Seven Weeks: A Journey Toward Letting Go

For Mindy. Thank you for everything.

Mother Teresa: “We are like books. Most people only see our cover, the minority only read the introduction, many people believe the critics. Few will know our content.”

  Buddha:  “No one saves us but ourselves. No one can and no one may. We ourselves must walk the path.”

Welcome to my journey.

I have no idea where I am heading and am pretty certain I haven’t a clue how I have arrived where I am at. What I do know is the past two years have been a massive struggle in ways I never imagined. I also know that during that time I have increasingly struggled to get ahead, or even maintain, my mental health challenges and as a result, I am dealing with demons, new and old. If life is to be rewarding, I must re-examine myself.

This is a journey that is not seeking a specific ending. If anything, it will have an arrival, for I have arrived at a juncture where I truly grasp the world I have followed, created, and contributed to is not working for me. It is a world where I have made the choice to follow certain foundations, strategies, and choices where I allowed myself to believe others to know what is best for me. They were wrong. In fact, they were massively wrong.

I think of the millions of people in our nation who, like me, have been funneled into a canned way of life only to be consumed with many of the same chronic problems, turmoil, stress, and sense of failure as I have experienced because despite all we have, we have nothing inside.

There is not a person alive who reaches my age who has not been through their share of life challenges. Mine are not harder or smaller than any others, they are simply uniquely mine. I know people who deal with shit I would never want to deal with and hear from others who can’t imagine living with what I live with. Life is not fair. Life is not equal. Life is simply a series of struggles designed to help us grow and find our true selves.

There are no truths, just individual perceptions. Right and wrong are judgements and solutions work for some, but never work for all.

I am about to take my first set of steps on a journey. It will continue looking at my chronic conditions, only this time I am not seeking any cures for my pain, depression and fatigue. Instead, I am going to attempt to unlearn as much as I have been taught so that I can let go of the people, places, and things that weigh me down in order to make more room to find my true self. For this to happen, it requires I start by being honest with myself. If this process helps people you know, then great. However, I just want to find myself.

Managing, Not Curing

In January of 2020, as COVID gripped the planet, I set about trying to once and for all beat my three Chronic illnesses: Pain, Depression, and Fatigue. Long story short, I failed. However, through failure comes learning and if I learned one thing it is some diseases come with a cure and others you just hope to manage.

Unfortunately, that lesson has been painful for me to accept and came with other failures along the way. At the time I began working on Chronic, I was nearly three years into my second marriage. Today, I am approaching nearly two years into the disintegration of it.

My therapist tells me that I have a way of logically explaining my trauma while not describing the emotions I experienced from them. In short, I am a human version of Spock. I have this need to make sense of events and understand them from the perspective of others because doing so allows me to forgive them and move on.

Having majored in History at Chico State, I learned there is no absolute truth when studying the past. It is all up to interpretation of people, events, and their fallout. The white man’s version of our country’s history is nothing like that of the native’s or black man’s interpretation. A Christian’s perspective is no more true than a Muslim’s or Atheist’s. They are all influenced by the individual experiences of each group, their morals, customs, and of course, their desire to look good.

If an individual wants to learn their truth, he or she needs to be prepared to let go of a lot of ugliness they have most likely buried. It’s vital to recognize these things in order to let go of our past and look forward to our future.

Unlike a lot of people, I do not find inner peace through the study of the religion my parents exposed me to. I have never felt or found any comfort in calling myself a Christian or any other religion. If there are teachings that speak to me, I find more sense and comfort from Buddhism, but I am also open minded enough to know the path to inner peace is as unique as every individual on this planet. As Thich Nhat Hanh said, “Someone asked me,” What is your religion?” I said, “All the paths that lead to the light.”

Lately, I have been leaning heavily on Buddhist teachings. I care little about what a person claims to be and focus more on their actions. Killing, judging, or shunning others is not the path to inner peace, let alone salvation. The only “heaven” or “hell” that exists, in my mind, is just that, in my mind. When I die, I will simply cease being so I feel no need to spread any church’s word. What I do need to do is save me from myself and do all I can to help others in need. As Buddhists have been known to think, it doesn’t matter how long I have traveled in the wrong direction because I can always turn around.

