Here's a speech I presented, as part of Suicide Prevention Awareness Week, at Mountain Home Veterans Administration Medical Center in Johnson City, Tenn., on Sept. 11, 2009.
“Out of the Depths and Shadows of Depression and Into the Sunlight: Reconnecting with Life"
By Larry Timbs
Associate Professor
Department of Mass Communication
Winthrop University
Rock Hill, S.C. 29733
TimbsL@Winthrop.edu
Good morning.
I’m honored to be here as part of your Suicide Prevention Awareness Week.
Disclaimer: I’ve never been a suicide speaker, so bear with me. I’m anything but an expert on suicide.
I teach courses in print and Web journalism at a university in South Carolina. I’m a former newspaper editor turned academic who’s a journalist at heart. I occasionally write for newspapers and magazines, and I train people to work in the media. I do all I can to help them become better writers, editors, print page and Web page designers and photographers.
Most of the people in my classes are Generation NeXters—folks born after 1983.
So I’m a bit out of my comfort zone here—speaking on a topic I know little about and to a new kind of audience.
The only thing I know about suicide is that I’ve had close encounters with it, and but for this VA Medical Center, and for caring, skilled professionals like your very own Doris Call, I wouldn’t be here today.
More about Doris and others who helped me at the VA in a few minutes…
I’d like to start by saying something about Sept. 11, 2001. And don’t worry, I’ll quickly connect nine eleven to my assigned topic today, depression and suicide.
We should not forget our fellow Americans who found themselves in harm’s way—at the mercy of Islamic terrorists--just eight years ago.
Most of us here today probably had never heard of Osama Bin Laden or Al-Qaeda before Sept. 11, 2001.
But Al-Qaeda definitely reared its ugly head on that fateful morning eight years ago, when two commercial hijacked jetliners crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City.
The American-hating hijackers also crashed a jetliner later that morning, on September 11th, into the Pentagon.
And let’s not forget the Al-Qaeda hijacked jetliner that exploded in a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.
All total, 2,993 people died in those attacks. Some of the bodies were burned beyond recognition. Many people were incinerated when the jet fuel exploded. Not even a fingernail could be found from some of the missing or dead.
Even news professionals—hardened anchors like Dan Rather—broke down on the air when they brought us the wrenching story of so many valiant firefighters, volunteers and police officers who died trying to rescue the victims of Nine Eleven.
And America would never, ever be the same again.
Never again would we take our freedom and peace for granted.
In 2004, on the three-year anniversary of the jetliners crashing into the Twin Towers in New York City, I happened to be in New York.
One afternoon I took the subway to Ground Zero.
The Towers were gone.
In their place, where they once proudly reached to the heavens, was a huge vacant lot--a rubble-filled construction pit the size of several football fields. A tall chain linked fence barricaded anyone from entering the 17-acre site where the Twin Towers had pierced the air.
On the fence were pictures and names of hundreds of those who died or whose bodies were never found.
Firefighters, police officers and others--on that three-year anniversary of the terrorists’ attacks on America—were at Ground Zero to pay their respects.
There, too, at Ground Zero that day, were grieving friends and relatives of the dead or missing.
A group of about 75 people, forming a circle, listened as a person in the center read aloud the names of those who had died three years earlier.
Scottish bagpipes played “Amazing Grace.”
Little children tried to make sense of it all.
Street preachers warned that the end-times were near.
Dignitaries made speeches.
A woman with a blanket wrapped around her walked along the fence. On her blanket she had written the names of her friends who had died on September 11 in the Twin Towers.
I asked her what she intended to do with the blanket.
“I’m going to take it out West,” she said, “ and bury it in the red rock sand of a canyon. I think the West is spiritual, just like this place, and I want my friends to rest in peace—forever.”
A Port Authority officer with a cadaver dog, a German shepherd, talked to visitors. The dog had scoured the ruins of the World Trade Center three years earlier in a search for body parts.
I lingered at Ground Zero several hours that day. It felt like I was standing on Holy Ground—like I was at a special place akin to the battleground at Gettysburg or the Little Bighorn in South Dakota or even Iwo Jima.
Here, the blood of Americans had been shed. Here, thousands of our innocent brothers and sisters had lost their lives—secretaries, office workers, cooks, stockbrokers, custodians, bankers, police officers, firefighters, teachers, lawyers, window washers.
They had gone to work the morning of September 11, never dreaming in a million years that Al Qaeda terrorist hijackers would make that day their last one on this earth.
That’s the way it can happen with depression.
Depression can come at you totally unexpected. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve accomplished or where you’ve come from or where you live.
Depression is like a surprise curve ball. Suddenly it’s on you, and you better be able to deal with it. Because it comes fast and hard and can be deadly.
