Al’s Story

About me

My name is Al Levin and I’m an assistant principal in a public elementary school.  I’ve been in education for nearly twenty years.  I’m married and have four young children between the ages of ten and four.  My wife is an educator, as well, but resigned from her teaching position when we had the twins.

I’ve recently been working towards a Co-Active coaching certificate through the Coaches Training Institute.  The coaching work has allowed me to support the staff I work with in the public schools, as well as others who are seeking support in reaching their goals or working past challenging times in their lives.

I am also a person who has recovered from a major depressive disorder, an illness that was quite debilitating for nearly six months of my life.  Through this experience, I have become very passionate about learning more about mental health and supporting others with a mental illness, particularly men with depression.


I blog on topics for which I am incredibly passionate:

  • Men and Depression
  • Suicide Prevention & Awareness
  • Stigma Around Mental Illness (and, particularly depression)
  • Our Current, Broken Mental Health System

The goal of my blog is to bring awareness to the general public around these topics.  I hope that through this awareness I can help to bring a better understanding of depression (particularly with men), perhaps save even just one life, diminish the stigma around mental health even in some minute way, and somehow positively impact a mental health system that seems often times to be of little or no support to the most vulnerable people who need it.


Blog address:

Twitter @allevin18


Chapter 1: A New Position

Several years ago, my career took a large leap from assistant principal in a public elementary school to becoming principal. This was an exponential increase in the amount of responsibility that was put upon me. Instantly there were many new challenges that I had to face on my own.

I quickly felt overwhelmed. My stomach had a continual knot in it and I could hardly eat anything at all. I found myself throwing away entire meals. My sleep began to suffer. I would roll around in bed, my mind racing, unable to fall asleep until near morning. I would try to sleep with my iPhone on, ear buds in playing beach sounds…I would do anything at all to fall asleep. I needed sleep so desperately, yet found it nearly impossible to get any at all. I shared my feelings with my brother, a family doctor, who tried his best to support me from overseas, where he was living. I sat in administrative meetings before the school year even began, wondering how I was going to accomplish all that needed to be done.

I would drive down the highway at a snail’s pace, literally going no more than fifty miles an hour, dreading the arrival to the school where I knew that I wouldn’t even know where to begin, as it seemed there was so much to accomplish. I started counting down the days that were left in the school year when we were only in October.

I finally decided that I could do this no longer. I made an appointment with my family doctor. This, alone, became another stressor. How could I not be at the school that I was trying to lead? At my doctor appointment, I could not even sit down. The doctor came in, shook my hand, and took a seat on his leather, swivel chair while I paced back and forth in the tiny clinic room. This was so strange to me. I’m not someone who paces. I couldn’t stop myself and the doctor, who had been my doctor for many years, immediately knew something was wrong. I spoke to him of my previous three or four weeks; the stress, the lack of sleep, not being able to eat and the overall feeling of not being myself. He gave me a questionnaire and made a pretty quick diagnosis of “Situational Depression”. He prescribed me a medicine and told me that I should probably see a psychologist.

Leaving the doctor’s office, I felt more stressed than ever. I called my mother from the car to tell her that I was going to have to contact the superintendent and resign from my position. I told her that I could no longer take the stress. She urged me to think about it before making any rash decisions. I took her advice.

Even with the start of medication, I was not feeling like myself at work and I certainly was not sleeping any better. I continued to keep my brother in the loop. He emailed me an article from a well-respected medical journal that encouraged doctors who prescribed anti-depressants to also prescribe a low dose of a particular type of benzodiazepine. During the day, the benzodiazepine would help with the anxiety and depression. Before bed, a slightly larger dose would help with sleep. This was primarily used as a buffer until the anti-depressant started working, as anti-depressants often take four to six weeks before they have much effect. I brought the article to my family doctor and shared my brother’s thoughts with him. Luckily, he agreed to add the benzodiazepine to my regimen of medicines. Finally, I was getting a better handle on my sleep.

