Why Don’t They Share?

     Over the years, I have tried to determine why my husband would not divulge any of his inner thoughts so we could discuss them. This type of therapy could have been so easy, but he could not take the first step.  I could only imagine that he was afraid I would not believe it; I would believe he was less of a man, or it was just too painful to talk about.  I also knew that for some people the reason could be so deeply hidden the cause of the depression was unknown to them. 

     Whatever the reason, the longer one buries it, the more it appears to affect their outlook on life, and happiness seems to just drift away.

      As I see it, Old Mr. Depression has moved in accompanied by all his friends: panic attacks, anxiety, paranoia, fear, suspicion, sobbing, and uncontrollable anger.

     After we had arrived in Savannah, Gordon’s anti-depression medication was running low, and we needed to find a psychiatrist.   Somehow, I had to get him some help, and I began my search for a psychologist.  My criterion was a male who has been in practice for at least ten years and would work at finding the cause of his depression. 

  The few friends I had made since we moved to Savannah could not help me.  Then I realized my computer may just be my best friend. 

    

     I started my Google search looking for a master’s degree social worker or a psychologist.  Several were listed, and to my surprise, there was information on their background and education, their treatment areas, personal information, and pictures.   I zeroed in on one. In addition to the information on the schools he attended, I discovered he had a Ph.D. in Counseling Psychology. He had been in practice over twenty years and had also practiced as a Clinical Social Worker.   His treatment would start by taking an extensive history to determine where the problem lay.  He would only recommend a psychiatrist for medication if it were clinically indicated.  Bingo!  I had found just the doctor I was looking for.  Now all I had to do was talk Gordon into going to see him.

     After much discussion, he finally agreed to make an appointment.  During the first two visits, the doctor casually gathered a history of Gordon’s past activities, depression, and medication usage.  I was asked to attend the third session.  As I provided my side of the picture, Gordon became quiet and only added comments to negate what I was saying.  During this visit, I asked if writing about things that bothered him would be helpful.  The doctor agreed it would be and suggested he try it; he did not have to show it to anyone if he did not wish to.

     Gordon kept two or three more appointments and then refused to go.  I was on my own again, and the only weapon I had in my arsenal was writing.

Just Talk to Someone

     Forty years ago Gordon began to have a feeling of self-doubt, cried in his cereal and asked if this was all he had to look forward to in life.  When he began to argue with his superiors, I asked him to seek help for his depression as I did believe DEA had a counselor that he could have seen.  

     At the time, I was taking Social Work courses at Armstrong State College and learned of the therapy Masters Degree Social Workers provided.  I wanted him to talk to someone to get to the bottom of what was bothering him.  Was this a real case of depression or just a mid-life crisis?  He would say, “I can just talk to you.  I don’t need to talk to anyone else.”  I tried to tell him I was not the one he should talk to, as I was too close to the situation.  

     For the next several years he talked, and I listened. He talked about his work at the time and how he felt about it, but he never shared past activities.  I would occasionally ask a penetrating question. He would easily avoid it, and I did not want to raise his anger by continuing to probe.

     While we lived in Washington, DC, he required surgery and his depression was becoming worse.  I talked to his doctor and suggested he make a referral for Gordon to see a psychiatrist before he operated.  Because Gordon was very good at covering, the doctor did not feel the referral was needed.  My statement was, “I live with him, and I know he needs it.  If you make no referral, you deal with him after surgery.”

     He saw the psychiatrist and was promptly started on antidepressants.  Seeing psychiatrists and taking varied kinds of medication for depression was part of his life for the next twenty-five years.  During this time the doctor would see Gordon every three months for about fifteen minutes, ask him how he was doing and refill the prescription or try a new drug.  They never were interested in what caused this depression.

     The last psychiatrist he saw in New Bern was someone I worked with, and I got to know well.  I asked him to refer Gordon to a Social Worker to help him to deal with the cause of this long-time depression.

     The social worker was a male, forty-five years old and a veteran.  I believed Gordon would respect this person and perhaps finally open up about what was bothering him.  The first visit went well, and I thought we were finally going to get to the bottom of things.  During the second visit, however, he said he had found another job and was moving on.  Gordon would see his replacement.  What a bummer!!!

