Escalating Success: 101 Ways to Move Past Depression

Escalating Success

101 Ways to Move Past Depression

Poinsettia Publications

PO Box 1881

Simpsonville, SC 29681

Published by Poinsettia Publications

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Keshawn Durant

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the Publisher, except brief quotes used by a reviewer.

This book was written to inform and to educate its readers. The techniques mentioned in the book may work extremely well for some and not at all for others. Consult with your physician before attempting to use these methods for treating depression.

Neither Keshawn Durant nor Poinsettia Publications shall be liable or responsible to any person or entity for loss, damage, injury, or ailment caused, or alleged to be caused, directly or indirectly, by the information or lack of information contained in this book.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is also available in paperback format at most major online retailers.

Dedication

To my family, friends, and supporters – both then and now

Philippians 4:13 (King James Version)

I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.

Contents

Prologue

Part I

Ch 1 – Florence, South Carolina

Ch 2- My Discovery of Football

Ch 3- Orangeburg, SC

Ch 4 - Greenville, SC

Ch 5- Charlotte, NC

Ch 6- Las Vegas, NV

Ch 7 - Saskatchewan, Canada

Ch 8-Jacksonville, FL

Part II

Ch 9 - Chad Wayne Emond by Raquel Moscarelli

Ch 10 - Steven Paul Carlson

Part III

Ch 11 - 101 Ways to Move Past Depression

Part IV

Ch 12 -The Stupid Athlete by Tom Kearns

Ch 13 - The Trauma of a Career-Ending Sports Injury & The Psychology of Recovery by Dr. Tom Ferraro

Foreword

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Keynote

Contact Keshawn

Prologue

Never would I have ever imagined this.

As my eyes flutter, and my mind slowly begins to function as it should after a night’s rest, I instantly know that something is wrong. There is a sense of something being terribly wrong. Having experienced one of the worst years of my life, I comfort myself by saying that there is absolutely no way that anything else bad can happen. It’s just not possible. There would be a greater chance of a blizzard in the Sahara Desert than something else negative happening in my life any time soon. I have never been more wrong.

It is nearly time for football practice, and so I finally muster up the strength to start my day. I sit up on the edge of my bed and immediately the feeling of uneasiness creeps back into my thoughts. I’ve got to shake this, I think to myself. When I arise from the bed, my body feels different. I start to question if I hurt myself at practice yesterday. Did I hurt myself the day before and not realize it? Maybe as I enjoyed the comfort of my bed and nighttime bliss, I somehow contorted my body into some abnormal position which has now made its awkward presence felt.

I work my way to the bathroom and relieve my full bladder. I yawn and grab my toothbrush and lace it with toothpaste and begin to brush. I start to feel as though maybe the bad omen from just a few moments ago was just a figment of my imagination.

The foamy, lather from my soap begins to sting my eyes. I promptly drench my face with cool water that is temporarily refreshing and soothing. Grabbing my hand towel, I dry my face and that’s when I see it – my eye. I can see the chestnut brown iris of my right eye as my other eye is closing. I blink again and my right eye continues to stare back at my now terrorized and confused image in the mirror. I try repeatedly to force my eye to close, but it will not budge.

I begin to dress, and as I manage to push my belt through each belt loop, I consider whether I should go to the doctor or not. For many, this would have been an easy decision. However, my recent struggles combined with my unreasonable sense of indestructibility created by years of being an unstoppable athlete have now caused me to be indecisive at this time.

I soon realize that I am having some degree of difficulty with breathing because my right nostril is completely closed. I had never had any allergic reaction of this magnitude. There is a definite dilemma occurring and going through this alone is not a viable option.

I dial my best friend, Louis, who also attends South Carolina State University. Louis answers and I swiftly say, Hey man. This is Keshawn. Something ain’t right. My eye won’t close. He says that he will be right over. I’m feeling better because I know that he will help me to figure this out. He is an aspiring anesthesiologist and has studied medicine. He has to have an answer as to what is happening to me or at least have a better idea of what’s going on than I have, I think to myself.

While waiting for Louis to come over, I am still not entirely at ease. My thoughts swarm with all the possibilities of what could be wrong with me. I also think about the negative impact of my missing several days of practice.

Coming out of high school, I was All-Conference, All-Region, and All-City in everything (baseball, basketball, football, and track-and-field.) Not only was I All-Conference and All City, I was also MVP in basketball, track, and football. I was the Lower State Champion three years in a row for track-n-field. I also played soccer but only could play a half-season because baseball, track, and soccer were all spring sports, and I ultimately decided to let soccer go. I received Most Athletic honors in high school. In my hometown of Florence, South Carolina, I was the first quarterback to ever throw over a thousand yards at Wilson High School. My wide receiver, Kyle Dowling (the nephew of Harry Carson - Super Bowl champion and Hall of Famer), led the state in yards per catch at 27.1 yards – something that no other receiver had done in Wilson history.

After being heavily recruited by a variety of schools, I thought that it was ridiculous that I had to be benched my first year in college. I began to have doubts about my college selection. The quarterback coach that recruited me abruptly decided to leave for another university going into my second season, and I felt confined and lonely as I made major decisions regarding my college football career and other important aspects of my life.

The answering machine picks up an unanswered call, and I hear my mother’s voice being played jolting me out of my trance, Shorty, Where are you? I’ve been trying to reach you. How about givin’ me a call back?