I continued taking the medicines and I began to see a therapist. I found my first therapist to be more depressing than helpful. I wanted to give therapy a real shot, so I continued for two more sessions. After these sessions and still feeling no connection, I decided I would look into others. I found another therapist and this one included the added bonus of scheduling evening appointments. Scheduling appointments during my work hours would only cause me more stress and add to my depression and anxiety.

I was able to survive my first year of the principalship and my mental health seemed to be gradually improving. During the summer after my first year as a principal, my wife and I had twins. This doubled the number of children in our family. We now had a five-year old, a three-year old, and two newborns as I entered my second year as a principal. This year, I was able to have more support through the district; a mentor and a leadership coach who worked with me and our school Leadership Team. This second year seemed to go much smoother. My direct supervisor was rarely in the school, which led me to believe that the building was running smoothly. However, at my final review, to my surprise, my supervisor informed me that he would be asking me to do a third year of probation. This was not as bad as being non-renewed, but clearly not as good as being granted tenure. His reason was that he had had only one year to work with me and to mentor me. Having rarely seen my four children for two years, leaving home before they were awake and regularly getting home after dinner and often times after bedtime, I requested a voluntary demotion.


Chapter 2: The Major

My first year back as an assistant principal came and went without much excitement. My relationship with the principal was not as strong as it had been with other principals. However, the principal moved on to an opportunity in another district the following year. I was very excited to find out who my new boss would be. This next principal was confident, had high expectations of himself and his teams, and was the first principal to really work at developing me into a stronger, more confident leader. We began working together in August and had established a very good relationship. Work progressed smoothly and in the beginning of October I had a solid review from him.

For whatever reason, mid-to late October of 2013, my body began to feel strange. It was a sort of heavy, lethargic feeling as if moving through quicksand all day long. I sent an email right away to my brother and shared this information with my best friend and my wife. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was the start of what was going to be a very deep, dark depression. One that words cannot fully describe. My brother would later share with me that my first email to him describing these changes was at almost the exact time, three years earlier to the date, of when I shared the start of my 2010 depression with him.

By November, I had continued to slide downhill. My family and I visited some friends during the Thanksgiving weekend. While everybody was hanging out, talking, playing, and enjoying themselves, I sat on a stool in the kitchen at a counter island. People were around me, cooking in the kitchen, conversing and such, while I essentially just sat there, staring, sitting very quietly, trying to socialize and finding it nearly impossible. That evening, I spoke to my wife about how unable I was to socialize and how this may be manifesting at work. My wife convinced me that staying at work could be detrimental because neither of us were clear as to whether or not I could be at all effective at work, or even hold it together emotionally while at work. I texted my boss, the principal who I had only been working with only for a few months at this point, and asked him to meet me that next Monday morning at a coffee shop before work. I shared with him that I had been dealing with depression. He immediately, in an attempt to completely support me, asked me to return home right away and to do what I needed to do in order to get better. When I got to my house, my wife informed me that my boss had contacted her to let her know that I was on my way home, in case I didn’t make it.

I took those first two weeks of December off from work. It was so odd to me. I had a decent job, great review from my new boss, a happy family (with some typical chaos and challenges), yet I had somehow slipped into this depression. When I arrived home from the coffee shop, it felt a bit like a load was taken off of my shoulders, having time to figure things out. I immediately called my psychiatric PA, my family doctor, and my psychologist to get in as soon as possible for appointments. By this point, I was having sleepless nights, extreme crying bouts with my wife (after holding it together for most of the day) in which I was unable to stop crying for thirty minutes at a time, and some general thoughts of suicide. I would find myself following my wife, literally at her side, while she cooked or washed dishes, not knowing what I should be doing. My memory and cognition were definitely being impacted. I got lost with one of my daughters in my car as we went to pick up a friend in her carpool who lived less than five blocks away from our house. I had to pull over to the side of the road, take out my phone, and map it out from where we were.