But what is depression?
Medical experts tell us it’s a common but serious illness that interferes with daily life and normal functioning.
A depressed person, according to the experts, feels so blue or sad that the person has trouble working, eating, sleeping, studying or even having a good time.
Other symptoms include feelings of hopelessness, worthlessness, restlessness, helplessness, irritability and fatigue.
You as a depressed person can feel so bad, so down, so bleak, so low that all you want to do is isolate.
Where depression comes from seems to be an open question, but some experts think it’s triggered by genetic, biochemical, environmental, social and psychological factors.
Depression can get you at the most unexpected time and change your life—for the worse.
You can be financially comfortable or smart. You can be gifted or talented. You can have a supportive family. You can have it together. Your life can be on cruise control, cool, calm, collected and comfortable….
….and then suddenly, you can find yourself, like so many others, in the jaws of crippling depression.
I say like so many others, because consider the well known personalities who’ve suffered from major depression.
The list includes: Marlon Brando, former First Lady Barbara Bush, Truman Capote, actor and comedian Drew Carey, Ray Charles, Winston Churchill, John Denver, Princess Diana, Harrison Ford, Ernest Hemingway, Michael Jackson, Kitty Dukakis (former First Lady of Massachusetts), Thomas Jefferson, Larry King, John Lennon, Elton John, Marilyn Monroe, Ralph Nader, Abraham Lincoln.
And the list of depressed persons goes on:
Edgar Allan Poe, Dolly Parton, Mark Twain, Mike Wallace, Robin Williams, Mike Tyson, Ted Turner…
And Larry C. Timbs Jr.
That’s me.
Not rich or famous or infamous.
Not a celebrity or well-known artist, scientist or public official.
Not anyone of particular note or fame. Not very smart.
I’m just depressed.
Or, more accurately, thank God, WAS depressed.
For a long time, after my depression lifted, after I became healthy and strong and “normal” again, I couldn’t talk about it.
I was ashamed and embarrassed that I had been so weak and hopeless, so DOWN. So isolated. So down in the dumps that I turned to Mountain Home VA Medical Center for help.
But that’s what happened to me about 10 years ago.
You know, folks, we can be strong and healthy and happy one day and the next thing you know, out of left field comes one of life’s curve balls, and we can find ourselves helplessly depressed. So depressed or paralyzed in the spirit that we can’t work or play or sleep or do anything that makes life worthwhile.
That’s at least the way it was with me.
Ten years ago, I wanted to separate myself from everyone I knew or loved. I isolated. I couldn’t stand to be around anyone—even my family. I stayed in bed in a dark room with the window shades pulled down. I hated sounds. Birds chirping or ringing phones drove me crazy. I wished people would just leave me alone. I dreaded being around anyone. Thoughts of the ultimate escape permeated my thinking—almost 24 hours a day. I had no energy. No desire to do anything or go anywhere. I was in a black, dark, deep abyss, a forsaken canyon. I hated the way I was, but it was as if everything I had done in my life or wanted to do didn’t matter anymore. I felt anxious, panicky, hopeless.
I was hurting—depressed, miserable, in a funk.
After fifteen years on the job and never missing a day at work, never being late, I couldn’t work, couldn’t function, had trouble interacting. The simplest little task seemed overwhelming.
So it came down to taking medical leave and coming home.
That’s what we do when we’re hurting—mentally or physically. We come home.
Thankfully, I had a loving mother and father and brother and sister and two daughters and a son who didn’t give up on me.
Who kept telling me that they loved me. That I would get better. That I needed help. That it wasn’t my fault. That some people, for whatever reason, get this way.
Finally, one day, probably at my lowest moment, I found myself fighting for life in critical care at this VA Medical Center.
I survived that and ended up a patient for several weeks here at Mountain Home on a unit for depressed or otherwise mentally ill people.
Lord, I thought, how in the world had it come to this point?
How would I ever deal with this stigma?
How could I have ever, in God’s name, sunk this low?
I had done lots of things in life right. I had worked and studied hard, colored within the lines and followed the rules—survived four years of the United States Air Force during the Vietnam era and come out of it with an honorable discharge, had made it through college and graduate school, seemed to flourish as a newspaper journalist and was in a successful career as a college professor.
Plus, I had been blessed with good, vigorous health and with three wonderful, smart, trouble-free children.
But it had all come down to my being a patient in a unit at Mountain Home where hurting people come to try to get their lives back on track.
As it turned out, this was exactly where I needed to be. The doctors and nurses and social workers here—people like Doris Call—wrapped their arms around me and said: “Larry, it’s not your fault. You’re sick, but you can get better. You’re not alone at battling to overcome this. We can help you.”
