My Long and Dark Tunnel of Anxiety and Depression (Part 1 – the Crisis)

Almost no one knew it, except for my wife and a few close friends, but I am just emerging from a long, dark tunnel of anxiety and depression. I’ve been wearing a mask for exactly 1 year and 8 months, I’ve been pretending that all is good when, in reality, it’s not going well at all inside.

The beginnings

It all started with a panic attack on August 13, 2022 precisely. I’m in Gaspésie for a big, big family party that will last 3 days. I’m writing down the Scrabble scores when, suddenly, my hand starts to shake and I feel panic rising within me, for no reason. I can no longer write legibly because I’m shaking so much, so I give my pencil to my sister, pretending that I write like a doctor. Looking at my paper, she confirms that it is the worst handwriting she has ever seen… I am completely overwhelmed by fear, I look at the floor, completely frightened. Nobody saw anything, I will find out later, but I had the impression that I was transparent, that everyone perceived my emotions, a very common symptom in panic attacks.

I’ve had a few attacks in the past (I’ll talk about them in a later article), but this episode completely disorientated me. I had an attack surrounded by the ones I love, there was no threat, only love! I was with my two daughters and my aunt. In the following days, I became obsessed by the incident. My reasoning was this: if it happens to me in a loving environment, it can happen to me ANYWHERE, ANYTIME. From then on, I started to AVOID (big mistake!) writing with a pencil because the tremor would come back automatically – as a consequence, they still come back today.

A few weeks later I was in Arkansas on a contract with colleagues, friends. After our arrival in the state we went to a restaurant, the Golden Corral, one of those American buffets that focuses on quantity, certainly not quality! You have to pay when you enter and you stay as long as you want. In line to pay, guess what, another attack. I try to calm down (without running away, without avoiding the situation, I know then that it’s the worst strategy), but I’m shaking so much that I can’t eat the contents of my plate with my fork – I still shake today with a fork, but it’s « manageable, » let’s say.

The purgatory

From there, it’s a downward spiral. You’re probably thinking, « Wow, he’s overreacting, he’s completely paranoid! » I can’t disagree with you, that’s exactly what happened: I was OBSESSED with my hands. I was constantly in a state of hypervigilance; my emotional brain was constantly scanning for physical, psychological, and environmental signs of threat (real or imagined). My training as an intelligence officer doesn’t do me any favors: one, I overanalyze data and, two, I’m trained to anticipate worst-case scenarios. I’m not writing this to brag, as you can imagine, but if you continue reading you will understand why I share this mental health problem, because that’s what’s I’m dealing with.

So I stress AT LEAST 3 times a day, at breakfast, lunch and dinner. Thirty minutes before each meal, I am obsessed with the idea that I am going to make a fool of myself, that I will no longer be able to eat with a fork… I hide my tremors as best I can, in front of my own children! I even shake when I eat alone. The amygdala in my brain is out of whack: it sends an alarm when there is no real danger; it’s like a fire alarm system that goes off for burnt toast.

This may all seem comical, but to me it’s not. I am suffering. I suffer in silence, only my wife knows. As for my tremors, no one EVER notices. Never. But I know, I KNOW, it’s only a matter of time before someone notices. I perceive myself as an imposter, a fearful person, a WEAK man. I hate this feeling, this last word especially (to be weak). I can’t sleep at night anymore. I, a former infantry officer, an intelligence officer, I who experienced two operational deployments, did a year-long world tour with 3 young children, I who am an instructor for the Special Forces, I am now a WEAK, who no longer dares to do anything with his hands because I’m constantly trembling.

The descent into Hell

I’m in a long dark tunnel and I’m fighting against my anxiety, believing it’s the key to getting out. What I don’t know is that I’m just digging deeper and sinking. I still manage to go to restaurants, but I apply a foolproof technique that I discovered: I take alcohol to stop the shaking. The problem with my little strategy is that I need more and more alcohol to reduce the tremors. No problem, I get happily drunk. Even at home, I hide a 2 ounce shooter and sneak hard liquor before dinner. It reduces the tremors and I feel good, but it doesn’t last… I would have to take shots every hour to remove the pain that is now constantly present in my solar plexus.

When I think I’ve hit rock bottom (of shame, of anxiety), I realize that it’s even worse: my self-confidence is shattered. My brain constantly tells me that I’m a coward, a good-for-nothing. I mainly work from home, to avoid interactions with colleagues. When I go to the office, I put on my mask of being a confident, self-assured man, and no one ever suspects anything. But I know I’m an imposter. It’s a strong feeling, like I’ve never felt before. My perception is more important than reality because, in reality, I always perform well. Despite my professional success, I cannot regain my confidence and I have low self-esteem.