I had brought my wife to a couple of my psychologist appointments, as she wanted to know how she could support me and I had no idea. She also went with me to a psychiatrist appointment in order to support me through the ordeal. I ended up taking two weeks of unstructured days off of work. In hindsight, this was one of the worst decisions I could have made. Each night I tried to make a schedule of simple things to do in order to keep me busy. I was to do laundry, exercise on our elliptical machine, clean a bathroom, take out the garbage…anything that was easy and would keep me busy in order to maintain some type of routine. Instead, I would find myself laying down on the couch and asking my wife for permission to take a nap. I would use the excuse that my therapist explained, at one of my sessions with my wife, that depression is like a brain injury and that rest is an important factor. I would go upstairs to our bedroom, lay in my bed for two or three hours at a time, unable to sleep a wink, but feeling safe alone, behind closed doors. I was looking forward to bedtime so I could be in the safety of my own bed. Prior to the depression, I would often lay down for a few minutes with my older daughters when it was their bedtime, sometimes waking up to my wife poking me in the side because I had fallen asleep for brief amount of time. At this point, I would lay down with them for more than an hour, thinking that if I stayed just a bit longer, it would be my own bedtime. One evening my eldest daughter rolled over and said, “Dad, you can go now” and I responded with, “I’ll leave soon”, remaining there for another thirty minutes or so. Never was I able to sleep while lying next to them, but it seemed much safer and less painful than being awake and not knowing what to do.

Every little thing that went wrong at the time would feel like the world was crashing down on me. I was having some minor car troubles and our internet went out. I didn’t want to leave the house for any reason at all. I was fearful that I would be seen by someone during the day while I was out who might ask or wonder why I wasn’t at work. Not only that, but motivating myself to get out of the house was nearly impossible. The few times I did make it out of the house, my wife was left wondering if I would make it back home. Because our internet was out, I had to bring my router to the Apple store at the mall and was afraid to go. I asked my sister if she would join me. She did and while we were there, sitting at the Genius Bar for a much longer time than anticipated, my sister turned to me and told me that she had to leave. I couldn’t believe it. I was very scared to be there on my own and to fend for myself, a task that would normally be quite easy and, for the most part, enjoyable. I normally enjoyed being out and meeting new people. My sister left and, although I had incredible anxiety, I somehow managed to survive the rest of the visit. These unstructured days of not working were destroying me.

On Thursday of my second week off, I met my boss at a coffee shop in the morning and told him that I wanted to start back at work the following Monday. I had discussed with my wife, my sister, and my brother and we all agreed that it would be a good time to try to go back, as I would only have one week of work and then it would be winter break. As planned, I returned the following Monday and made it through the week. I found myself staying in my office for much longer periods of time, as this became my safe place at work. If I didn’t venture out of the office, perhaps I could minimize my interactions with staff. When I did have conversations with staff, I always unintentionally put my own negative spin on things, negative comment or not, and then blamed myself. One staff member, for example, complained to me about the schedule. I personalized that comment and assumed the staff member was actually complaining about me since I had created the schedule, even though it had been shared with and approved by all grade-level representatives. This is just one small example of how easy it is to twist comments into negative, personal attacks when one is depressed…and it happened to me often at this time.

Winter break came and, as my family does each year, we took a road trip to Dubuque to spend Christmas with my in-laws. My wife had shared with her family that I was depressed. She shared this with her sisters and her parents, so everybody involved in the festivities knew about me and my depression. One evening my wife and I went out with her two sisters and their husbands and I barely spoke a word. Social events during this time were very challenging for me. I wanted to engage in conversation and couldn’t. I was normally quite a social person, so this was very strange for me and, most likely, even made me more anxious and depressed. If I were at a social event with my wife, I would often ask her later that evening, “How did I do? Was I social? Did I seem myself?” I wanted to be myself. In fact, often times through my depression and my many crying bouts I would say, “I just want to be myself again”. Back in Minneapolis, I went out with my sister for lunch. I found myself in the middle of a large, open restaurant, suddenly breaking down and sobbing uncontrollably once again.

