|
Who is Louie Rochon?
A good place to start may be to use some of the words that have been used to describe me . . .
Eccentric, Passionate, Boring, Driven, Overly Sensitive, Manic Depressive, Moody, Committed (or should be), Romantic, Compulsive-Obsessive, Spontaneous, Perfectionist, Workaholic, Fun, Recovering Alcoholic, Drug & Food Addict, Great Father, Lousy Husband (twice), Calm & Patient, Rude & Impatient, Creative, Angry, Intense, Imaginative, Brilliant, Talented, Humble yet Arrogant, Opinionated (for sure), Arrogant yet humble, Insecure, Unbelievably Stubborn and Kind of Loveable in a break-your-heart-kind-of-way.
That should cover most of the bases.
The Innocent Years.
My art career started as the result of yet another mid life crisis. I've had many. Perhaps I should start at the beginning (for those few that are interested in knowing the whole story).
I was born a poor black child (sorry, couldn't resist that line) north of Quebec, Canada. I naturalized to the USA with my parents, when I was 4, speaking only French, which would account for the French sounding name.
cute kid - eh?
I grew up in Southern California a pretty normal spoiled brat ... you know, the whole Sex, Drugs and Rock & Roll scene. Sex, unfortunately, accounting for the lesser of the three.
In my early adult years, I invested 10 years in the restaurant business, 7 of those years with Carl's Jr., a multi-state chain, working up from manager to management training instructor to multi-unit supervisor, responsible for 11 restaurants, 10 of which I opened in one year - a Major Burnout!
Having exhausted this career as well as becoming grosslly disenchanted with the crowded, smog-choked-rat-race of Southern California, it was time for a change - a major change, a new life, from scratch - a pattern that I would repeat many times throughout my life.
Off to Alaska
My first wife and I packed up everything we had and drove north to Eagle River, Alaska, about as far away from So Cal as we could get, to start another new life.
Nannook of the North
In Alaska, I worked in the restaurant business for a while (Captain Cook Hotel in Anchorage) while studying for my real estate license. The timing for a change of career was incredibly fortunate - I got in on the ground floor of the Great Alaska Real Estate Boom of the 80's.
My First Fortune, Boom & Bust.
Working like a madman for 5 years, I made a fortune in real estate in the early 80's, amassing numerous rental properties and material toys; luxury cars, sailboats and other 'stuff.' I promptly lost that fortune when the market busted in 1985 and I mean 'Flat Busted.'
I moved to Washington state to start over from scratch, again, at which time I filed for Bankruptcy, losing everything that I had worked my ass off for, over the prior 5 years.Oh well, I did it once. Guess I could do it again, but, I would find, not without going through a very long year of dark depression, self medicating with alcohol and cocaine.
Hitting Bottom & the Gift of Sobriety
My drinking had progressed to where I literally drank myself into blackouts, most every night. I hid my dirty little secret from my associates and managed to function fairly well, on the outside. On the inside, I was dying a slow, tortureous death. Alcohol had me in a death grip yet I was convinced I was having a nervous breakdown. I saw two different therapists, both of which suggested that I had a drinking problem. A drinking problem! "I drank because of my problems - my problems were not caused BY alcohol," I convinced myself.
As with most major life changes, we don't change unless the actual pain of remaining the same exceeds the perceived pain of making the change - 'hitting bottom' they call it. Soon, I hit that bottom, a place of incomprehensible emotional, physical and spiritual bankrupcty.
In mid December, 1989, I admitted myself into a 30 day alcohol treatment program. For over 20 years, with a lot of help from family and friends, I've enjoyed sobriety - with a few brief relapses. in between.
With alcohol no longer creating new problems, or providing self medication for my underlying time bomb (manic depression), it wouldn't be long before my lifelong secret demon would launch another attack at me. My hidden disease laid quietly in the background, waiting ever so patiently for the right combination of life events, 'the perfect storm' to make it's final assault on my soul.