Where I have failed the most throughout my life is failing to rely on others when I struggled. The last thing I ever want to be is a burden so I choose to suffer internally and alone while masking my challenges with humor and hard work. When I am suffering, all my logic disappears and I become my own worst enemy. My anxiety goes off the chart, I make snap decisions I often regret, and their fallout all too often makes my life all the more challenging. Worse, it ends up harming those who care about me.

A few years ago, after sharing with my therapist some of the trauma I carry inside, she said to me she was shocked that I was not dealing with drug or alcohol addiction. I’d never given it much thought and figured I had things under control. I was wrong.

I’ve overdosed twice since the end of my second marriage. The first time was in my apartment in Oxnard. I was miserable about more than my failed marriage and had not gotten out of bed for over a week other than to go to the bathroom or grab whatever food I had in my apartment. Without thought, I swallowed a nice handful of pain medication and what do you know? I lived. However, not before experiencing eight hours of an endless feeling I was trying to shed my skin and wanted to help the process along by clawing away at it. The next morning, I went for a run like nothing happened and filed away the incident with other past events.

The second time was in Chico last summer. My pain doctor gave me a drug to try that was not addictive but still in the narcotic class. Oddly, it is often used in rehab centers to help addicts while they wean from their addictions. I had used it before as directed and did not get any relief so I figured instead of using one patch in my mouth, why not try three? The next thirty-six hours were spent in a daze while my kidneys stopped passing urine and I became more than just a little constipated. I was unable to operate my phone to call 911 and unlocking my front door was far too difficult of a task to allow me to stumble over to a neighbor and ask for help. Two days later, I handed the prescription to my doctor and simply told him I had an allergic reaction to it and that was that.

Since mid-autumn, suicidal ideations have been running rampant in my head along with about ten billion other thoughts. My mind won’t shut off. When I fall asleep, I am bound to wake up with a head talking to me and a brain trying to calm myself down. Most mornings, I will roll out of bed  feeling like crap and even after my usual two cups of coffee I will struggle to get my day going. Thankfully, my dog Bug reminds me he needs me to walk him, feed him, and keep him entertained. In between, I paint like a crazed fool. Why? Because it is supposed to calm my mind.

It’s hard to admit to myself I have bigger issues than just my chronic pain, depression, and fatigue, much less tell others. Growing up, no one told me about the problems that run in my family’s DNA or history. I was raised in an era when adults did not talk about family problems, they just posed for lots of family photos that created the impression all was well. No wonder social media is one big lie.

So here I am, finally admitting to myself and others I am more screwed up than I realized. The funny thing is, I always suspected there was a cursed DNA link with addiction that ran in my family. It’s a big reason I never smoked pot as a teen, much less get into harder stuff. My drug of choice was beer until I chose living a responsible adult life over an extended college party.

From the age of 25 to 55, I might have enjoyed a beer or two on occasion, but never so much as ever got drunk. My kids didn’t need a father who was an addict on top of one who suffered from mood swings and my career was never going to be enhanced by being seen in public while intoxicated. Even after I had the first of countless orthopedic surgeries, I never bothered to take my prescribed pain medication. Ice was good enough for a guy with clear recollections of an old man who drank too much and took pain meds on a daily basis. I saw how miserable he was and figured it was not helping matters if I followed in his footsteps.

After my horrific bicycle accident in 2007, I tossed out my pain meds when I left the hospital five days later. Ice would have to do. Besides, by then I had mastered the art of silently sucking up pain in multiple forms. I might still be miserable to be around, but at least I was sober.

However, after ten years of chronic spine and head pain, I was instructed by my local ER to take my pain meds as directed or not bother to come in when my pain was so far off the scale I just wanted to be dead.

From 2016 to 2020, I used my meds as directed. In fact, my pain clinic increased my dose because my doctor said I was his only patient who never asked for more and that he could see I was really suffering. This allowed me to create a stockpile to lean on during more painful periods.

When I began working at Motel 6 doing lots of physical labor, each shift ended with a shitload of pain because I was not going to use pain meds while on the job. I’d rush home and take a double dose which soon led to a triple dose. As my tolerance built up, I found the perfect solution, one or two beers after dinner on top of my meds. Why not? My wife enjoyed her wine and we’d sit and enjoy TV together. That said, the days or weeks when I did not have any pain passed without me even thinking about heading to the medicine cabinet. In my mind, I did not have a drug problem, I only had a pain problem.

