1995 - YEAR OF AGONY

“One may not reach the dawn save by the path of the night.”  "Sand and Foam"  Kahlil Gibran

“Are you all right? Do you need help?” the angel asked. “Yes, please get help,” I urged in a weak voice. As I lay dying in the ditch I could not help thinking that this voice of mercy was yet another cruel hallucination. For hours, for eons, I had been tormented by demons, the product of the huge overdose of barbiturates I had ingested. Unable to see her clearly, I clung desperately to the angel’s every word. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to get help. Will you be all right?” she asked, her voice full of comfort and compassion. “Please get someone to stay here with me. Don’t leave me all alone,” I implored. I was dreadfully afraid that the monsters would return to torture and finally kill me. They had become bolder and bolder with each passing hour. “Okay. I’ll go get someone to stay here with you while I get help,” she replied. Several eternities later the angel returned with an elderly man. “This man will stay with you while I get help,” she said from the top of the ditch. Then she disappeared. The old man asked me if I was all right, and then fell silent, maintaining a watchful vigil over my prostrate body. Thus we waited, two strangers, both helpless. He could do nothing to assist me as I lay semi-comatose in the ditch, a stone’s throw from death. But the old man’s very presence was a great psychological relief. It provided me with the first real hope of survival that I had had in months. At least those terrible monsters which had been torturing me for many hours were gone. Balanced precariously between hope and despair, I prayed silently for deliverance from this nightmare pit.

It had been a long, slow fall into this ditch by the ocean in Cayucos, California. Just four years earlier I had been the Executive Director of the Hemophilia Association of San Diego County, a small, health-oriented non-profit agency. Life was good and promised to get better. I had tried so hard to make a success of myself and appeared to be on the very edge of long sought emotional, financial, and career stability. Rising from a humble working class background, I had served in Viet Nam in 1966-67 where I was injured. Using my G.I. educational benefits to the fullest, I earned an advanced degree in public administration from the prestigious Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public Affairs, Syracuse University in 1975. My move from the East Coast to San Diego that same year was both bold and profoundly life altering. It represented my deep desire to separate from a traumatic upbringing and make a fresh start and create a better quality of life.

Despite outward manifestations of success, however, my life had continued to be shadowed by profound doubt and anxiety. My scholastic and career achievements, impressive as they were, could not silence the cruel master which pontificated inside my head. Historically, I had little faith, trust, or confidence in myself. Nor had I ever felt loved or particularly worthy of being loved, by others or myself. Instead, I punished myself unmercifully, my abusive parents having long since been replaced by an even more relentless tyrant inside my head. When the major psychic earthquakes began in 1971 and continued in 1977 and 1981-82, they were profoundly disruptive.

Triggered by scholastic or economic stress, the tectonic plates of my psychic world ruptured, destroying everything that I had worked so hard to build. Along the fault lines, inner continents collided. Light and dark, ideal and real, male and female, hope and despair, good and evil; I felt these polarities intensely. I did not feel whole, integrated, centered, or in equilibrium. Instead, elemental forces, seemingly beyond my control, clashed in titanic conflict within my psyche.

The massive quake which shattered my life in 1995 began with a major fore shock. When I was fired from my job as Executive Director of the HASDC after only five months, I was relieved. Although I had never been fired before, the stresses of the position were enormous on me, the sole staff person. Now, with an income of only $89 a month from the Veteran’s Administration, I began the work of finding work again. But dozens of career seminars, job fairs, employment applications, and job interviews proved futile. The months of unemployment drifted into years, hope evaporated into despair.

As the early 1990’s melded into the middle of the decade, my economic fortunes deteriorated. The psychic strain also continued its relentless intensification. A second major precursor jolt occurred in early February 1995. This disastrous year began when I was told I would have to leave the home and ‘family’ that I had lived with for the past seven years. My depression, which had been deepening through the latter part of 1994, now neared paralyzing intensity. I loved the people that I was living with, especially the two young daughters of the landlady, Ashley and Lindsay. I had rented a room in their house in a beautiful area of San Diego in the summer of 1988. Ashley was only one year old; Lindsay was not born yet. I was pleasantly surprised when I first met Darcy, the landlady. She was only twenty-two and pretty. Her and her husband, a much older fifty-three, owned the house. Charles and Darcy were both devoted Seventh Day Adventists, non-smokers, non-drinkers, and vegetarians. The first time I met Charles I thought that he was Darcy’s father, not her husband. Amiable with a round, open face and ready smile, Charles exuded sincere benevolence. When Lindsay was born in July 1989, I felt like an uncle again, and, as events unfolded, nearly like a father to her and Ashley.

