to attempt suicide about five times anyway. I tried everything from hanging myself in the bathroom to cutting myself with lightbulbs. I started out on strict restriction to the unit and lied my way up to the privilege of being able to go out on pass with my wife. It was during one of these passes that I suffered from an extreme reaction to the medication.

I was enjoying the time with my family and just relaxing when I started to get severe cramps in all of the muscles of my body. In just a matter of a very few minutes I was cramped up all over and in extreme agony unable to move. I had to be carried to the car by a friend and rushed back to the hospital. After what seemed an eternity of agony and injections to counteract the drug, I was finally able to relax and fell into a disturbed and fitful sleep. The doctor was able to be satisfied with the medication and he had bought the lies I told him and I was released with a new label -- mixed personality disorder with borderline and dependent features. I wasn't any better but, I had learned how to play the game. I was sure that my problem lay deeply buried within but no one would believe me. After all, what did I know? It was just my life and I didn't have an MD after my name so of course I was supposed to go along with the program and not question the doctor. He was a trained professional and by the rules of the game, I was supposed to just be an ignorant and incompetent person with mental illness. So, I learned to play the game and be compliant just to get out from under the influence of an oppressive system.

After my stay in the hospital, I was shipped back to the drug and alcohol treatment program. I was supposedly no longer too suicidal for their program. I made friends and learned the program. It was very intense and fast paced. The program was designed to be educational as well as to develop a great dependency on each other. Almost everything was done in a group setting and we developed into a very tight group. We learned about dysfunctional families and the chemical reactions of drugs and alcohol on our brains. The program was designed to make us cry and trust. We were to break down and see the pitiful mess we had made of our lives and then learn the skills to change. In college, I had studied stress management and assertiveness as well as most of what we were to learn but, I understood now that it was all a game so I played along and faked my way through. By the end of this program, all I wanted was to go home and do my own thing. I could be screwed up all on my own without having to mess with a bunch of therapists who knew it all.

Throughout the winter of 1984-5, I continued outpatient treatment at the mental health center. I had been through over two months of inpatient treatment arid I was supposedly stabilized on medication. I was not heard when I stated that it was not normal to have blanks in memory like I had from my childhood so, I lied. Treatment was just a simple formality with no real help. I was suicidal but I was too afraid to admit it for fear of being returned to a hospital and becoming just another powerless blob of human flesh which was broken and needing fixing by a real professional. I believed that the best way to pull out of my depressive funk was to keep busy so I asked my therapist for a referral to vocational rehabilitation. I felt that this was about the only way I could ever get back to law school. At least a large portion of my depression was due to the loss of my dreams, hopes and aspirations for a future.

All of my life I had fought to prove my competence. IQ tests proved my intelligence. I had excelled in every single endeavor I had attempted. I was devastated by a single B in college. Each and every job I had held, I had done very well at and when I left a job, it was usually because I was bored because I had mastered the necessary tasks and then some and it became too repetitious. Of course I didn't leave without some possibility of something better being lined up either with better pay or a better opportunity for future advancement. I had worked all of my life from the time I was eight years old and carried two paper routes for the two major papers one early morning and one afternoon. I built the routes up to the two largest routes in the city. I held after school jobs and worked every summer. I occasionally held two or three jobs and while in school I worked on campus on the work-study program as part of the financial aid package and I held down a part-tine job off campus. I made due with little sleep and maintained great grades and a good balance between school, family and work.

Still, even with all of the hard work I had done to prove myself, I had to prove myself all over again. When I went to the vocational rehabilitation counselor, I was told that I had been in school and because I hadn't held down a full time job for the past few years, she needed to assess my abilities. I had letters of reference that were meaningless. I had taken the GRE aptitude test for graduate school and had scored the maximums. This meant nothing. I had scored in the top 25% on the Law School Aptitude Test and this also meant nothing. In February 1985 I took a Strong-Campbell Interest Inventory, A Career Assessment Inventory Profile and a (GATB) General Aptitude Test Battery. I scored in the high to very high range on all but a couple of areas. The GATB has 66 work group titles and of these I was found to not have either the physical or mental aptitude for only barber and beauty services and clerical machine operation. So, basically, it appeared that there was very little I couldn't do and with my work record and the diverse range of previous jobs, that conclusion was even more strongly reinforced.

The only problem was that I now carried a label of being mentally ill. It seemed that the vocational rehabilitation counselor didn't know what to do with a law school drop out so she referred me to Bayaud Industries, a sheltered workshop. Although I was a student body president in college and a state student representative, I was to be assessed with regard to how well I was able to relate with my peers and how well I could get along with my supervisors (counselors). I had met with state boards and with college presidents and other influential people almost daily and yet, I was to be assessed for my ability to be punctual (on time for work and taking only the proper amount of time for break and lunch) and I was to be assessed for my ability to dress and act appropriately. I was to be assessed for my frustration tolerance level even though I had excelled in every previous job, class and meeting on both formal and informal levels. I still had some naiveté about the system and I trusted the so called professionals so I went along with this plan. I started work in March 1985.