     The replacement was a young woman somewhat new to the profession.  Well, that didn’t go well.  He just danced that chick around, and by the end of the session, she discharged him as she did not understand why he was there.

     For the next eight years, he talked, I listened, and the depression only became deeper after our move.

Avoiding Reality

  Though out our married life, happy hour was the high spot of our day.  Most of our days were spent on our own careers. I usually was working full time or at least four days a week as an RN, and Gordon worked forty to sixty hours a week as a Border Patrol officer and then as a DEA agent. Frequently he was away from home for weeks or months at a time.

    This was the time to catch up with what each of us was doing and what the children had accomplished or what trouble they had gotten into. This was the tool we used to keep him current on family affairs.

    As his depression deepened, the sharing continued, but the alcohol also helped him hide from his monsters.  Instead of one drink, it became two or three hefty ones. This increased intake also developed two personalities.  When we started happy hour, he could be a pleasant, cheerful person ready to share the day’s activities.  By drink three, he became combative, argumentative, and fault finding. He knew better how to do everything.  He became a person I did not like.  Life was no picnic. If I pointed out the fallacy of his remarks, he became more combative.  To solve this problem, I talked to him as I would an Alzheimer's patient - don’t argue, steer the subject to something more pleasant.

   As he continued to drink, he spilled his food at dinner and also fell several times.  The solution was for him to go to sleep early.  In the morning he was again the pleasant husband I married.  That is if he did not spend the night wrestling with the monsters in his nightmares.

                                     PTSD or Aging

    Aging in place can be a problem, but moving and aging just aggravates someone with PTSD.  For a few years after we moved, I could not determine if aging or PTSD was the cause of Gordon’s depression and paranoia as they were running neck and neck for control.

Before we moved, we did have some medical problems, but with the help of our doctors, we had them under control.  During a routine GI series, Gordon had several polyps removed and needed to be followed every three years.  He had had open heart surgery, but all was well.  My problems were low back pain and difficulty sleeping.

    After we had settled into our new home, our bodies started to fall apart.  Our blood pressures went from high to low, and Gordon fell several times due to the low pressures.  Both of us suffered from pain in the knees and required treatment.  Gordon developed GI problems which resembled Crone’s Disease.  After a day at the museum, I developed a stress fracture in my right foot and needed a walker to get around.  I still had difficulty sleeping, but now had nightmares at the times I could sleep.  We were one big mess.  With all this medical trouble, we had new doctors who did not really know us, and we felt lost.  Thank goodness I was a retired RN.  I could just imagine how others with no medical training would be able to cope.

    During this time of readjustment, Gordon withdrew into himself believing we had just moved here in preparation for death.  He seemed to lose all of his spirit and did not try to develop new friends. Instead, he turned to his vices, alcohol, and cigarettes.

View of a caregiver

Depression Deepens After Move

   As a Geriatric Care Manager, I had counseled many friends on the dangers of moving their parents to new locations.  The earlier the move is made, the fewer problems will develop.  The whole family needs to discuss the needs of the senior being moved and the ability of the designated caregiver to provide the needs.  If problems come to light, they have to be addressed before the move.  We had done all of this.  We took our time to search for a home, and all the children were on board with the plans.

    However, within two weeks, Gordon’s dreams turned to nightmares, and his depression became darker.  His antidepressant medications were increased, but there wasn’t too much change.  I encouraged him to make contact with some of his friends from the past.  This was slow going, and when he did make contact, it quickly disappeared.  He withdrew into the house and only went to the grocery store or had coffee with one old friend.  Other than that, he would only leave the house if I were with him.

    As we all know, caregivers need time for themselves.  I had always wanted to learn more about painting with watercolors and discovered an old friend, Peggy Cone, was teaching at the college.  By the end of the summer, I was enrolled in a class one morning a week.   This gave me one morning a week on my own.

    Gordon still had his golf clubs and wanted to play golf. Of course, that meant I had to play also.  He bought me a set of clubs, and I played for a few months and quickly got back into the swing, but I became a casualty to low back pains.   He did finally develop a few golf friends, and I was off the hook.

   As you can determine by now, being a caregiver for someone with depression requires one’s whole self - body and soul.  One can get lost quickly.