In June 1990 Charles was stricken with a rare disease, meningitis encephalitis. A serious, life-threatening virus which attacks the brain and may enter the body from contaminated food, it is easily treatable and cured with antibiotics if caught in its early stages. Being Seventh Day Adventists, however, early medical treatment was delayed in preference for divine healing. When help was at last sought, Charles was delirious and had a high fever. He soon lapsed into a coma as the infection reached his brain. This disease did everything but the merciful thing; it failed to take his life. It left him in a helpless, vegetative condition, unable to move, talk, eat, or breathe unaided. Although a prisoner of his body, his noble heart refused to stop beating. A respirator kept him breathing. Ironically, his handshake remained firm and powerful, evidence of his deep spiritual life force.

For Darcy this disaster was nearly unbearable. How could God do this to her, to her family, to her husband? Only twenty-four, she fought back waves of depression with all the strength she could muster. At first she dared to hope for a miracle, praying that her husband’s damaged brain might be healed. As the weeks passed into months, the months into years, however, it became clear that Charles was gone. His blank, blood-shot eyes stared uncomprehendingly, his mouth, drooling saliva, spoke words with no meaning. Rarely and briefly, he uttered words of recognition. Then he would lapse back into coma. Increasingly, Darcy was being forced to confront unthinkable questions; how long would her husband hold onto life in this vegetative state, and how long could she afford to sustain his life? Difficult questions for anyone, but nearly impossible for a young mother. Charles’ parents were both still alive, both in there nineties!

I had never witnessed anything like this. I was at a loss as to how I should respond or what I should say. I tried to be kind, sympathetic, and helpful to Darcy, but I felt woefully inadequate in the face of this catastrophe. I had no medical or psychological training, and thus was unable to counsel her about Charles’ treatment or her own emotional stress. Increasingly, she was in an emotional free fall, desperately hanging on to her religious beliefs for comfort and inspiration. Overnight I watched as this once happy and healthy family degenerated into misery and despair.

As the children grew, I felt increasing affection for them and they for me. I became their “Uncle Art.” Always fond of children, I eventually adapted to this role as being both natural and enjoyable. They never became ‘my children,’ but were very special to me. They loved me because I would play with them, listen to them, hug them, read to them. I made them feel important and wanted, something they both desperately needed. As Darcy’s depression deepened, she increasingly isolated herself from her small daughters. She was overwhelmed by feelings of rage, grief, and guilt. The children suffered emotional and physical abuse from their mother, abuse I found difficult to tolerate given my own turbulent upbringing.

In the meantime, while all this was going on, my endless search for employment was going nowhere. My savings evaporated, my mood darkened. As 1994 drew to a close, it was clear that dramatic changes would soon take place in my life. Darcy’s decision to end Charles’ ordeal set things in motion. It wasn’t an easy decision for her, but was probably inevitable given his condition and the family’s financial distress. Early in December 1994 she elected to disconnect her husband’s life-support system. She watched him fight for breath for ninety agonizing minutes. It was the most devastating thing she had ever seen she told me later. I attended his funeral mass before Christmas, and many kind things were said about this good man.

Early in January 1995 Darcy re-married. Her new husband, a private contractor, had two teenaged children of his own. The larger family needed the entire house to themselves. I was the odd man out, and out I went on February 3, 1995. Leaving the children I had grown to love over the past seven years, I had little time to ponder my great loss.

I had just sold a beautiful Cadillac Eldorado which I purchased in 1991. I used the money to buy an old, beat up Pontiac LeMans, and pay my rent on a room that I had found in a home in the same neighborhood. But this band-aid measure did nothing to ease my financial plight or cure my deepening depression. By May I was contemplating the near certainty of homelessness for the second time in my life. My will was virtually paralyzed as I found myself unable to take any effective action to free myself from my plight. I dreaded each new day which brought me closer to certain homelessness. My new landlord, concerned about my fragile emotional health, took me to the Veteran’s Administration Hospital to consult with a psychologist. Asking me if I felt suicidal, I honestly replied that I did not. He prescribed no medication and advised no follow-up treatment. Instead, he stated that my depression was normal given the financial distress and fear of homelessness that I was experiencing.

