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.