After a week and a half of winter break and more struggling with no structure and seeking isolation and the safety of being in bed behind closed doors much of the time, it was time to go back to work. I somehow managed three more weeks. The days became more challenging at work, more isolation, and more crying bouts in the evenings. Any new task that came my way, no matter how small it may have been, felt like an additional huge weight upon me, an insurmountable mountain to climb. I tried my best to get out of the office and into classrooms. I forced myself to at times and was very uncomfortable doing so. I was meeting with my psychologist weekly at this point. I was also on a new medication that my psychiatric PA had prescribed. I was hopeful that things would get better. However, they did not. I was experiencing more frequent suicidal thoughts. At one of my psychiatry appointments I specifically asked if these thoughts could be due to the medication, as suicidal thoughts are indicated as a possible side effect of many anti-depressants, as ironic as that may be. The PA’s response was, “It could be the medication or it could be the depression.” He increased the dosage of my medication at that appointment, hoping to have a better outcome. Instead, however, my suicidal thoughts became much more frequent throughout the day and much more planned out. One evening my therapist even called me at home, as he was clearly quite concerned about my well-being. One evening, sitting at the dinner table with my wife while the kids were sleeping, I began crying uncontrollably and asked her, “You’ll be alright, right? You and the [four] kids, if I’m gone?” I truly felt a burden to the family; a bad father and a bad husband. These were some of the scariest days for me. I started imagining how I would kill myself. I thought about plans that would ensure my death by combining two methods. One plan I had thought of was to sit in the garage, car running, and to shoot myself. That way, if the gunshot somehow did not kill me, the carbon monoxide would. I had read some articles about suicide. One article I read was about a person who tried to kill himself by having the car run in the garage and, in addition to dying by suicide, others were killed when they went in to find him. As illogical as that sounds to me now, I believed it at the time. I also read that most cars these days do not have enough carbon monoxide exhaust to become harmful even in a closed garage. So, that idea was completely gone. I thought for sure it would have to be a gun. Another article that I had read, that certainly doesn’t seem logical to me at this point, was about someone who had tried to shoot themselves in the head, but the bullet went in one temple, out the other, and the person survived. I found myself looking in the mirror of the bathroom one evening, holding my hand up in the shape of a gun, trying to figure out the angle that would be needed to kill myself. I did a bit of research on the internet specifically about suicide. The first site I came to had an entire list of what method was the most likely to work, how long before death would occur, and how much pain was involved. The pain factor never even entered my mind. Someone having to find me, however, crossed my mind often. I had finally decided it would definitely be by gun. I even knew where I could get a gun. My parents were gone for the winter and my father has a gun case. I knew he even had a couple of pistols, which would be much easier than a rifle or shotgun. I thought of this plan often throughout several days and even had a dream one night about it. I remember having had plans to drive my two older daughters to my sister’s house. Because she lived only two blocks from my parents, I thought this would be the time; drop my children off and head to my parent’s house. I thought about parking a block away and shooting myself while in my car, but I thought of the terrible mess someone would have to clean up and how tragic it would be for someone to find me that way. I thought about doing it in my parents house and leaving a note on the front and back doors that stated, “Do not enter, simply call 911”. However, I didn’t think that would be fair to my family; to leave such a tragic, gory scene in my parents’ house. Again, these thoughts were really beginning to scare the hell out of me. These thoughts were out of my control. If I remember correctly, I stayed with my kids that day at my sister’s house, so that I could not act upon my plan.

I contacted the psychiatric PA and asked for an emergency appointment. I was able to schedule an appointment and asked my sister and my wife to join me. At that point, I felt like I had been screaming for help for quite some time and getting none. Even at that appointment, when I was leaning towards taking time off of work, the PA couldn’t decide and talked about some possible negative impacts that may occur if I were to take time off. I am thankful that my wife and sister were there to adamantly support the need for me to take the time off. We discussed options of various programs. I was surprised to find out that it seemed that we were going to have to call around and/or visit places in order to check out the many different programs. This was so odd to me. However, while he described a few of the programs, we had pretty much settled on a partial hospitalization program in which I would spend full days there from 9:00am-3:00pm. He told us that he didn’t know how quickly they could get me in, but that someone from the program would be calling me for a brief intake conversation on the phone.