But suicide, that most awful human action, was very much on my mind on June 30. On that day my grace period ended and my landlord said I must leave. He had given me two months notice, and did everything he could to help me. But he was financially stressed himself by the demands of his ex-wife for alimony (she was very wealthy and didn’t need his money, but still demanded alimony to punish him). On the morning I had to leave I vainly searched the house for a knife to kill myself with. If I had found one I would have stabbed myself to death, so great was my loathing of a second period of homelessness. But my landlord had had the foresight to hide all the knives. So I wearily packed my meager belongings into my car, storing the larger items in the garage.

My second period of homelessness began. Major, severe depression engulfed me in its vise-like grip, making everything seem unreal, like a bad dream. I was all alone, on my own, in a city of over 1,000,000 souls. The city which I had lived in and loved for twenty years now seemed strangely alien and hostile. Where would I live and how would I survive? Simple, elementary aspects of life, such as where to go to the bathroom or bathe, became serious issues. My health, usually robust, also took a turn downward. My deep depression robbed me of my appetite, and I had little money for food. My weight plummeted from 180 to 150 pounds over several months.

Compounding my problems was a brand new one, and one I had no previous experience with. Always a law-abiding person, I had never been in trouble with the law. Now, however, I became the subject of police surveillance by undercover officers. It all started one day shortly after I became homeless. Forced to sleep in my car, I was trying to remain inconspicuous. I was just trying to survive. A patrol car pulled up beside my car and a uniformed officer asked me if I was all right (it was a hot day in July in San Diego). I replied that I was fine and the officer drove away. Minutes later a red shiny sports car, driven by a female with a male passenger, sped by my car. They repeated this action several times as if to draw my attention. I believe these were undercover agents assigned to watch my movements. Neighbors in the neighborhood I had lived in for seven years had apparently notified police about a suspicious vehicle parked on their street.

My old car seemed out of place to them in this posh area of the city. One night, in this same neighborhood, strongly suspecting that I was being tailed, I double backed on another fast sports car. The car sped off quickly as soon as I made eye contact with its driver. Parked in this same neighborhood on yet another night, I was awakened by flashing lights. Peering cautiously over the front seat from my backseat ‘bedroom’, I was aghast at the sight that greeted me. Uniformed officers, guns drawn and dogs at their side, were running towards buildings near my car. I huddled in my back seat, expected any moment to hear the booming voice of the police commanding me to get out of my car and lie face down on the street. My heart beat wildly in dreadful anticipation. I felt that I was about to die! But nothing happened. When I peeked out the window, all was quiet, the silent street deserted.

Feeling threatened, I left this neighborhood which had been my home for seven years. On July 4, 1995 I ‘moved’ to La Jolla, one of San Diego’s most affluent areas. But there was no escaping the police. At a seaside park, trying to enjoy the warmth of the sun and escape my problems, I was astonished when two plainclothes detectives sat down a few feet away from me, their guns and radios clearly visible for me to see. On another occasion, in Mission Bay, a loud alarm went off as I approached another undercover agent. He grabbed for his jacket as I passed close by. Figments of my imagination, signs of paranoia induced by stress and severe depression? Whatever the case, I felt threatened, isolated and vulnerable.

By the middle of August I had reached the end of my endurance. Unable to sleep at night, without food, money, hope, or love, the struggle for survival did not seem worth the effort any longer. My depression had reached a new low. I decided to leave San Diego and head home to Connecticut. I didn’t really care if I made it back east or not. I just wanted it to end. As I sped north on Interstate 15 out of the city I felt a thrill of liberation. At last I was free of my tormentors. But as I neared the California-Arizona border, a new demon dashed my hopes for escape – the desert heat. At night the temperature was still in the mid-nineties. I knew my car would never make it through the desert during the day and I lacked the money for hotel rooms. Reluctantly, I abandoned my transcontinental pilgrimage and returned to San Diego.

Back in San Diego I pondered my next move. Staying in the city was impossible. I felt trapped and without any viable options. I wanted out - out of this box, out of this problem, and out of this unlivable life. Still feeling hounded by the detectives, I just wanted to escape, even if that escape meant death. I had reached my breaking point. Emotionally and physically exhausted, homeless and without adequate finances or food to sustain my life, further struggle seemed futile. No one seemed to care if I lived or died; not family, not friends, not community. I felt abandoned by everyone and utterly alone. I watched life move all around me, but I, in my ghost-like trance, felt disconnected from it all. I had become a shadow of a man, all hope for a normal life swallowed by the black hole of my deep depression. It was a living death!