There’s a lot you forget in 10 years, but one particular conversation I had with a doctor here stands out clearly:
Me: “Why do I feel so bad, so down, so damned depressed? Why can’t I get out of this hole?”
The doctor: “It’s because you’re ill, Larry. Sometimes the brain gets sick. It’s not your fault. It’s nothing you did or didn’t do. It’s like having heart disease or diabetes. You can’t help it.”
This, Mountain Home VA Medical Center is where I came to get healed—to defeat depression.
And for me, at least, what I learned here and did here helped me tremendously, making me stronger and getting me back in the swing of things.
Clinical, crippling depression—the kind of condition that seemed to paralyze me mentally and physically—truly sucks.
It can make you turn against yourself and the world. You think dark, bleak thoughts.
I know this: You can’t defeat depression yourself. Thanks to lots of individual and group therapy sessions, to medications and to some of the best nurses, social workers and medical staff you’ll find anywhere, I got better. I also have to credit some of my fellow depressed veterans who were in that unit here at Mountain Home with me, and who reminded me that I wasn’t the only person battling this disease.
People tell me, even today: “Larry, I can’t believe you were ever so depressed that you couldn’t work and that you had to be hospitalized.
“What was it like?”
Well, for me, while I was here, it was a little like what happened to Princeton University Professor John Forbes Nash Jr.
You might remember Professor Nash, a mathematical genius who won the Nobel Prize in Economics, from the movie made a few years ago about him—titled “A Beautiful Mind.”
Professor Nash, played in the movie by Russell Crowe, suffered from paranoid schizophrenia and delusions. He behaved so erratically and so weirdly that he had to be forcefully sedated in a hospital and put on anti-psychotic medications. He had imagined—and he truly believed (if the movie about his life is accurate)--that the CIA had given him a special assignment to decipher a Soviet plot. He became so mentally ill that he could no longer function at his university, but in the end, thanks to medication and tender loving care from his doctors and family, Professor Nash survived and returned to work. He still had hallucinations, but he knew they were not real, and he didn’t let them ruin his life.
I, like Professor Nash, still have my demons. For me, they are mood swings. (My wife reminds me of that from time to time.) I still have my down times, but I’ve learned how to keep going, to not let my occasional sad tendencies get the best of me.
So how to contain the demons and maintain living a healthy life?
I think for every person it’s probably different.
I know for me, I don’t think I’ve ever been totally or completely “healed” from depression. I suspect depression is always lurking in some deep recess of my mind. I know that I have to beat it down, defeat it, control it.
How do I cope with a condition that once almost destroyed me?
What advice do I have for others who might be suffering from depression?
Three tips:
First, for me, it’s about not ever isolating again. It’s about being sure that if I do start to feel low or sad, that I’m not alone. That I have someone with me who cares about me or knows what I’m going through. Because when you’re alone and you’re depressed, you think bad things. You think the worst. You begin to feel sorry for yourself and even to turn against yourself. That funk gets deeper.
In the best-case scenario, you surround yourself, as much as possible, with happy, upbeat, positive, nurturing people. You attach yourself to them, especially when you’re going through a tough time. When you’re hurting, these are the kinds of people you can talk to, whom you can lean on for advice.
You also find a life partner—in my case it was Patsy, a good as gold mountain woman (obsessed with Conway Twitty) from Johnson County, Tennessee, just a few miles up the road from here—who pledged to be there for me, whom I could share my deepest feelings with. Patsy, my wife, has seen me at my worst and she still loves me. She’s there for me when life gets mean. She’s been there herself after having lost her first husband at age 52 to a fatal heart attack. So Patsy has taught me a thing or two about dealing with sadness.
We all need a supportive, loving wife or husband or partner, folks. Someone to laugh with or cry with. Someone to celebrate with or mourn with. Someone to hug or hold in the good times and bad times. For me, that person is Patsy.
Life just isn’t as good or fulfilling or happy if we try to go it alone. So find yourself, if you haven’t already done so, that special someone, who can be there with you in the toughest and in the best times.
Secondly, exercise is good. It can help put depression on the back burner. It boosts the blood flow and helps bring nutrients to the brain.
It’s known, for example, that when Einstein seemed to get blocked mentally in his writing or research, he would ride his bicycle.
He knew that the brain is a webbed site. Every part of our body—from our tippy toes to our fingers to our skin to our muscles and bones—is connected to our brain. We can help keep our brain healthy and vital and the blood pumping to it by exercise.
Exercise is therapeutic and seems to make me stronger physically and mentally. I wouldn’t exactly call it fun, but it’s just something that I have to do to stay healthy—again, mentally and physically. Problems, concerns and irritations seem to diminish when I’m on the elliptical or in the weight room. I still have to force myself to exercise. I dread going to the fitness center and getting hot and sweaty, but once I’m there, I like it and feel better about myself.