When marriage number two suddenly ended, I convinced myself I was being good because I bypassed the alcohol section whenever I bought groceries. I had plenty of pain medication and unlike most others, I found I could double up on my dose and not suffer the worst of the side effects, constipation. I’d take two mid-day and another two at 6pm and all was good. Well, until I hit a real depressive low and could not get out of bed. Then came my big gulp only to be disappointed nothing good came from it.

Today, I am on a lower dose of pain medication. I do not take any unless I need it and when I do, I am done for the day with driving anywhere. Best of all, other than the beer I recently drank while watching my roommate perform at a club, the only other drink I have had since early December was during a similar event. I have learned I do not enjoy IPAs, so each time out I ordered one and nursed it for an hour before leaving. Don’t get me wrong, If I ordered a Skip and Go Naked, a shot of gin in a cold mug of beer, I’d be closing down the joint. Self-control is not a strength of mine when I enjoy something.

Growing up in Lafayette, California, alcohol was a part of life. Parents accepted the fact that kids were going to drink. They just did not want us smoking pot because in their world, that put us on the fast track for syringes. Hell, I didn’t even get in trouble for getting drunk the first time in the summer between sixth and seventh grade at my oldest sister’s bachelorette party. Junior High saw me drinking at church sponsored dances and by the end of my senior year of high school, most school days saw me sneaking off campus at lunch and heading back to my last class of the day two sheets to the wind.

To make sure I never got caught, I drank early, sobered up before getting home, and kept to myself as much as possible. As long as I did not poke the bear, my father, all was good.

I stopped drinking all together, the first time, when I was in community college. I told myself I was not going to drink again until I was 21 after a crazy Halloween binge. On my 21st birthday, I managed to get my drunken self and three friends booted from an Oakland A’s game. Sobriety was now in my past.

Life as a college student in Chico did not see me drinking every night like I saw others doing. However, when Friday night rolled around, I had my usual, four 32 ounce Coors that I referred to as IV bottles. If I mastered one thing in college it was the art of binge drinking. There was the night I destroyed a table of twenty contestants in a game of quarters. Four ping pong balls bouncing around with individuals being singled out for mass consumption resulted in me, the smallest guy at the table and all of 140 pounds drinking everyone under it. Who knows, if I had not grown bored with college life, I may have gone on to become the Joey Chestnut of beer competitions.

I am actually thankful now that beer no longer agrees with my stomach. I am no longer attracted to its hypnotic spell. However, gin is always a temptation.

There are probably readers thinking I need to enroll in a twelve step program. Maybe I do and perhaps the day will arrive I try one, but for now, I have bigger things to conquer. In particular, figuring out whether I will ever learn how to manage my depression, anxiety, and PTSD that has gripped me by the throat as part of my battle with chronic pain. Solve those things and I figure I have no need to forget about life.

A path that leads me to self-acceptance and the sense of being if I am going to like myself enough to look forward to the last couple of decades I have here — that’s what I need. For any path forward to work, I need to get a grip, and in order to get such a grip, I need to get my brain balanced. That balance requires me to find a way to make the antidepressant I am on more effective which has led me to my fourth go with TMS (Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation) therapy to reset my brain.

For the next seven weeks, I will receive TMS every Monday through Friday and gauge whether it helps snap me out of my depression. If it fails, my options become limited and include treatments I want nothing to do with. For now, my brain is in the hands of the people at Therapeutic Solutions in Chico. However, this is my mess to solve and no one else’s. What I do know is I will never be cured medically, but there are ways for me to effectively manage my illnesses.

Agatha Christie once said, “One must accept the fact that we have only one companion who accompanies us from the cradle to the grave — our own self. Get on good terms with that companion — learn to live with yourself.”

It’s time I learn to like who I am. However, for that to happen, I must lose a lot of myself if I am going to find out. It’s time I start.

Seeking Help

Recently I was evaluated at a local mental health clinic. After filling out lots of questions and then going over my answers with a professional, even I was a bit surprised at the diagnosis: Major Depressive Disorder, Treatment Resistant Depression, Severe Anxiety, and PTSD.