On August 21, 1995 I made the terrible resolution to end my life. It was a decision based on terminal frustration with my circumstances, not on my hatred of life. Because my major depression greatly distorted my thoughts, I incorrectly believed that I was bad, beyond hope, and a worthless ‘good for nothing’ failure. Based on this false assessment of my character and worth, I believed that no one and nothing could reverse or ameliorate the state I was in. With my last ounce of strength and will, I withdrew most of my savings from the bank and purchased several boxes of sleeping pills and a bottle of Ameretto Italian liqueur. It was mid-afternoon.

I drove from Mission Bay to La Jolla and parked along the scenic coast that I so loved. Police cars drove by several times. I felt that the officers knew that I had bought sleeping pills and were watching me closely to prevent my suicide. I left my car and began walking toward the lifeguard station, depositing the full bottle of Amereto in a homeless couple’s shopping cart along the way. At least they would have some happiness tonight, I grimly thought to myself! At the lifeguard station I stood next to a man in a suit who I knew was a doctor. He was waiting to administer medical aid to me when I took those pills, I believed. Then I went to the other side of the station and stood next to a very handsome young man who said hi to me. But I was in no mood for conversation with a stranger, even one who I was attracted to. I walked hesitantly back to my car, uncertain of what to do. The sun, now nearing the horizon, seemed to urge me to make up my mind.

It was then that I finally resolved to leave San Diego, my home for twenty years. My Dad had once commented that, “you are going to die in San Diego.” He wanted me to seek work as an actor or screenwriter in Hollywood. Now I determined to prove him wrong. If I must die, it would not be in San Diego. I had always wanted to see Crater Lake National Park in southern Oregon. During a vacation in 1979 I had driven to within three miles of the lake when an early snowstorm forced me back down the mountain. Now I would drive up to Oregon, see the deepest lake in the country, and then end my days on the Earth. Somehow it seemed an appropriate place to unite my spirit with the Creator.

Leaving La Jolla I drove north on Interstate 5. Stopping in Carlsbad for gas, I was soon on my way again. Past the San Diego County line I sped. I felt a thrill of relief, satisfied that I had proven my father’s prophecy wrong. Now that I had given up all hope and expectation I felt curiously free and relaxed. Nothing mattered now for my struggle for survival was over. Having no future, I had no past. Having no past, I possessed no regrets. For a dying man all that exists is the present. Since death was a certainty, I at last understood an important key to living – living in the moment. Why had it taken me so long to discover that fundamental truth to happiness? Why did this crisis have to happen for me to grasp this insight? Our psychic interpretation of time is critical to our emotional wellbeing I learned. As we perceive that less and less time remains in our life, time compresses and becomes meaningless.

It was dark now as I sped through Orange County. Traffic was light in Los Angeles as the hour approached midnight. From Interstate 5 I turned west onto California 101. The miles flew by, the road deserted on this early Tuesday morning, August 22, 1995. My eyes grew heavy, but I pushed on determined to put as much distance between me and the great pain that I had suffered in San Diego. Finally, I reached a rest area along the highway at Gaviota. It was 2:30 in the morning as I wearily climbed into the back seat and instantly fell asleep.

“You are not dead, just sleeping. You are not dead, just sleeping.” Did I actually hear this message or was I dreaming, I wondered? The mechanical message was all too real. Those damn detectives had followed me and were taunting me in my misery! Past caring, I began driving north on California 101 again. It was 6:30 a.m. on a bright, central California day. But all I had on my mind was dying. I drove through sleepy farm country where fields were filled with ripening fruits and vegetables. Soon I was driving on Route 1 along the coast, past Morro Bay, Cayucos, Harmony, and Cambria. My old Pontiac then began making strange sounds and began overheating. Low on money, I decided it would be impossible to reach my destination, Crater Lake, Oregon. At a vista point by the ocean I stopped. High mountains loomed above me. On the top of one was the Hearst Castle at San Simeon. In the shadow of a millionaire’s castle this homeless man would die.