I really didn't know what to expect but, I figured that I could handle just about anything. I was not, however, prepared for what I encountered when I reported for work. I was started in an assembly area in which the tasks I had to perform ranged from putting nuts and bolts together to counting and packaging fishhooks. It might not have been too bad except that I was working beside people who were severely mentally retarded or so emotionally impaired that they approached being psychotic. I really tried to be open minded but, I knew that I didn't belong in this environment. I found one counselor who recognized my ability and she had me work in the mail room. I excelled and was rewarded with advancement to the transitional employment program (TEP). At first, I was called upon to fill in as extra labor in a mail room in a local business (Petroleum, Inc.) I did such a good job that the next time that business needed some extra help they asked for me. Then, I started working there regularly while still maintaining ties to the sheltered workshop. That is the transitional piece. The workshop is supposed to provide support while you transition into full time placement. I didn't need this service but it was there anyway. Because I was so good at the job I was doing -- clerical machine operation -- I applied for regular employment with approval and encouragement from my supervisor. Remember that the job I was doing was one of the ones for which I was supposed to have no aptitude for doing.

When I applied for work at the business, I was accepted and ready to commence as a regular employee but, I discovered that I was trapped and due to contractual agreements with the sheltered workshop, I had to continue being affiliated with the workshop because they got a portion of my salary. I couldn't quit the workshop without their approval and so I had to continue to work at a lower pay scale for an additional several months. Eventually, I did get hired as a regular employee but I really had to fight to break away from the workshop. When I did get the job, I soon rose to the top and ran every machine in the nail room. I was the best they had. I might still be working there except that I was being treated with medication for high blood pressure and as a side effect, I again developed depression and an inability to concentrate. I left the job before my performance became a problem. I always tried to leave jobs on good terms because I might someday need a reference. In retrospect, I believe that the employment interventions were inappropriate for two main reasons.

I believe that the referral to the sheltered workshop by the vocational counselor was inappropriate and did not take into consideration my past history. It also ignored the various tests which indicated that such a placement was wrong. A more appropriate intervention might have been to place me in a paralegal school where I could keep my skills sharp until I was able to return to law school. The second mistake was that made by the counselors at the workshop itself.

For the most part, they only saw me as a psychiatric diagnosis and didn't see the potential I possessed. They held me back in a system in which I didn't fit. I challenge their competency to judge a persons' readiness for a job if they were unable to see now inappropriate it was for me to be there in the first place. They neither knew nor cared anything for my past in terms of previous work experience or education Nothing seemed to matter except that they got their cut of my pay.

Even though I bailed out of the job before my work record was ruined, I still had to contend with a new bout of depression. Part of the cause was the medication for high blood pressure, part was due to the fact that I had just felt the impact of falling from the top of my class in law school to counting fishhooks next to a person with severe retardation and part of the problem was due to the same old empty spot in my past which was gnawing away inside.

During all of the time in which I was going through the workshop and job experience, I had continued to see the counselor at the mental health center and I felt we had developed a pretty good rapport and a high level of trust. I had much to talk about during this time. One of the problems with mental illness is that you don't forget your past level of functioning. It is very painful to remember how well you used to function and as you struggle to return to that level, the frustration is almost unbearable. It is like climbing a ladder and every time you get close to the top, you fall off and must start again at the very bottom. Emotionally, you want to start back where you were before you fell but over and over you have to pick yourself up and go from the bottom again. So, I felt that I had again messed up and my hopes and dreams of going to law school were even further away than ever.

Because of the trust I had developed in my therapist I confessed to my suicidal feelings. We talked for some time about the fear I had about being, hospitalized again and she reassured me that she would set things up so that everything would be fine. We went round and round but, I finally agreed to go in on a voluntary basis. I was concerned about my family but I was assured that everything would be all right. I had consented to go in voluntarily but, I couldn't drive myself. Once I had consented, everything was taken out of my hands. My wife had to catch a bus to come to the mental health center to pick up our car while I was transported to the hospital by ambulance. Since I was already feeling like a failure and a burden on my family, these arrangements didn't make me feel any better.

I was again in a hospital in a psychiatric unit and suicidal. I had a new doctor who was reportedly an expert in dealing with depression. Again, I wasn't listened to and the doctor insisted on drawing his own conclusions. He was another one who had a strictly bio-medical inclination and was sure that my depression could be found as a chemical imbalance in my brain. Despite my vehement protestations, he ordered a full battery of tests. I had a severe needle phobia but, control of my life was totally in his hands and I had no say so. The nursing staff were much more understanding and supportive and while I underwent the extensive testing and the trauma of numerous blood workups, they were there to help in any way they could. The doctor seemed very disappointed when he couldn't find a chemical imbalance of any sort. After all, he was an expert at this sort of thing and since I had the diagnosis, there had to be a cause. I was well behaved on the unit and feeling as if I had to be honest to get the help I needed to finally break free of the hell I had been living in for years, I cooperated fully. I worked up from suicide watch every fifteen minutes to open privileges. Then I'd confess to feeling suicidal again and be busted back to restricted to the unit again. I had worked myself up to a level where I could go out on walks with staff and then my life took a sudden and dramatic change.