I was lucky enough to get the call within a day or two. It happened to be a Wednesday evening. I felt cautious about how I answered the questions that I was being asked. I wondered that if I were to mention my suicidal thoughts, might I, for some reason, not be allowed to enter the program. I shared my suicidal thoughts, but tried to down play them. I desperately needed to get into this program. I need something more at this point. I had already planned on taking the next week off. I became fearful that I would have more, unstructured time off if I weren’t able to get into the program immediately. I found out that I would be going to an intake meeting the following Thursday, January 23 and starting the program the next day.

A couple weeks prior to making the decision to enter a partial hospitalization program, one of my best friends shared with me that he knew a guy in the cities whose entire job revolved around supporting men with depression. I was able to joke (a rare occasion throughout my depression) asking my friend why he had been holding out on me, not sharing this information about his acquaintance with me until this point. The person’s name was Mark Meier. A social worker who had several years earlier started a non-profit foundation called FaceIt. After several days of reservations, I contacted Mark. After meeting with him on two or three occasions at a coffee shop, he convinced me to join one of his men’s support groups. Prior to entering the partial hospitalization program, I thought it would be critical for me to start building support around me. I invited two of my best friends over several days before starting the program and shared with them most of my story and my plans to leave work in order to enter a recovery program for depression. They were very sympathetic, yet they were both at a loss as to how to support me. Two days prior to entering the partial hospitalization, I went to one of the FaceIt support groups. I walked in the door, found myself surrounded by six or seven strangers and Mark, the founder, and cried for almost two hours straight, sharing my entire story with these total strangers. The one comment I remember hearing from one of the other men was, “Wow, you’re really in the shit”. I didn’t want the two hours of group to come to an end. This was one of the safest environments I had been in for a long time. It did come to an end, I did leave, and I did go to my intake meeting two days later.

I was so thankful that my wife had joined me for my intake meeting at the hospital. In fact, I cannot believe that the staff does not ask new patients to come with a loved one or someone who knows them well for the intake meeting. We walked in the door, walked past some of their current patients, and checked in at the front desk. We were brought into a bland room with one large rectangular table. The wall was being prepped to be painted. It was all very surreal to me; being in this small room, about to check myself into a program for depression. I couldn’t believe this was me…going through this process. Yet at the same time, I was so thankful that places like this existed and I was very hopeful that this was the right thing to be doing. The meeting consisted of many questions that my wife was able to help me answer. Depression is known to impact cognition and memory, so answering the questions accurately could be quite difficult. I would imagine that some patients, meeting these doctors and staff members for the first time, may not be comfortable in answering questions such as, “How much alcohol do you drink?” or “Do you hear voices” or “How long have you had your symptoms?”, just to mention a few. A loved one may be able to decipher what may be new behaviors vs. behaviors that may be a bit odd, yet are the norm for the patient. They may also be better able to share a proper time line of events. Based on this two or three-hour long interview with a new patient, who is most likely in the midst of a significant mental health situation (possibly even crisis or psychosis), a diagnosis and medication protocol are established. I did appreciate that the psychiatrist engaged in a conversation with my wife and me around what type of meds might be best. With depression, it can be a guessing game and a long trial period, as meds often need 4-6 weeks to take effect. Based on what meds I had previously taken and what had worked for another distant family member, we selected an anti-depressant. We also discussed sleep, as this is one of the things that psychiatrists often want to straighten out immediately. The doctor adjusted and added medicine to support me in getting a full night of sleep. In addition to two psychiatrists, I also met with an occupational therapist and a nurse. All together, I believe this meeting was about three hours. After leaving, my wife and I decided to eat at the hospital restaurant. We could immediately tell which large group was from the psychiatric ward, the same group I would most likely be eating with for the next few weeks. The thought of eating lunch at a giant table with ten to fifteen other mentally ill people in the middle of a hospital restaurant, surrounded by “normal” hospital patients and hospital staff was not something that I was looking forward to.

