Nervous Breakdowns and Story-Telling

Back in the years I regularly saw psychiatrists, psychologists and other counselors, I was trying to cope with massive life disruptions -- marital breakups, house sales, job losses and relentless financial pressures. I often heard the term "dual diagnosis," which described my main mental illness, a surprise to no one, and depression.

Depression was always the second diagnosis. I guess the symptoms of that were simple to analyze -- I had developed over a lifetime a series of elaborate coping mechanisms to try and ward off the disasters I feared so much.

These coping mechanisms often involved numbers and math. Since I was good at math, I would calculate the angles and arithmetic totals of the structures in a room, doing the mental calculations to turn it into a safe space.

All of this, of course, did nothing to address the underlying issues dating from my childhood around anxiety, which today would be a third, distinct diagnosis.

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My story-telling has always been another way of managing anxiety. Many of my stories are funny, betraying a dark humor about the state of the world as I experience it. People love the jokes, few question why I am so driven to tell them.

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My current situation is I'm being held against my will a few extra days in an institution that feels like a prison. I have roommates I would never choose on my own, who repeatedly disrupt the concentration I need to construct my memoir.

They won't let  me out of here until Wednesday, October 23. Until then I have to endure Mr. Chen's loud phone conversations in Cantonese, perhaps the most obnoxious language known to humankind. This morning, for example, I woke up at 5 a.m. and tried to settle back in for a little more sleep.But his phone went off for the first of a number of loud conversations. He is literally shouting, about what who can tell what.

What can he possibly have to shout about besides his fictitious piece of missing fish and his fictitious missing twenty-dollar bill.

Then there is Larry who asks me the same questions day after day. "Hey David, were you in the service?" "Hey David, do you know where San Francisco State is?" "What day is this?" "Do you know that John F. Kennedy was shot?"

Over and over, I have to answer, "Yes Larry I know where SF State is. As I told you. I taught there many years."

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So as my body slowly regains strength -- the reason I was sent here -- my mind continues to crumble. If it weren't for the messages and calls from friends and the visits from Aidan and Dylan, I'd be in full breakdown mode by now.

And there is nothing funny about that.

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