I sat in my car and looked out at the gray ocean for some time. Was this desperate act really necessary, I questioned myself? Wasn’t there an alternative? No alternative coming to mind, I prayed to Jesus for forgiveness for the great sin that I was about to commit. In my dementia I reasoned that, if Jesus had really loved me, he would have helped me when I had prayed for a job. How did He expect me to survive without work? I began to slowly unwrap the blue sleeping pills from their plastic containers. When they were ready I paused, trying to get the courage to take the first one. But too many people were at this vista area. It lacked the privacy I needed. Desperate for relief from my great inner turmoil, I began driving south, retracing my route.

Finally I found what I was seeking. A football sized, unpaved parking lot by the ocean on Route 1 north of the seaside community of Cayucos was the perfect spot. Lonely and nearly deserted, it provided the privacy I needed. Along the entire length of the lot was a two-foot high black, plastic barrier. Beyond this barrier was a large field where two bulls grazed. A ditch ran the length of the lot. I decided to get it over with as quickly as possible. The first pill was soon followed by a dozen more. A dozen more followed them and were helped along with water. The pills did not taste good and were rather large. I began having difficulty swallowing them. I estimate that I took at least thirty-five pills before I stopped. They tasted quite bitter now. Although I had many left, I decided that I had taken enough to do the job.

I climbed into the back seat of my car and waited for the poison to take effect. Five minutes, ten minutes, twenty minutes passed. I felt nothing. The pills were not working. Had those damn detectives had the gall to switch all the pills in the store and substitute placebos, I wondered? What an incredible idea! It was the final conscious thought I had before I entered hell. Somehow, some way, I left my car. Sleepwalking in mid-afternoon, I fell heavily into the ditch, badly bruising my left elbow and buttock. The wrenching fall shocked me awake momentarily. In my nightmare dream, I felt no pain, however. But in the ditch I felt great terror.

Try as I might, I could not rise to my feet. A dozen times I tried to stand, but each time my knees buckled beneath me. I was reduced to crawling as I vainly tried to escape this trap. I tried over and over to crawl up the side of the ditch, but the hay matting was too slippery. The demons, sensing my helplessness and fear, began their assault. I feared them the more for I never saw them. Every time I turned my head to look at them, they vanished. But I heard them on the other side of the black plastic barrier. Why didn’t they attack and kill me and be done with it, I wondered? Why were they torturing me with their fearsome, obscene threats? They were cowards! They lit the straw on fire repeatedly, knowing my helpless condition and my secret horror of being burned alive. I desperately extinguished each flame with my hand as soon as it appeared. But as soon as I put out one flame, two others ignited.

Then the dragons appeared. Their ugly heads popped out of the ground on all sides, and just as quickly disappeared underground. They slithered over my helpless body, daring me to protest. From behind the black barrier came the shouts and hollers of the unseen voices: "wait till we get hold of you, boy! You are all ours to do with as we please. We’re going to make you suffer a slow, agonizing death. You have no where to run, no place to hide. You are all ours, boy.” Then oblivion. As night fell, I lapsed into coma.

In the morning my nightmare continued and intensified. I waited in stark terror for the unseen voices to make their dreaded appearance. The black plastic seemed to move more and more, a sign of mounting activity. I saw vague shapes and movement as I peered through the plastic. The voices grew louder and shouted greater obscenities. “You fucker, we’re going to get you now. We’re coming, you fucking bastard. Don’t try to run, shithead. You’re finished.” With the remaining strength I possessed, I crawled as fast as I could, not up the ditch, but along its entire length. Far short of the end, I collapsed in complete exhaustion. I lay there, immobile, terrified and defenseless.

Then I saw them! On the top of the ridgeline, mere yards from my prostrate body, dozens of uniformed policemen in riot gear stood, their high-powered rifles aimed right at me. So these were my tormentors, showing themselves at last! They stood there like statues, poised to fire their deadly fusillade. They were a firing squad ready to execute their helpless victim. Unable to breathe, I waited for the climatic end to this nightmare.

Then, to my complete astonishment, I dimly perceived two figures at the end of the row of policemen. One of the persons was a man in a suit; the other was a woman who looked familiar. It couldn’t be, it just couldn’t be! But, as I focussed my blurred vision on the woman, it became clear that it was my younger sister, Barbara. Shock turned to bewilderment, then into great ecstasy. I would be saved. My beloved sister had come to rescue me from this nightmare pit.

Although they were far away, I heard their conversation distinctly. “Is that your brother,” the man in the dark suit, a FBI agent, asked Barbara? She responded affirmatively. “What do you want us to do with him,” he queried? Her response horrified me. “Let him die there. He’s better off dead anyway.” As they disappeared over the hill my final glimmer of hope vanished. I was shattered. I lay motionless, oblivious to the row of police still pointing their rifles at me. I wished that they would just kill me and get it over with.