In a nutshell, I have tried four different classes of antidepressants only for the first three to provide zero relief and my fourth one to no longer work due to building up a tolerance to it. My hope is, like the three previous TMS therapies, it helps boost its effectiveness. If so, I will just have to devote seven weeks every year to TMS. If not, well, I don’t want to think about it.

Along with antidepressants, I have tried other treatments for my depression. A supplement called 5-HTP boosts serotonin but makes my anxiety far worse. Micro-dosing Psilocybin, the ingredient in magic mushrooms that has helped many with my problems, did not do anything for me. Ketamine made a huge difference at first, but more recently, its benefit only lasted a day or two when before it provided me with weeks of relief.

My hope is that once I finish with this round of TMS, it combined with Ketamine sessions will work to make my antidepressant more effective. Studies are showing this to be the case so perhaps this will become my method of managing my depression.

Still, I also need to address my anxiety and PTSD. Sadly, getting those three things under control still leaves me to deal with my chronic spine and migraine pain. No wonder I have the energy of a dead man. Since they are all interwoven, if I fail to manage one effectively, one-by-one the other dominoes will fall.

One thing is certain, if I continue doing things the way I have, I am destined to fail. Since each failure brings me lower than the previous one, I know I must employ some new approaches. I also need to remain open to the idea that I may need to pack up and move somewhere that offers greater resources for someone in my position. As beautiful as Chico is, it lags behind when it comes to the sort of medical options I had available in Ventura County. It may even mean moving back to a warmer and drier climate, one that my body responds to more favorably.

Feb. 10th: TMS Resumes

Day one. I feel like shit this morning. Somehow, I managed to forget again to take my evening meds and as a result, I was awake and in horrible pain all night. Worse, I can’t have any caffeine this morning or pain medication so by the time my appointment to map my brain rolled around, I was in bad shape. I’m just glad to be starting this today as my depression is about as low as it has been other than immediately after Charlene and I split up. Plus my anxiety is off the chart. My mind takes me back and forth to dark thoughts. I am counting on this therapy to snap me out of things.

I need to get into a better frame of mind to help me determine whether I want to go through another winter in Chico. I might be better off back in southern California. I have hidden the depth of this round of depression from my family. The only ones who have a clue to it are my roommate DeeDee and friend Gina. However, I have not let them in on everything I am experiencing. Thankfully, they understand what it is like to struggle with mental health matters. I have often thought maybe the reason I have this struggle and my chronic pain is so others do not have to experience any.

Most people who suffer do so alone. I mastered this art early in life. Looking back, I realize I was a mess internally. My stomach was tied up in knots and my anxiety about what might happen next made concentrating in school impossible. I was a Moore, and I soon learned all my teachers had taught older siblings of mine and it came with the usual teacher announcement to the class about their certainty that I would be every bit as wonderful a student as my siblings.

It also didn’t help that I felt like I had a father who could never be impressed by anything I did because an older sibling had already accomplished it. When school work did not come easy for me, my anxiety only increased. About all I excelled at was recess. When we were left to work on our own in class, my brain would not stop talking to me. It shifted from topic to topic and with my active imagination to help it, I was my own worst enemy.

By the time I was in 5th grade, I could also be any teacher’s worst nightmare. I found that whenever I disrupted class and made the teacher stop teaching, the break allowed me to get back on track with the rest of my classmates. Of course, when I was sent to stand outside the classroom, I only fell further behind.

When the final school bell of the day rang, I was finished with learning. It was time for me to run and race my school bus that stopped at the end of my driveway home. Then I grabbed a quick snack before heading over to my best friend’s house where we played whatever sport was in season. After dinner, homework could always wait because I usually had a more important game of electric football to play against my older brother Chuck.

However, there were plenty of other times I suffered in silence. I learned early in life by observing my older siblings that my dad was not interested in being bothered after our family dinner. I did not know this was his time to retreat into his own private coping mechanisms to escape from whatever demons plagued him.

If there was some sort of family drama going on, I did all I could to remain in my room away from it unless there was still light outside. In that case, I headed to my backyard where I played ball by myself.