My Second Fortune.
In the booming real estate Seattle market of the late 80's / early 90's, I once again managed to rebuild my career, amassing another fortune as well as building quite a reputation for marketing and promotion.
After 15 years in real estate, I'd decided to try something different, starting my own marketing company, (Vision Resources Unlmtd., Inc.). This new company was very successful from the start. I consulted with real estate professionals and small business owners, teaching them how to market and promote themselves, develop marketing plans and create media formats. Business was good. Life was good. I was on top of my game again. Once again, I was 'Master of the Universe.' Not for long.
'Marketing Master of the Universe'
Another Manic Manifestation.
Mental Illness Takes Over My Life
With clinical Bi-Polar depression, still unrecognized, I succumbed to a horrible bout of depression which lasted over a year. Inadvertently, I'd fallen back into another hidden addiction, another sick form of self medication - compulsive overeating. Looking back over my life would clearly show that food was my first form of self medication, a challenge that I face today and probably will for life. With alcohol out of the picture, unconsciously I'd reverted back into food, my new drug of choice.
I gained 70 lbs., over 6 months, pretty much lived in my sweats and eventually became too ashamed to see clients, rarely leaving the house. As I slowly became consumed by my new addiction, I became more and more isolated, shutting down and closing myself off from everyone around me, including my wife and kids, eventually resulting in divorce. I couldn't blame her, yet I didn't know what has happening to me and felt powerless to change it. I was falling apart, imploding, watching myself losing my mind, yet felt powerless to be able to stop this free fall into hell. I was totally and completely out of control.
As with any addiction, eventually it fails to soothe the underlying pain (in my case, depression). So, here I was, a blimp stuffed into sweat pants, hidden in my basement office, wife and kids gone and so ashamed and disgusted with myself that all I could do is sit there looking out the window - crying. How I managed to stay sober, still amazes me.
6 months later, the fog lifted long enough for me to pick up the pieces. Slowly, ever so slowly, I started putting myself back together again. I joined a gym, lost the 70 lbs and accepted a lucrative job offer in Phoenix with an advertising agency. The move would be a major turning point for me.
In Phoenix, I developed a national seminar and wrote two books on marketing. My self esteem was coming back. I travelled around the US to teach 'Strategic Power Marketing', primarily to real estate agents and small business owners. Business was good. I was on top of my game. It seemed like everyone wanted what I had to offer. I was useful, productive and once again, "The Master of the Universe." Little did I know that this was simply the flip side of yet another cycle of manic depressiojn - the high side of the wave - mania. It was only a question of time before I would once again plunge into the depths of hell ... and it wouldn't be long.
As is very common for people suffering from clinical long term depression, I self medicated to try and get some relief from the relentless suffering. I had tried many forms of self medicating over the years; food, work, drugs, alcohol, buying 'stuff,' sex, relationships 'hostages, really,' geographic relocations, complulsive exercize, and soon ... walking across the country). Alcohol was the quickest and surest means of self annhilation.
Back Down into the Pit of Alcoholism
After 6 years of sobriety, inadvertently getting sloppy with my recovery program, I relapsed back into active alcoholism. I was now stuck in an all to familiar treadmill from hell, a vicious downward spiral of despair and hopelessness from depression, then drinking to try and survive and more depression from effects of drinking and depression and drinking, etc. I wandered around for a few years in this cold dark fog of drunken insanity - utterly lost.
I felt very much like a shattered, worth-less, use-less, pathetic example of humanity, feeling more and more hope-less that I could ever manage to feel normal and fit in. I felt 'terminally unique,' ashamed and desperately lonely.
As lonely as I was, I felt like I needed to protect those around me as a Lepor would isolate themselves on an island. I hid to protect those I loved from worrying about me as well as to protect myself from well meaning but threatening people. 'Threatening' in the sense that in their loving intention to want to help, they might try to take away the only thing that helped me to forget - my best friend that was trying to kill me - alcohol. I hated myself. I had to find an escape. Alcohol was tightening it's grip on me, creating even more problems, yet failing to ease the pain - only creating more. This vicious cycle was eating me alive.
