Life Less Lived: A Passage Through Burnout and Depression in the Suburbs

Copyright © 2011 by Richard Hawkey.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2010919110

ISBN:          Softcover                                 978-1-4568-4031-0

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4568-4033-4

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Contents

Foreword

By Dr Colinda Linde

Acknowledgements

Introduction

PART ONE

The Background

Chapter 1

The Daily Grind

Chapter 2

Setting the Scene—Who Am I?

Chapter 3

Setting the Scene—Burnout and Depression

PART TWO

The Experience

Chapter 4

Sowing the Seeds

Chapter 5

Hitting the Wall

Chapter 6

Going Down

Chapter 7

Awakening

PART THREE

The Learnings

Chapter 8

Getting Better Versus Transformation

Chapter 9

What I Have Learnt about Depression and Burnout

Chapter 10

What I Have Learnt about Myself and Life

Epilogue

PART FOUR

Info and First Aid Resources

Appendix 1

Other Illnesses That Can Present

with Depression-like Symptoms

Appendix 2

Type A Personality

Appendix 3

Diagnosis and Self-Tests

Appendix 4

First Aid for Burnout and Depression

Appendix 5

Helplines and Hotlines

Appendix 6

References

The Road Not Taken

(Robert Frost)

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveller, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Foreword

By Dr Colinda Linde

Richard was a regular man, living a regular life, the type of urban man we are familiar with. He went to work and worked hard to get ahead as those men do (and supported colleagues through significant loss and trauma as only some men do). He tried to make up for lost family time on the weekends as working dads do. He remembered to make time for his wife, parents, and extended family. He made sure of fulfilling all of these responsibilities and more. It was all very familiar, a life many suburban men and women can identify with.

What happened to Richard was also a familiar consequence of modern living—burnout, sliding into depression. Psychiatry, medication, psychotherapy, labels. It was all frighteningly rapid as an inevitable consequence of the stresses and strains of city life.

Ironically, it was this experience that forced Richard to focus on an area of responsibility that had not featured on his daily (long) list, to date. As a clinical psychologist, I see this all too frequently—a neglect of personal health (physical, mental, and spiritual) and what inevitably follows.

This book is long overdue. It is a true and intimate account of what really happens in the mind and life of someone undergoing burnout and depression. It is also an account from a perspective we rarely have access to—that of a regular, urban man.

It is my hope that this book will benefit the men going through burnout, especially those who are en route but can still make a change. It will also tremendously assist the partners, family, friends, and work colleagues who are deeply concerned for them or cannot relate.

Richard’s story is a frank, gritty, compelling account of the invisible decline into the pit of burnout and depression and one man’s ability to find a way out. Perhaps the most powerful message contained in this book is that because he is a self-defined ‘regular guy, in a regular life’, it brings hope to all the other regular people going through this experience as a participant or a helpless observer. If he can, you can.

Dr Colinda Linde, December 2010, Johannesburg, South Africa

Clinical psychologist Dr Colinda Linde is chair of the Scientific and Advisory Board of the South African National Depression and Anxiety Support Group. She is their media spokesperson and trains, supervises, and debriefs counsellors. In her doctoral study, Colinda designed and tested a technique to reduce anxiety in breast cancer patients. She constantly furthers her education by attending international conferences and enjoys teaching. Having completed specialised training in cognitive-behaviour therapy in Boston, USA, she trains colleagues in the use of this therapy. She was the consulting psychologist for MNet’s Starmaker programme and has also appeared on 3 Talk, the Cosmo show, the Nataniël show, the Toasty show, Great Expectations, and Take 5, among other South African TV and radio programmes. Colinda has been happily married for fifteen years and juggles a busy Johannesburg practice with taking care of young twins.

Acknowledgements

Traditionally the acknowledgements section in a book is quite gushy and saccharine with just the hint of Hollywood acceptance speech.

You may be pleased to note that I have no intention of breaking with tradition. The help I have received during both my extraordinary journey through burnout and depression and in the compilation of this book has been, literally, life changing. I make no apologies for laying it on with a trowel. Nominees appear in no specific order—other than my wife, who is mentioned first as she is the most important.

Rachel. You are one of the world’s special people and my true soulmate. I tried to think of another description but couldn’t find one as apt. You have shown patience, understanding, and deep, true, soulful love beyond anything I could have imagined or deserved. You never gave up on me even when I had; you gave me the space and time to heal and to change myself. You are the best mother to our boys and a good friend to many. Thank you also for agreeing to expose parts of our lives in the telling of this story; I know you share my wish to educate and raise awareness so that others may be helped. And you’re hot! For all of this I will forever be in your debt and will spend the rest of my wonderful life making it up to you. I now feel like breaking into song, but won’t—I’ll rather rely on the words of a sorely missed big black man with a voice of liquid gold: ‘You’re my first, my last, my everything’.