A period of time passed, a minute, an hour, I knew not. Suddenly, an angel’s voice spoke: “Are you all right? Do you need help?” I could not believe my ears. Was this voice real or was I delirious? The angel spoke again. This time I looked up and saw the vague shape of a young woman. She seemed concerned about me. My response prompted her to depart on her mission of mercy. A kindly, elderly man replaced her at the top of the ditch, and kept a lonely vigil. Time stopped as we waited. Was this the beginning of the end of my ordeal? Was my deliverance from hell at hand? The black barrier loomed dark and foreboding beside me. The terrifying apparitions were gone, the lizards stayed below ground, and no fires sprang up to set me ablaze. I listened intently for the comforting voice of the angel.

Faintly at first, then louder and more persistent it sounded. The unmistakable wail of many sirens filled the air. But had they come to kill me or to save me? In an instant they were at my side, all around me: dazzling, blinding, flashing red lights assaulted me. Powerful beams of light raked my eyes, startling and disorienting me. Then I heard the voices of new angels. “Here he is. Over here.” I now could distinguish many men in uniform and white clothes. I could not see their faces, however, because the bright lights were shining in my eyes. I felt tremendous, overwhelming relief, the feeling that a dying man has when he knows that he will be saved. My long nightmare was nearly over, my journey out of hell begun.

“His color is poor. What’s his pulse like?” “Weak, erratic,” came the reply. “Can you hear me? What is your name?” I told the paramedic my name. “What is today’s date?” he shouted. “August 23rd,” I replied. Suddenly, the FBI agent appeared again. “We know who you are. You’re going to pay for everything that you have done,” he said in a stern voice. Then another uniformed officer appeared and said to the attending paramedics, “We found packages of sleeping pills in his car. It’s an overdose.” Two angels worked feverishly on my battered body. “He’s badly dehydrated. Let’s get an IV started right away. Can you hear me, Art?” the angel asked. “Yes, I replied weakly. “We are going to start an IV to replace fluid that you have lost. There is nothing to be afraid of. You are going to be all right.

We are going to stabilize your condition, and then transport you to the nearest hospital. You are going to be okay. Just try and relax. We are not going to hurt you. Can you still hear me, Art?” Not responding immediately, they applied smelling salts under my nose. “Can you hear me now? What day is it?” “Monday or Tuesday, I can’t remember,” I replied, slipping in and out of consciousness. “What’s his pulse now?” “Still weak, but more stable.” They continued working on me in silence for some time. “Has the ER been notified at Sierra Vista?” “Yes, they’re ready for us” “Art, we are going to strap you onto a special back brace support to protect your spine. You may have injured your neck or back when you fell, so we need to immobilize you to prevent injury during transport. Do you understand?” “Yes,” I mumbled, increasingly disoriented.

The ride to the hospital seemed to take a long time. Under the bright lights of the emergency room at Sierra Vista Regional Medical Center in San Luis Obispo physicians examined and treated me. I was transferred to the Intensive Care Unit where I became seriously delusional and paranoid. The monsters returned in full force for one final, massive attack. Taking the form of children that I had known during my life, these demons surrounded me, waiting to stab me to death. Mistaking my attending physician for the FBI agent, I became violently abusive and threatening. Restraints had to be applied. Finally, the effects of the barbiturate overdose subsided, and my mental equilibrium returned.

The nurses at Sierra Vista Hospital were very kind. They asked me what happened, but didn’t press me for answers. They asked me if I remembered falling. I replied that I did not. I had large contusions on various parts of my body, and my mouth was full of dirt. As the nurses helped me clean out my mouth I begged for something to drink. The doctor had left orders that I be given nothing to drink, but they let me sip just a little lemon-flavored ice water. It was the best thing that I ever tasted. After x-rays were taken, indicating no damage to my spinal column from the fall, I was returned to the ICU. My nurse gave me a sponge bath and massage. I began to feel like a human being again. My doctor visited me that evening. He told me that the overdose would have no lasting effects. I was very happy to hear this news. Then he hit me with the big one – dehydration had caused my kidneys to shut down. They were producing no urine. My body was filling up with toxins. I was on the critical list and, if my kidneys did not begin operating and flushing my body of its waste products, I would die. Kidney dialysis had to begin immediately and might continue the remainder of my life if my body did not heal itself. In addition to kidney dialysis, IV fluids would be pumped into me in an effort to jump-start my kidneys. This was a potentially dangerous treatment since my entire body would become bloated with excess fluid. There was no alternative, however. The benefits merited the risk.