My 'Ultimate' Escape ...
A 2 year, 5000 mile, Solo Walk Across America
It was at this low point in my life, that I'd decided I needed to do something, anything!
There was no way out but up, or suicide. I'd hit an emotional, physical and spiritual bottom. I still had a glimmer of hope. I believed in God, most days, and God knows we talked a lot. Or should I say, I talked a lot. He couldn't get a word in.
Once again, I was blessed with the gift of sobriety. I was attending daily AA meetings in Phoenix and got some much needed support, slowly crawling out of that acoholic pit of despair. Now, there was hope in my life and a little strength to try again. I was coming out of a depressive cycle, soon to throw myself headlong into a massive manic episode.
While driving through the Arizona desert one hot day, once again praying (pleading) to God for relief from depression, the crazy idea of Walking Across America suddenly popped into my foggy little mind. Huh? It was so sudden, yet so clear, that it stunned me. Walk Across America??? You gotta be kidding.
Huh? Why? Why not?
Apart from the fact that I was a two pack a day smoker, was 30 lbs. overweight (again) and walking to the pantry for a bag of potato chips was a major challenge - Why Not? What did I have to lose? I had no life. I felt nothing inside. I was dead.
I had put aside some money, was not passionate about starting another business and this just might give me an opportunity to discover myself, again. I knew that I had to try to save my life, and maybe even do some good in the process.
Over the summer, I sold everything I owned to raise money for travel expenses. This was another one of those periods in my life, all or nothing, burning all my bridges behind me. There was no way out except to finish what I'd started. I had no career, no home, no relationship ... just time and 5000 miles of road ahead of me. The prospect of so much freedom was overwhelming yet offered boundless exhilleration with anticipation of unknown adventures. I felt like I was 17 again, when I would spend summers hitchiking around the US and Canada.
I trained for a few months in the summer of 1996 to get in shape. Not even 800 miles of 115 degree desert would prepare me for the Florida humididty. Damned good thing we don't know what's ahead of us, or we'd never get out of bed.
Kids with AIDS?
Prior to starting the walk I'd read a book, 'A Walk Across America,' by Peter Jenkins, that suggested to me that I would, most likely, receive a tremendous amount of publicity. This, I thought could provide a great opportunity to do be able to do some good for some deserving cause, thus I started looking for a worthy cause.
I put the word out to friends for charity suggestions. It wasn't long before someone suggested that I go to a luncheon to hear a man speak about kids with AIDS? I didn't even realize that kids had AIDS - I was curiouus. After his presentation, I introduced myself to Jim Jenkins, an incredible man who had personally adopted two HIV positive children and started an organization called Children With AIDS Project of America, a non profit organization in Phoenix, AZ.
Over the next couple weeks, Jim introduced me to a number of children with AIDS. After hearing their story, I KNEW that I had found the worthwhile cause that I had been looking for. I'd found a cause bigger than life itself, a passion filled me once again. I was coming alive. Once again, unknowngly, this passion was intertwined and most likely inspired by the upside of my personal madness returning - the manic side of my yet diagnosed mental illness (manic depression).
On September 15th, 1996 I got on a plane in Phoenix, flew to Miami, to start walking back to Seattle ...
the long way, via San Diego, a journey of 5,200 miles that would take me a little over two years to complete. I have thousands of pictures, hundreds of stories and incredible memories from this adventure. Who knows, maybe some day I'll write a book. For now, this is the best I can do.
This was bigger than life itself ... making a difference was the ultimate high.
(above) Press Conference in San Antonio, Texas.
I can say, without any hesitation, that those 3 years were BY FAR,
the most challenging yet most rewarding years of my life.
I am going to do it again!
