After the Storm

Stormy Weather

I have battled depression most of my life, and have been caught up in anxiety attacks more times than I want to remember. This latest round was triggered by a couple of things (I think; could be wrong): my daughter's situation, and signing divorce settlement papers.

I don't understand the mechanics of depression/anxiety disorder. While I can't speak to what happens in the brain that causes these bouts, I can tell you how it feels to be in one of them. It's like being in a hurricane.

In September, 1965, Hurricane Betsy hit New Orleans with winds of 125+ MPH. We were living in the Florida Avenue Housing Project at the time, in a second floor apartment. The FAHP is in the infamous (because of Katrina) Ninth Ward, near the Industrial Canal. That section of the city was in the direct path of the storm. In fact, the eye passed overhead. But, the story of Betsy and my family is for some other time. I bring her up because that experience is how I know what it's like to be smack dab in the center of a hurricane, and why being in one is such a good metaphor for the depression/anxiety attack I just climbed out from under.

It starts with a vague discomfort, not anything you can put your finger on really. Maybe it's a change in the brain's chemistry, its barometric pressure, so to speak. If not addressed right away, or if other stressors are added to the heap, the decline continues, becomes more uncomfortable, increasing a sense of uneasiness you can't quite shake, though it hasn't overtaken joy and fun just yet. You can still function fairly normally, but there is a growing dark cloud just over the horizon of consciousness: menacing, foreboding, stalking.

The first winds appear, blowing harder than normal breezes. Anxiety creeps into the picture. "Hey, this isn't right. You can stop this anytime now, God, okay?" You note that you are now officially worried, though you still might not be able to say why, exactly.

The winds become howlers, seriously different from gentle breezes. You notice you are becoming afraid, and decide to go inside and close all the windows, pull the drapes. "This will pass soon," you tell yourself, having completely forgotten other episodes, other storms which didn't pass quickly. Going through this storm is like going through one for the first time, if you don't take protective measures to head off the worst of it, or find better shelter to wait it out.

The first wave of screaming winds and horizontal, needle-sharp raindrops hits your shelter like a mega-ton sledge hammer. The building shakes and shudders, your spirit quakes in fear. Anxiety rises like floodwaters, creeping ever higher, almost out of control.

The storm knocks out electrical power and you are thrown into darkness. You've forgotten the flashlight, can't find it quickly, then realize you have no batteries to replace the ones that have died. Outside, the winds sound like you are standing at the rear of a jet engine running at top speed. You can't hear anyone else's voice, and your own thoughts are drowned out by the noise. You think you might die. You feel alone, despite being in a roomful of other people - friends, family, neighbors - who are experiencing the same storm as you. Survival fears place their frigid hands on your body and you are on the verge of emotional, physical collapse.

You scream at God; "What the fuck, Man?!" And immediately feel guilty for saying such a thing, but that's the least of your worries.

You realize, in the darkness, amid the Winds from Hell, that you have reached your breaking point. You begin to think there is no justifiable reason to continue struggling. The Unthinkable rears its head like the water moccasin that floated in on the rising floodwaters, about to strike.

Fortunately, at that almost-irrevocable moment of desperation, the eye of the storm arrives, and you go outside on your balcony for a breath of fresh air. It is still dark out, but when the clouds break for a few seconds, revealing a near-full moon, you can see just how high the waters have risen. You can hear the screams of neighbors on their rooftops, calling out to God, to anyone, for help. "Save me, save us," they yell. "Over here! We're over here! Please come save us!"

The eye passes and the storm resumes. You retreat back into your darkness, with the pleas of your neighbors louder in your mind, now, than the noise from the Winds of Hell. Their cries become your cry. "Please hear me. I am here. I am afraid. Help me."

Someone hears you. Maybe it is the Universe, maybe it is God, maybe it is the stronger Self that resides within your soul, your spirit. Who knows? Who cares?! Someone has thrown you a rope, given you fresh batteries for your torch.

Although the storm is still with you, the Winds of Hell are no longer the only sound you hear. Hope, at first a faint whisper, becomes the reassuring Voice of Reason, growing louder with every passing hour. You realize, "Hey! I'm still here!" (A big hug and thank you to Mary Tuel for that enlightening mantra/prayer.)

Daylight has banished the Darkness. Hope and Determination have kicked Fear and Desperation down the dungeon steps, back where they belong. By God! it feels good to be alive, to be out of the Storm of Despair.

Now is the time to find all my survival tools and get to work cleaning up the debris, making my shelter stronger for when the next storm comes.

Thank you, everyone, for the ropes you tossed me, the help and encouragement you have provided. I won't ever forget what you've done to help me weather this hurricane.

As blog-friend Joe Spado says, "Peace be with you."

(c) 2009 Martha McLemore