My Roots: Rising Above Depression
When I lived in Chicago in my
early twenties, I got severely depressed. I was working at the Lincoln Park Zoo
as an editorial assistant, living in a garden studio apartment and doing my
best to just manage my life and be responsible day to day.
I felt overwhelmed, unsafe, out
of my league for the work I was doing, and like it took every ounce of my
energy and focus to get through the day without people thinking I was a sham or
crazy (I was convinced I was both).
At one point, it got so bad
that I couldn’t leave my apartment. I felt numb and heavy, like there was a
giant shroud over my head and body that weighed me down and I didn’t have the
strength to lift off. It was difficult to even summon the strength to talk, so
I stopped answering my phone.
I was absolutely exhausted, but
I couldn’t sleep. I think I was awake for more than 72 hours straight. My
nervous system was completely fried, and I felt trapped inside a haze of dense,
dull, jittery heaviness.
Thank goodness I had people
that noticed that I sort of disappeared. My friend Andy showed up at my door
and knocked until I answered it. He said that my friends were concerned about
me, and wanted to know what they could do.
I knew I needed help, I just
didn’t know what kind of help I needed. So we got out the phonebook (google
wasn’t yet born), looked under “mental health” and found a woman in the area.
It was a woman shrink in a
Lincoln Park West high rise that suggested that I read a Cosmopolitan magazine
and take a nice hot bath. Hmmmm. Not exactly the solution that I was looking
for.
“And that will be ninety
dollars please,” a veritable fortune for me at the time.
The next doctor I found was
some guy out in the ‘burbs who looked a lot like Alfred Hitchcock. After
listening to me for about three minutes, he prescribed anti-depressants. The
tri-cyclic variety. His advice was, “take one pill the first day, two the next,
three the next,” and so on until I took seven of these pills in one day.
I don’t know if you have any
experience with tri-cyclic anti-depressants, but at about day four of this
regimen, I felt like Timothy Leary on a really bad acid trip.
So now what?
I knew that depression “ran in
my family.” My father had put together a family tree documenting three or four
generations of our genes. Quite frankly, it didn’t look good for me.
I was very aware of some of
these histories. My grandmother spent the last 25 years of her life in a mental
institution. Unbridled electric shock treatments had annihilated any
semblance of her former self.
My mother was committed to
in-house treatment for bi-polar disorder several times when I was growing up.
Once in high school I came home to find her rocking in a rocking chair, her
arms crossed over her chest and staring blankly into space, completely unresponsive
to my words or touch.
Others included a guy who
jumped off a roof, a guy who cut off his ear, and several who just simply
disappeared.
I knew I didn’t want to follow
in these ancestral footsteps, and the conventional means that I pursued didn’t
do the trick. Taking a bath, drugging myself silly, and talking ad nauseum
about my problems didn’t seem to do anything to shift them.
I had a realization at that
point.
I had to wake up and help
myself. And I would do it my way.
That realization is what
started me on the lifelong path of understanding the chemistry of emotion and
the energetic circuitry that underpins and creates our physical experience.
Taking a Reiki class was the
first step on the journey that I began to do that.
Since that time, I have now
taught hundreds of people, including physicians, nurses, acupuncturists, animal
healers and communicators and mothers of special needs children.
My classes, sessions and
products are the culmination of what I have found to be the best energetic
information and processes to manage your emotion, thought, and physicality.
This work has enabled me to be
happy, healthy and present in this weird, wonderful thing called life. May it
do the same for you.