I knew, from reading that book about the cross country walker, that the media would be interested in the novelty of a burned out pudgy middle aged guy walking across America. I was hoping that I could redirect their attention to the cause that I was representing, Pediatric AIDS. Could it work? Would they be interested in covering the stories of the children and families dealing with AIDS? It should, I figured, as celebrities do it all the time - to call attention to their favorite charities. I was no celebrity, but my effort was odd enough.
The diversion worked and it worked Great!
There were hundreds of newspaper articles, magazine features and dozens of radio and TV interviews. We reached over 90 million people with Pediatric AIDS awareness and raised tens of thousands of dollars for various AIDS organizations. In just one 3 minute interview on a national TV syndicate "CBS, This Morning", we reached 20+ million people.
I plan to repeat the walk
as my 60th birthday present to myself,
from Seattle back to Miami, or maybe across the Northern US to NY and down the Atlantic. Why not? Only this time, I will focus the attention on Mental Health Awareness! Hey, what better way to call attention to the issues of mental illness than by the example of a crazy guy walking back across the country. Hold the 'Forrest Gump' jokes - I've heard them all.
Another 'endless' road, somewhere in New Mexco.I loved roads
where you could see 100 miles in front of you. I felt so free. This kind
of adventure 'changes you' in ways that are indescribable.
Alcohol Catches Up
with me at the Oregon border.
Those last 6 months, from Northern California to Seattle, were a miserable slow grind, made especially harsh as I'd had to abandon the motor home and relapsed into active acoholism. My deal with the RV dealer was that I had to pay all expenses, which I no longer could. I simply could not afford the RV and if I wanted to finish the walk, I'd have to do it fully contained. My new backpack weighed 65 lbs as I needed to carry everything I'd need to live as opposed to a 15 lb daypack that I would normally carry with me.
To make matters worse, it rained every day for months as I groped my way in a drunken stupor, hundreds of miles up and down those damned steep cliffside roads. Miserable would be a gross understatement. I was so ashamed of my pathetic state, that I removed the sign on my backpack "Miami to Seattle for Kids with AIDS," as I didn't want people to associate this drunken wet bumm with the kids. But I HAD to finish what I'd started, even if it killed me - which at this point - I welcomed.
Only a few hundred miles to go. I quit?
Nearly 5000 miles of trudging through every conceivable condition and here I was, stinkin' drunk, stumbling up the coast, almost home, in constant pain, only a few hundred miles to go and I was pretty sure that I could not finish the walk. I was mad - I was so damned mad - at God, feeling betrayed and abandoned.
I believed, from the very start, that this walk was His idea ... that was the maddening part. The way I saw it ... I'd walked through hell, pushing past relentless fears, facing many death threats and countless obstacles, always forcing myself to take that one extra step when I felt my legs were failing me ... for what - so God could dump me on the side of the road, a miserable drunk failure? Perhaps an example of a defective human unit, riddled with sin, to be discarded and forgotten. Poor betrayed me - I was having a major pity party, all by myself.
Later, it would become clear to me that He had carried me all that way, never once leaving my side. God hadn't foresaken me. I had foresaken me. All of those hardships, every single misearable moment, were indespensable in forging me into the man I am today. How could I be of any use to others, to help encourage anyone to keep walking through hell if I hadn't been there myself. All of that pain was not wasted, unless, of course, I don't pass along my story, my experience, strength and hope.
For over two years of actual walking, I had a vision that kept me moving forward, day by day, step by step - (over ten million steps), inspite of countless hardships. That vision, which I would play over and over again in my mind, especially in times of doubt, were of those last few steps, walking up to the base of the Space Needle in Seattle, with my son at my side, to complete this once (perhaps twice) in a lifetime adventure, and holding his hand in mine - touching the 'Needle.' Done!
On October 11, 1998,
me and my boy, walking side by side,
took those last few steps,
surrounded by hundreds of friends, my entire family, media and well wishers. Holding his hand in mine, we touched the base of the Space Needle. My proudest moment. I had reached the top of the mountain. The walk was over. Now what?