My boys—you constantly give me joy, laughter, and faith in humanity. I love your enquiring minds, your sense of right from wrong, your sense of humour, your unconditional love, and your love for each other. Waking us at 5.00 a.m. and farting at the dinner table—not so much.

Mum and Dad—quite how you put up with me darkening Upper Cottage each day I do not know. Thank you for being there, loving me and constantly reassuring me. Your wisdom and blessings have been instrumental in my recovery.

Mike and Jean—thanks for your quiet, non-judgemental understanding and support and for always being there for Rach and our boys. Our lives are truly richer for having you in them.

To my sisters—living and passed. Gina—thanks for the reconciliation and understanding. I only wish I knew what I know now when you were still alive. But as you said, you are only ever a thought away. Helen and Taina—your unconditional love and support are reminders of what it is to be a family and have given me strength and determination. I love you all.

Paul, Denique, Sam, and all my other nephews and nieces—thanks for all your support, love, and sense of family.

Dorcas—for taking such good care of Tom and Dan, not only when I couldn’t but every day. Thanks also for understanding what I was going through and sharing my enthusiasm and smiling politely when I kept showing you cover designs!

Special thanks must go to Colinda for not only giving me the tools to heal myself but for also constantly injecting energy, passion, and wisdom into the new path my life took. Your kind words at the beginning of this book are deeply appreciated—I wouldn’t have been able to embark on this new life without your guidance and encouragement.

Zane, Cassey, Emma, Elizabeth, Lungelo, Rachel, Nicolette, Dani, Taryn, Jane, Janine, Ashleigh, Natasha, Bianca, Shai, Thabo, Esme, and far too many others to mention at SADAG. Thank you for accepting me into your family and sharing all your knowledge, passion, and indomitable spirit to help others. You are good people doing great things.

Dr Z, you must see too many people like me, and for that I am glad, because you sorted me out and gave me very powerful reassurance that I would get better when I needed it most.

Dave—wow, where to start? You are a true friend who was there for me when I was at my lowest and very scared. You showed boundless, pure love and understanding and offered such meaningful advice and literally your shoulder to cry on (have you got the stains out?). You have acted as a free literary consultant and publicity agent as well as an editor, mentor and, on occasions, slave-driver and bullshit detector. Dust would not have a new book to settle on had it not been for you. And oh yes, have I ever said ‘thank you’ for introducing Rach and I?

Julie baby—very special thanks to you for sharing so much with me and just always being such a good friend.

Frikkie—lemon-meringue pie, laughter, and being the first one to encourage me in a new direction—even if you didn’t know you were doing it. The stories about Naboomspruit enrich all our lives (perhaps we should collaborate on another book Oom Gert se pienk tonteldoos?)

All my other friends—Doon, Dave, Stretch, Cathy, Kerry, Wailer, Karen, Kathy R, Mark, Jimbo, and Sue—thanks for the unbroken friendship and all the good times past and to come. Exciting years ahead for all of us.

Janet, Vanessa, and Louise—we have shared so much heartache that I feel we will always be close at some level. Thank you for letting me in and returning the favour!

Tracy for being a wonderful photographer, an engaging person, and a magician with photo-shop!

I am so blessed to be surrounded by such wonderful, loving people. Please spare a thought for those who aren’t so fortunate and perhaps reach out with one random act of kindness to a stranger every day.

Introduction

It’s not every year one gets diagnosed with a mental illness, so 2010 has been quite memorable for me. But it was memorable in the way that Mother Theresa isn’t.

Imagine waking up on Christmas morning and rushing through to open the presents under the tree to find that Santa Claus has left you a beautifully wrapped bucket of smashed crabs. Now that’s something that will stay with you, disturbingly, for the rest of your life.

At the risk of sounding melodramatic so early in my scribbling, I would have been positively ecstatic to receive such a gift (a bag of spiders equally so) compared to the ignominy, despair, terror, and utter hopelessness that I experienced when I burnt out and lapsed into a clinical depression in June 2010.

The five-and-a-bit months since then have been the clichéd rollercoaster ride through the whole gamut of human emotions and, at times, the complete lack thereof. I have taken so many pills the buttons on my shirts now need to be childproof, lost so much weight that I have attracted a cult-like following, and seen more doctors than a horny nurse at a hospital Christmas party.