My uncle Joe gave me the nickname of Shorty. Actually, the nickname was really Short Stop but everyone shortened it and became accustomed to Shorty. Joe played baseball, and short stop is the position that my uncle played throughout his career. He also won a baseball state championship for his high school. He was later inducted into the athletic hall of fame in Florence, South Carolina, in 2010. My nickname is ironic to say the least. I was 6’2 and about 165 pounds when I was only thirteen years old. My mother, Betty, is approximately 5’8 and to hear her call me Shorty always brought at least a slight chuckle from a stranger or new friend of the family. Oftentimes, it would turn into a long lasting conversation as I had to explain how this uncommon nickname came to be.

I don’t believe that I should tell my mother what is going on for now. It will just cause her to worry unnecessarily, I think to myself. She is the only parent in the household taking care of my two younger brothers, Darian and Justin. Being aware of all that she does for our family, I decide to not mention my current health concerns until I know for sure that there is definitely a problem. Raising my nine year old and six year old siblings while working full time is surely enough for her to take on without having to worry about me.

I feel as though something the size of a marble is stuck in my throat, and it is difficult to swallow – difficult to breathe. Beads of perspiration begin to accumulate on the bridge of my nose as I begin to feel anxious again and distraught.

Part I

Chapter 1: Florence, South Carolina

Even though my birth certificate states my place of birth as Paterson, New Jersey; Florence, South Carolina, will always be the place that I call my home. I don’t recall much (or anything) pertaining to New Jersey during my extremely early years. The first place on the map that my memory recalls is Florence, South Carolina.

Florence is the county seat of Florence County and lies near the northeast corner of the state. Considered a coastal plain state, Florence is flat, but not without great natural beauty with its wildlife, winding rivers and streams, and beautiful farmland and vegetation. With a rich history, beautiful historic houses, and a rapidly-growing reputation for business, medicine, and culture, it’s no wonder that it was an All-America City Finalist in the late 1990’s. History tells that Florence was a very important supply and railroad repair center during the Civil War, and the home of the Florence Stockade, a prison for Union prisoners of war. Because of its three major railroads, Florence was able to supply its cotton, timber, and tobacco to other parts of the country. Today, Florence is a booming successful city with an outstanding reputation not only for its industrial success, but also for its incredible health care facilities. What amazes visitors and residents alike is the ability for this thriving city to maintain its small town feel. Flo-Town is what the locals call it. I call it home.

When walking down the back streets not far from my home, I can see rows and rows of farmland containing tobacco, corn stalks, strawberry patches, muscadines, and cotton fields for as far as the eye can see. Early morning or after a spring shower, I smell the earthy scents of the Pee Dee region of South Carolina; fertilizers, manure, fresh vegetables, newly born flowers, and other aromas that I can’t quite distinguish, but that make up the signature aroma of my hometown. I eye the huge tractors with the hardworking farmers sitting high upon them. I can picture their hands, calloused and weathered, but strong, just like the land they work. I know these men work tirelessly at least fourteen hours a day, day after day, and take so much pride in the crops they nurture, and the land they love.

As I watch the huge watering systems gently, but consistently, shower the thirsty crops, I imagine myself running through the large arches of water - pretending that the sprinklers are just for my own personal pleasure. I close my eyes and visualize myself making a mad dash across my yard and the quiet street before reaching the fields of crops. The frosty morning air creates a slight tingle on my skin as I whiz through the field of vegetation under an arc of fresh cool water. A few droplets of water fall into my hair, onto my arms, and down my back as I run underneath the huge rainbows of water, but I make it completely across the field without being drenched by the full-on power of the industrial-sized sprinkler system. I turn around and zoom back in the opposite direction from which I just came with the hopes of being able to beat the system again. Ready, set, GO! I have successfully managed to cross the path twice without very much moisture being added to my wardrobe; which is a wonderful thing because I am certain that my mother would not have approved of my wet clothing. Slightly overprotective, mom would be worried about my getting sick if I showed up back at home drenched. At five foot seven and with a dark complexion and beautiful brown eyes, mom is the family enforcer, unlike dad who has more of a laid back personality. Although she looks like my sister since she is so young, she makes sure everything is done right from chores around the house to my grades.

I open my eyes and quickly decide that I’d like to try out my visualization in real life, and so I step out onto the porch, careful not to touch the freshly painted spindles for fear that the white paint might stain my clothes, yet another mishap mom might not approve of. The fresh spring air greets me and is aromatic as I had imagined it to be. I squint lightly in the bright morning sunlight before I run down the porch steps, two at a time, excited to embark upon my journey. Everything is just as I have recently pictured it; fresh, green, and awakening to a new day on this beautiful Spring morning. I glance out across the landscape and see healthy green grass hedged in by the vibrant yellows, purples, and whites of newly sprouted wildflowers. This array of color gives way to the golden hues that signify the beginning of the farm fields in the distance where I can see silver magical arcs of water already hard at work.

Before I have a chance to start on my adventure, I notice a stocky dark figure strolling in my direction. It doesn’t take long to figure out that it is my cousin, Cedric; in fact, I can tell right away just by the way he walks. Cedric has a way of looking like he owns the world and everything and everyone in it. This is quite ironic, since as far as I know, he only truly owns a set of baseball cards, a bike, and some video games. I envy his outward confidence as he draws nearer. Although I want to experience the adventure that I have been carefully planning all morning, when I see Cedric, I instantly know that I will do whatever Cedric wants to do. I still feel like an only child, even though my brother, Darian, has recently been born. It is this feeling that makes me quickly learn to appreciate any and all types of interaction with other kids my age - anything is better than being alone all of the time or with a baby. There are only so many activities a kid can invent to do by himself. Plus Cedric has an excellent sense of humor, and he always keeps me laughing.

Cedric’s mother and my mother are sisters. Cedric and I happen to be about the same age. We are about a year and a half apart in age, and he is my only cousin in Florence that is this close to me in age; this allows us to have a very close relationship. We live in the same working-class neighborhood, and