The next day was my first day in the program. Again, I had such a surreal feeling, sitting on one of the flat, cushioned benches that were built into the wall waiting for the doors to open. This was the start of my three weeks in a partial hospitalization program; a place I would never have imagined that I would need to be a part of. There were two groups of patients, each with anywhere from six to eight patients. Every day started with a therapy group. This is similar to a peer support group, but is led by a professional (in our case, either a social worker or a therapist). There was always a period in the day that involved learning, typically related to mental illnesses or recovery. We had crafts three times a week in order for us to experiment with various self-selected art projects for which materials were provided. We would converse while working and I eventually came to really enjoy this time. I found a new hobby, pastel drawings, that I now do with my children from time to time. Other sessions that rotated throughout the week included music therapy, yoga, occupational therapy, and nursing. Patients would be pulled out during the day to meet with the psychiatrist. Psychologist appointments could be scheduled individually after the close of the day. I tried to do this often. Although I did not feel a strong connection to this therapist, I was committed to doing everything and anything I could in order to work towards recovery. I would attempt to take away at least one nugget of information to learn from each session in the individual therapy and throughout the entire day. Patients came and went, as patient spots would be filled when one had completed their typical three weeks.

My emotions varied quite a bit throughout the three-week program.   Of course, the first week I was still deeply depressed. I was starting new medication and experienced some anxiety regarding doing so. Not only that, but I was informed that one of the medications I was starting had a very common side effect of creating a significant increase in anxiety for the first few days, as well as dizziness and dry mouth. I definitely felt those effects and, as predicted, they lasted only a few days. I was trying to get an understanding of how the program worked these first days and what my days were going to entail. In the beginning, my conversations with other patients typically revolved around questions regarding the program, as it was difficult to gauge how much one could ask other patients. I also wasn’t sure how much I wanted to attempt to connect with other patients, as some patients, for whatever reason, would be gone one day and never return or “graduate” from the program. We were also encouraged to focus on our own recovery, rather than supporting others. In fact, we were not allowed to exchange numbers, carpool, or see each other outside of the program, although I know this rule was broken by some at times. There were women and men of all ages, all backgrounds, and all different types of diagnoses.

During the second week of the program I was feeling great. I believe the medication had kicked in, I was understanding the program and was finding most of it to be helpful, and I was participating at a high level in all of my groups. I started to support others. At one of my private meetings with the psychiatrist, I asked the doctor if I could return for my third week, even though I had been doing so well. It really gave me glimmers of what it felt like to be “normal” again, or to feel like myself again, and gave me a real sense of hope that I would get better.

My third and final week was really difficult. Although I wasn’t experiencing much depression, my anxiety seemed to be increasing. I’m sure this was almost entirely due to the fact that I knew the start of work was right around the corner. What was I going to tell staff at the school I worked at when I returned? What would they think? Will my return to work be successful? I knew I was going right back into the exact same home and work environment that I had left for three weeks and that had, possibly, somehow, put me into this deep, dark place that I had never experienced before. I knew I was going to have very little support, particularly compared to these last few weeks. I was scared. There was fear that I could sink into another depression at any time. The week went on and I “Graduated” that Friday, February 14, 2014. I exchanged numbers with the one patient with whom I had made a connection, said good-byes, and that was that. No more daily support and straight back to work full-time.

My boss had agreed to meet with me at a coffee shop the next day. I had requested the meeting to prepare for my first day back at work. It was nice to meet with him. He had been very understanding and supportive of my leave and did what he could to support my return. I returned to work that Monday, February 18. It was much less dramatic than anything I had anticipated. Most people simply welcomed me back. Some people asked how I was doing. I believe only one person asked why I had been out. It was a fairly smooth return, although I knew I was nowhere near a hundred percent as far as my mental health was concerned. I was still dealing with some anxiety and I knew my recovery actually had quite a ways to go. I had received the name of a psychologist who was recommended to me by the administrative assistant at the partial hospitalization program and a recommendation for a psychiatrist through a friend of my sister. I had also planned on continuing to join the men’s depression support group at FaceIt twice a month. I knew I would still need all of the resources and support possible.