On the downside, I have experienced such sadness and an all-enveloping helplessness that I have come to understand why people, who seemingly have everything going for them, commit suicide. I have gazed at my beautiful, loving wife and two gorgeous sons and felt absolutely nothing.

I am not a professional writer, so I apologise for my verbal clumsiness and grammatical gaffes. I have tried to reveal the true horror that is depression through the eyes of Mr Average—me. The shocker is that this shouldn’t—indeed couldn’t—happen to me. I have a good life, happy marriage, great children, and enough remote controls to make a modest coffee table disappear.

I was shockingly, embarrassingly ignorant about how damaging my poor stress management was—how insidiously burnout creeps up on you over the years and finally hurls you into the depths of darkness all of a sudden. I knew nothing about depression; it was definitely something that happened to someone else—women mostly, you know the emotional ones susceptible to ‘moodiness’. To my shame, I admit this freely now—post-graduate business qualifications count for very little in the real world.

Depression isn’t logical; it is exceedingly difficult for our rational, linear minds to understand this isn’t an illness that can be cured by a quick ‘pull yourself together’! But the good news is that there are a host of treatments available, which have very good success rates—made all the more effective if you dare to peer into yourself to discover the cause and don’t just try and treat the symptoms.

I’ve got a story to tell, which I hope, if you are even a little bit like I used to be, you will read and perhaps ponder on for a while and then do something proactive. I have discovered that this is an illness affecting around 10 per cent of the adult population in most Western cultures and one that respects no social status, sex, or skin colour.

For those going through a depression now, take heart; the light at the end of the tunnel is not controlled by Eskom[1] and you can, and will, feel better. Be patient and get help.

Part One

The Background

Chapter 1

The Daily Grind

Monday

Da daa daa daa daa didi di daa. The first few bars of The B52’s ‘Rock Lobster’ rouse me from sleep. I reach over and switch off my mobile. It’s 5.30 a.m. already. I should go and ride the exercise bike, but instead I lie still on my back for a minute or two. I must have fallen asleep again after the last time I got up to settle Tom. I daren’t close my eyes as I know I will nod off again.

Urgh, I’m tired. I’ll ride tomorrow. I’d rather have a cup of tea with Rach and try to chat before the boys wake up.

Padding back from the kitchen with two teas and a bottle of warm milk, I clamber back into bed. Rach is yawning, and I have just taken a sip of the scalding brew when a plaintive cry breaks the pre-dawn silence, ‘Daddy, Daddy, come.’ I close my eyes briefly and sigh before slinging back the covers.

I put Tom down on to the bed. ‘Mummy! Bottle.’ I squeeze myself back in. Dan wanders in rubbing his eyes and makes for our en suite bathroom, unselfconsciously directing a noisy cascade into the toilet.

Good grief, how big is his bladder? I wonder how long it will be before I get my bed, bedroom, and bathroom back.

Dan wedges himself in between us. Tom finishes his bottle and starts to hit his elder brother on the head with it. ‘Mooove, Dan!’

‘Why do I always have to move? It’s not fair, Mum.’

The neighbour’s house alarm goes off. The local pack starts barking.

Six o’clock.

I stare at the wall, trying to summon some energy to start the day.

I shower, shave, get dressed, and tell Dan to hurry up and put his uniform on. Rach is wrestling with Tom as she tries to change his nappy. It is cereal for breakfast for everyone as we sit in front of the TV, watching CBeebies—Tom whines if we change it, and I haven’t got the energy to fight with him.

Six thirty.

I take the bowls through to the kitchen and start to prepare lunch boxes—sandwich, fruit, yoghurt, snack bar.

I really must start doing this in the evening. What are we having for dinner tonight? Do I need to take anything out the freezer?

Six fifty-five.

‘Vitamins, boys. Rach, have you taken your blood pressure medicine? Dan, when you’re finished, can you please take your brother with you when you do your teeth? Thanks.’

I make the bed, brush my teeth, collect the water glasses, and kick some toys to the edge of the passageway as I rush back to the kitchen.

‘Come on, Dan. It’s reading this morning. Have you got a book for me?’

Five past seven.

Laptop over the shoulder, folder, lunch box, and keys in my hands, I’m out the back door. I load the car and reverse out the driveway. A story about the rape of a three-year-old girl is the top story on the news. I hurriedly change channels to Classic FM.

‘Daddy, what’s rape?’

We arrive at school and look for a parking spot; I wait behind a large black suburban 4 × 4, which has stopped at the entrance to offload its children, blocking the road. I grate my teeth.

Twenty-five past seven.

Nice one. Of course, you are in more of a hurry than me and are obviously more important than