In the spring of 2023, I have lost the taste for life. I can spend dozens of hours in bed without sleeping. I see no point in getting up. Do I still have some semblance of social interactions? YES, and that’s what will save me. I know that healing comes through EXPOSURE. So, without initiating any outings myself, I systematically say yes to everyone who invites me to events. I put on my mask and pretend everything is fine. I say yes to invitations because if I refuse, I know it will be even more difficult to go out next time.

I meet psychologists and psychiatrists. I abuse the medications they give me — because yes, when you tell a doctor you’re thinking about ending your life, they put you on medication. Sleeping pills, anti-depressants, anxiolytics, I am becoming an expert in making effective cocktails. My wife hides the medications, she only gives me the recommended doses. Never mind, I’m going to get some cannabis (CBD) to calm me down and some Gravols to sleep (she’ll end up finding the Gravols, never the CBD).

Dark thoughts

I called the Suicide Prevention Center twice. Why was I thinking about killing myself? Because I had gone from a confident person, with good self-esteem, to a wreck (in my head, we agree!) suffering from social anxiety, generalized anxiety disorder, and regular panic attacks. Also, also, because as a man of my generation I approach mental health issues from only two angles: either I cure myself or I shoot myself.

I’m ashamed to write it, to even think it, but there was a time when I rationalized my own death: I told myself that my three oldest were old enough to live without me, and that the little one would get used to living without dad. It’s abominable to think that. When I told my psychologist, I saw that she flinched, even though she had heard other horrible things before.

The light at the end of the tunnel

For a long time, I couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel. Worse still, when I saw a light, it was a train rushing towards me at full speed to pass over my body. You’re probably wondering at this point how it’s going to end… Through trial and error, I’ve discovered that it’s exposure, good therapy, medication (only partially), and writing which were MY keys to stop digging and finally find the exit from the tunnel. But there was always one ingredient missing, the main ingredient for me, my master key: ACCEPTANCE. I read about it, I watched videos about it on YouTube, I did therapy, and the central element that was always there and that I didn’t want to see was acceptance. I didn’t want to accept the anxiety, I wanted to fight it. Accepting, for me, meant giving up, it meant marinating in my pain of living day and night. My readings made me realize that by letting the anxiety stay within me and engaging fully in tasks or activities, I would finally have some respite. I also finally understood what we call defusion with thoughts, that is, taking a distance from thoughts, letting them come and go happily, without ever trying to block them. It was essential for me to resume normal interactions with those around me.

I also discovered a therapy that worked for me; it’s called ACT, for Acceptance & Commitment Therapy. It lives up to its name, it is literally the therapy of ACCEPTANCE and COMMITMENT. I will come back to this in the tips in the next article. Far be it from me to sound like a guru, but this therapy worked for me.

In my tunnel, when I had lost all hope, I realized that I was not alone. My wife was by my side throughout. She guided me with her advice, she suggested readings, she listened to me, without feeling sorry for myself. She never gave up, she never abandoned me, even if my condition had an impact on her and on our family life. She was my lighthouse, my central pillar. It may sound cliché, but without her, I don’t know if I would be here today. I will be forever grateful to her.

I hid my mental disorder from the children for a long time, I wanted to spare them, and I didn’t want them to see me as weak. When I finally found the courage to explain my situation to them, they all reacted the same way. They said to me: « I’m sad for you dad, I didn’t know that. Is there anything I can do to help you ». They didn’t judge me. I’m so proud of them.

The exit from the tunnel

It’s only been a few weeks that things have come back into focus in my head, in my life. In the last month, morale has returned, even if sleep is still difficult. I haven’t taken sleeping pills for a week; I used to swallow higher doses than those recommended by the manufacturer every night. I regained my self-confidence and I have a taste for life again. In fact, I hardly dare to write it, I’m so well that I sometimes wonder if I don’t have a bipolar side. Those around me and my therapists reassured me on this: I do not exhibit the signs and symptoms of a manic depressive. I just have a strong desire to live. I’m doing so well it seems like the days go by too quickly! I don’t sleep much, but it’s what I call insomnia of enthusiasm. I joke to myself that after suffering from insomnia for 18 months, sleep is overrated. It’s as if I want to make up for all the time lost in recent months. I have too many plans for the 24 hours of the day. One of these projects is to GIVE FORWARD. This will be the main topic of part 2. Thank you for reading, and please share if you think this can reach even ONE person. Sharing is caring.