It wasn’t long before I reached another setback, this one physical. The evening after my first day of work, my daughter had accidentally set off the alarm in our house. It was approximately 11:00pm. She had woken up, thought my wife and I were still awake, went downstairs to the main floor of the house, and set off the motion detector. A beeping sound began, as my daughter ran back upstairs. I vaguely remember hearing the beeping of the alarm (which lasts approximately thirty seconds before the loud horns go off) and my daughter running upstairs. My wife woke me and I shot out of bed to get to the alarm panel downstairs before the alarm sounded. I got to it just in time. However, I decided to call the alarm company just to be sure that police would not show up at our door. I dialed the number, heard the ringing, struggled in my head to come up with our verbal code to share with them and hung up in frustration, as I couldn’t remember the code. The next thing I knew, I woke up with my face at the legs of our coat rack. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I had fainted. I immediately got to my feet and staggered through the dining area towards the stairs and made it about six feet before falling to my knees and fainting again. I got up, and stumbled up the steps bouncing off the sides of the walls and slammed through my bedroom door, passing out one last time on the floor of my bedroom. My two oldest daughters were there now along with my wife. My wife woke me, I pulled myself up onto the bed, lay on my back, and told my wife I was fine.

I woke up the next morning and went to work, unfortunately with a shoulder that has never healed completely to this day. I called the psychiatrist at the partial hospitalization program, shared my fainting episodes with him, and asked if it could be due to the medication that I was still on. He did not believe it was the medication at all, since I had been on the same course of medication for three weeks without any such side effects. Both he and my family doctor, who I saw a day later, told me that I should call for an ambulance if I were to faint again.

Three days after the fainting spells, one of our two and a half year old twins started crying in the middle of the night. My wife woke me to check on him. I stood next to his crib with him shouting for his mother. I told him that I could rub his back or hold him, but that he needed to stop screaming and kicking. I told him that I was going to leave, I turned in order to return to my bedroom, and fell flat on my face fainting once again. My wife woke up to the thud of me slamming into the floor. It took her a couple of minutes to wake me this time. She immediately contacted her sister and my brother, both doctors, for advice. I sat on the floor, leaning my back against the twins’ dresser, and we agreed that we should call for an ambulance this time. The next thing I know, I was escorted by two men to an ambulance. The shaved my chest, hooked up an EKG, and started sticking me with an IV. We must have sat in that ambulance a good twenty minutes before we took the very icy, bumpy slow trek to the hospital through a terrible snowstorm. I met with the ER doctor who told me that he was absolutely certain that I had been fainting due to the medicine I was on for sleep. He said that it was the most common side effect from this particular medicine that they see in the ER. He told me, facetiously although it didn’t seem that way to me at the time, that I could, “…continue to take the medicine and that my only risk at all would be accidental death from banging my head when I faint again”. Needless to say, I very quickly, with direction from the psychiatrist, weaned myself off of the sleep medicines.


Chapter 3: The Recovery

Gradually, with some bad days here and there, and with a lot of effort, I continued to get better and better mentally each day. I was told by one psychologist that it takes a minimum of one year to fully recover from a major depressive episode. I would agree. Now, just over two years out, I feel completely recovered. I continue to work at maintaining my mental health through various avenues. I continue to go to FaceIt every other week for the men’s depression and anxiety support group. I have a psychologist who I trust and know that I could schedule an appointment with at any time. I continue on a medication and see a psychiatrist twice a year. I try to exercise on a regular basis and maintain a healthy diet. I continue to pull out the pastels now and then to create art with my kids and have taken up the guitar. I try to be fairly consistent with meditation and mindfulness. I journal on a somewhat regular basis. I have found that supporting others with depression has been very therapeutic for me. I have been connected with men to support through FaceIt and I have recently been trained by the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) as a speaker to share my own story (In Our Own Voice-IOOV) and to lead anti-stigma presentations.

Having gone through this major depressive episode has changed me in many positive ways. I have learned a great deal about mental illness, particularly depression. I realize that I had awful stereotypes in my mind regarding people living with mental illnesses and now understand that it can hit anybody, any race, from any socioeconomic group, at any time. I have become very passionate about working towards minimizing (or even eliminating) the stigma around mental health, supporting men with depression, suicide prevention and awareness, and changing what I consider to be a broken mental health system. In fact, these are the topics on which I plan to write about in this blog. Comments regarding “My Story” or any other blog entry are more than welcome!



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