Thirdly, I’d recommend, if you don’t already have one, get a dog. I have a loveable sheltie, Roadie, who’s been with me now for about eight years. My dad, a World War II veteran by the way, asked me the other day: “Can he hunt? Can he tree? What the hell can he do?”
Well, Roadie can’t do very much, but I know that he loves me—unconditionally.
A dog is a man’s very best friend.
Folks, there’s a good reason for that old saying. Dogs are faithful to the end. They travel light. They go with the flow and they’re laid back. Long as you feed them and water them and love them, they’re happy. Just like us, dogs like to be petted and loved and wanted. There’s something about having a dog. They don’t talk back. They don’t argue or complain. They’re great listeners. They can help us get outside of ourselves and connect with another living thing. That can’t help but be a good way to ward off depression.
I’m happier and more together when I’m around Roadie.
I’ll close today, in talking about depression, with a short TRUE story about the Chestoa Overlook.
The Chestoa Overlook, about 40 or 50 miles from here, is a place where you can pull your car off on the Blue Ridge Parkway and view the magnificent mountain skyline.
Maybe some of you have been there. This particular overlook is at milepost 320 on the Parkway. At the pullover sign, you encounter a parking area, but no real spectacular view—yet. To access the unbelievable view, get out of your car and walk about a third of mile on a trail that cuts through azaleas, mountain laurel and rhododendron.
At the end of that trail, seemingly jutting out into the clouds, is a small rock walled viewing area (about half the size of a living room.). The wall framing the viewing area is two feet high. Beyond that wall is a drop-off of several hundred feet. You don’t want to go over that wall, folks, because it’s a long way down. If you ever go to the Chestoa Overlook, from that small rock-walled viewing area you’ll be treated to some of the most gorgeous mountain scenery in America.
So what I’m saying is this: The Chestoa Overlook is a great place to take pictures, breathe in deeply the cool clean mountain air and just take in the general ambience of the Blue Ridge.
That said, something bizarre happened at the Chestoa Overlook in the late 1980s. It continues to intrigue-even to this day.
This is what we know: A tire salesman from Fayetteville, N.C., along with his wife and his wife’s best friend visited the Chestoa Overlook on October 17, 1988.
The tire salesman said that as he was setting up his camera on the small rocked terrace that juts out from the side of the mountain, his wife and her friend stepped up on the two-foot high wall, suddenly lost their balance, and slipped and fell from the wall to their deaths more than 100 feet below.
Now remember, only three persons were on that rocked terrace that afternoon at the Chestoa Overlook—the tire salesman, his wife and his wife’s best friend.
Authorities didn’t believe the husband’s story that his wife and her friend slipped and died in an accident. So they indicted him and tried him on two counts of murder.
Prosecutors sought the death penalty, especially after they learned that the man and his wife had been having marital problems and that he had taken out a $100,000 life insurance policy on her about a year preceding the deaths at Chestoa.
The man professed his innocence, swearing repeatedly that the women had died in an accidental fall.
In the end, the befuddled jury couldn’t make up its mind one way or the other…couldn’t arrive at a verdict.
So we had a hung jury, and the accused murderer remained in jail, for, as I recall, several months, before the onset of his second trial.
Guess what happened with the second trial? The jury, a completely different jury this time, also couldn’t come to a decision—one way or the other.
So authorities decided they had held the accused long enough. They reluctantly let him go free, and he returned to his home and children.
That’s where the story of the Chestoa Overlook gets personal with me.
Because a few years later, after the second double murder trial, I was working part-time at a plant nursery in Charlotte, North Carolina.
It was during the holiday season in December. On the grounds of that plant nursery, a grizzled, elderly farmer from Pineola, North Carolina, had set up a camper trailer with his family. He and his sons and grandsons were selling Fraser fir Christmas trees.
There the old farmer was, presiding over his trees in his work boots, John Deer cap and faded bib overalls. Occasionally he’d spit from a chew of tobacco.
When I learned that he was from Pineola, I said to him: “Hey, isn’t that near the Chestoa Overlook.”
“Eee-Yep, it sure is,” he said in a deliberate, slow mountain drawl.
“Well, did you keep up with what happened there a few years ago, with that guy from Fayetteville and those two women that were with him that day at the overlook?”
“Eee-Yep,” he replied.
“Well, what do YOU think actually happened. Did he kill those women? Or did they slip off that wall and fall by accident?”
Between chews of his tobacco and with his thumbs in his overalls, he paused, looked me in the eye and then said this:
“Either way, buddy, it was a BOOGERISH THING.”
That’s my take on depression.
It’s definitely a BOOGERISH THING, but we can learn to live with it and not let it overtake us.
Thank you, ladies and gentlemen.
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