In the next several days, after being transferred to County General Hospital (I had no health insurance), my emaciated body ballooned from 150 to 180 pounds. I suffered serious edema, swelling in all parts of my body. It was quite painful, especially in my right calf and foot. I walked in great pain and with a limp. My legs were black and blue from the excess fluid in my system. Slowly, gradually, drop by painful drop, my kidneys’ output increased. Three sessions of kidney dialysis aided my recovery. For the first time my doctor began to express guarded hope for my complete recovery. I was taken off the critical list and moved out of the ICU. Ten days after my rescue I was deemed well enough to be transferred to the Mental Health In-Patient Unit of the hospital.

Early in my stay in the MHU one of the psyche techs gave me a book to read. It was entitled Feeling Good, by David Burns. In its 466 pages it details practical and effective self-help steps that a person can take to combat depression. It became my bible. Today I have two copies and ready it everyday. It has proven to be of immense value in my campaign to fight mental illness. Taking responsibility and control of my thoughts gave me new power. A second important component in the earliest phase of my recovery was the beginning of psychotherapy. One day an intelligent looking man introduced himself to me. We went into a private room on the ward and Gerald Clare and I talked for awhile. A L.C.S.W., he applied healing balm to my tortured psyche. His honest, compassionate, humorous, and articulate manner instantly gained my respect and trust. I explained why I thought I had done the things I had. He provided me with new insights and supported me greatly as I began to reintegrate my self-image and normalize my life.

The moral support provided by my sister Dolores and her husband, Don, however, was, by far, the single most critical factor in the early stages of my recovery. Their encouragement and love was life sustaining, every bit as important to me as the medical and psychological care that I received. Everyday Dee called me in the hospital to inquire about my progress. She and Don reached out across the miles which separated us and let me know that they cared deeply. They did not judge or condemn me for my desperate act. Rather, they gave me hope and love and a feeling of worth. In my darkest hour Dee and Don gave me a beacon to guide me back to reality and to life. The stress that my suicide attempt caused Dee was very difficult for her to bear. But, with the help of Don and others, she was able to offer me comfort and encouragement which was of practical and spiritual value. My crisis substantially deepened the bond between my sister and I. She was the angel that God sent to save my soul.

Twenty days after I entered the hospital I was admitted into the Homeless Shelter. It was September 13th. On October 13th my thirty-day stay expired and I had to leave. I became homeless again, sleeping in my car during the winter months. Unlike the homeless period in San Diego, however, this five-month period without a home was characterized by a feeling of renewed hope and purpose as my depression relaxed its deadly grip. I began weekly therapy sessions with Gerald who aided me greatly in regaining my emotional stability and balance. I mounted an aggressive job hunting campaign which soon secured a part-time position as a Sales Associate with a sporting goods store. Contacting numerous social service providers, I was successful in receiving critical transportation, financial, food, and housing assistance. I began to feel better about my prospects and myself for the future. Participating in the Rites of Reconciliation and Holy Communion at the Mission Catholic Church, I sought spiritual forgiveness and inner peace. For the first time in my life I began to explore my talent as a writer. I began to write essays on such topics as nature, the brotherhood of man, the meaning of death, a sports hero, and my search for meaning in life. On December 27th I talked to my mom on the phone for the last time. As usual, she did most of the talking and I remember little of the conversation. Less than two months later my mom died. Thus the most eventful, traumatic year in my life ended.

What did I learn from 1995? How has that watershed year changed me? I learned that we are all connected and that we all need each other. I learned about the power of love, from family and strangers. I regained new respect for my tenacity and resilience in the face of adversity. Most importantly, I learned and am continuing to learn about the divinity within me and the sacred, beautiful bond which unites us all with Jesus. The most meaningful changes to my life have been internal in nature. I feel different now, a little more centered, mature, and spiritual. I hunger more for enlightenment and fusion with the divine. I more nearly understand the great value I possess, not as an ego-centered being, but as a creation of God. My quest for the unreachable star continues. I survived near death. I feel blessed.

Essay #11
June, 1997
Atascadero, California