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Peace, At Last by Jane Newton
I always sensed at a very young age that something was not quite right. I simply was not
a happy child. Oh, I had some laughs, but my earliest memories were of crying. No
one cried as much as I did. When I wasn't crying, I was on the verge of doing so; a
feeling of doom lingered just around the corner. I am now sure that my parents recognized
this, but in those days you didn't talk about such things. My parents lived by the old
adage, "What you don’t know won’t hurt you." My parents even discussed the
possibility of "sending me away."
My unhappy feelings continued through junior high and high school. Then I discovered boys
and alcohol. For the first time in my life, I could at least put a lid on some of my
gloomy thoughts and feelings, but this was only temporary. However, my emotional growth
ceased with my first drink as is the case with most alcoholics. The odd thing about it
all was that I was able to maintain a respectable grade point average, graduating magna cum
laude from West Virginia University with a degree in mining engineering. Can you imagine
what I could have done?!
You ask, "Why mining?" It's complicated, but here goes. My mother was
diagnosed with her last bout of cancer when I first entered college. My father wanted me
to withdraw from college and take care of my mother. It appeared that he did not want the
burden. My mother would not hear of my dropping out of school even if I did not know what
I was going to do. It was so important to her. I withdrew after two and a half years at a
small college and while pursuing a pre-medical curriculum. I stayed with my mother for eight
months. She insisted that I get back in college somewhere in the state as soon as
possible. I often ask myself, did she want me to get away from my father, with whom I
fought night and day, or did she want to make sure that I beat the time bomb ticking in my
brain that could explode any day? From a practical viewpoint, I believe she wanted to
separate my father and I; intuitively, she was well aware of the later.
I agreed with her and transferred to a larger school. I had no idea of what degree to
pursue. Additionally, I did not have the money to go. So, I thumbed through the
university's course catalog and selected the curriculum from which I thought that I could
graduate the soonest and from which I could make a decent salary - coal mining.
Therefore, I entered a man's world and it would remain so for as long as I was in it. I
was totally unprepared for the next twenty years. The stress of working in this
environment was formidable for even men, let alone an emotionally retarded female. Oddly
enough, my aggressive and domineering ways often proved valuable and garnered respect within
the industry.
My mother passed away in the spring semester of my last year in college. (I graduated in
December, 1978). Only a few short months later, my best friend from childhood was killed
in a car accident. It wasn't long until I saw a general practitioner for the first time
about my depression. She prescribed an anti-depressant. I became a zombie. I could
not keep my eyes open nor walk a straight line, so I quit taking them. This was in 1978
and the drugs were not quite as advanced as they are now. Somehow, I managed to make it
through the year, although severely depressed. The bomb was ticking but didn't go off for
another two years.
Following graduation, I immediately went to work for a small firm in Pittsburgh, PA.
Everything seemed to go rather smoothly, but I knew that the company was in dire straits
financially. After two years, I decided to go ahead and find other employment before the
axe came down. However, in 1981, I moved back to my hometown in southern West Virginia
to work for a larger coal company with an even greater opportunity and a heightened level of
stress for learning the production end of things. It seemed that shortly after moving in
I said some things to one of my best friends that were not at all in character for me. I
can recognize it now, but I didn't at the time. The fuse had been lit with this
move. For the next fifteen years, I continued to behaved impulsively, irresponsibly, and
recklessly. I made many enemies and threw away numerous golden opportunities. The
shame and guilt I felt consumed me. I was filled with regrets and anger.
My depression grew and grew. I was angry, jealous, petty, impulsive, intolerant, and a
drunk. Only when I drank was I tolerable, or so I thought. I saw numerous
psychiatrists and therapists, but they kept prescribing anti-depressants alone. I was
either a zombie or a maniac. I checked myself into a small hospital for the first of two
two-week stays in 1982. I was administered four rounds of ECTs (electroconvulsive shock
therapy) during my second stay before begging them to quit. I can remember the treatments
like it had happened yesterday, but I have no memory of anything that happened six months
before or after. I finally switched doctors and he immediately had me admitted to a
hospital in Virginia where I would stay for seven weeks. I made little progress and I
wanted to be discharged, so I told them what they wanted to hear. I quit taking the
anti-depressants and anti-psychotics and refused treatment for the next fourteen years.
Once back into the working world, after the last hospitalization, I jumped from job to job,
back to school, then back to a job, in an effort to escape my obnoxiously bad behavior.
I would fly off at any moment without any prompting or without warning. I cried
continually. And moreover, I drank increasingly. I was miserable.
Finally, in 1997, at the age of 42, I had enough. I was committing a slow and
excruciating suicide. I knew I had to stop doing what I was doing. I stopped
drinking but was unable to do it alone physically. I endured three agonizing and
excruciating days of withdrawal before having someone take me to a hospital. The memory
of those three days have been enough to keep me sober since that time. Then when the
staff was able to observe me without this crutch, they concluded that I might be bipolar;
therefore, my doctor started me on lithium and a mild, overnight anti-depressant. The
positive effects for me were almost immediate. For once I possessed something that I had
craved since I was a child - peace. Since that time, there have been only some
minor adjustments in my medications since my hospitalization. The atypical
anti-psychotic, Zyprexa, was a godsend in stabilizing my moods and decreasing my paranoia.
Unfortunately, a little more than a year after my diagnosis, I was "let go" from my
job at the time, and I have little doubt that it stemmed from my illness. Yet, I took
that setback very well because I didn't like the job that much anyway. However, I was
unemployed for the next 26 months. I went through all of my savings and retirement for my
living expenses. I eventually declared bankruptcy. However dim the outlook, I am
surviving remarkably well on my situation, taking each day one at a time. Seven years
later, I am still at peace with myself and my circumstances. I can only imagine what
would have happened had I not been on medication.
I now have a job that some may consider a rung or two down the ladder from where I once
was. It is not as challenging as what I once expected for myself, but there is less
stress than in prior jobs and I feel contentment. I strive to keep learning and
growing. I am, for once, happy to be alone with myself. I am actually proud to have
had the strength and courage to survive the storms. I think that is what success is all
about.
"When things get to be overwhelming, I think of two things: One is that it won't
seem so bad after a good nights sleep, and secondly, I've survived before."
PS: The chicken (mental illness) came before the egg (alcohol abuse).
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