My Proudest 'Dad' Moment.
Me and my boy, crossing the finish line, together.
The Great Depression
and the beginning of my art career.
For a couple years, while walking, I had a great deal of time to think, to imagine unlimited possibilities for my life - for my 'after-walk life.' What I hadn't foreseen was the excruciatingly tortureous and incapacitating manic depressive episode that would soon consume me, mind, body and soul.
While walking, my life made perfect sense.
I had a purpose. I was useful and productive. I knew who I was. I 'was' making a difference and my ego had identified who I was with what I had accomplished. When the walk ended, almost overnight, I was lost, totally and utterly lost. I had no idea who I was.
I was overwhelmed, feeling worth-less, use-less and pathetic, once again. I'd thought that I had walked away from a mid life identity crisis - (family, career, aging; you know, the usual 'who am I, what's it all about' stuff). That crisis was nothing compared to the confusion, anxiety and desperation I felt after finishing the walk with no new identity to attach to.
Now What?
Manic Depressive Free Fall into Hell.
For three years, I rode a tidal wave of mania. The flip side of this manic depressive episode was a free-fall into the depths of insanity - an 8 year nearly fatal depression which I never saw coming.
The surgeons told me later,
that when the two disks in my lower back ruptured,
it was the straw that broke the camels back.
Ten million steps, day in - day out, and those last few months carrying that waterlogged behometh of a pack, up and down the oregon coastal hills - eventually blew out my back.
The last few months of the walk, I could not remove my backpack at the end of the day, for days at a time, as it quite literallly held my spine together. Every night, I would set up my flithy, smelly tent, in the rain, crawl inside with a bottle of booze and some pop tarts, pull the waist straps of my pack tight around me and fitfully try to sleep, only to wake with my head pounding, stomach churning and seemingly endless miles of steep wet roads ahead. God, I was one miserable son of a bitch.
Within 6 months I could no longer walk
and could only stand for a few minutes at a time.
This was just another excuse for me to feel sorry for myself and rage at God. And once again, later, I would realize that it was a miracle that I could even finish the walk at all - considering the deterioration of my spine. Perhaps even my relapse was a part of His plan, providing an anasthesia to block some of the pain allowing me to walk that last few hundred miles up and down those hills. Who knows?
I underwent a long risky fusion surgery where they inserted dozens of stainless steel parts into my spine to hold everything together. I looked at this as one less problem to deal with, but as painful as the back problem was, it paled in comparison to the relentless depression/alcohol cycle which was just warming up again, ready to take me down.
Standing Up, Again
Totally lacking the self confidence or desire to go back into marketing or sales, I didn't know what to do? I needed something that would provide an outlet for my insatiable appetite, for expressing myself, allowing me to unleash the yet-to-be-discovered 'demons of my soul.'
Once again, not knowing I was mentally ill,
I was trying to fix myself from the outside in.
I just wanted to feel OK in my own skin. I hated myself for what I saw in the mirror, much of which was an undiagnosed illness manifesting into a desperate empty person. But what I saw in that mirror- I despised.
A vicious battle was always being fought within me. One part of me loved life and wanted desperately to fit in, to play with the other kids, to love, to live. The other part of me was always scared to death, hiding in shame, insecure, self loathing and wanting to die.
I didn't know I was sick - I felt like I was terminally unique, a defective freak of nature. Until I could root out this insidious disease that was eating me alive, there would be no relief, just many more failed attempts at trying to be 'normal.' This was my disease - up and down, played over and over again - this was my life. It was time to go up again.
I decided to become an Artiste'
It was time to start my life over again, from scratch.
Working on 'Killer Chicken'
I never had the ability to sit still long enough to attend college. Nevertheless, all the careers I undertook and succeeded in, I learned by just jumping in and doing it. I was never afraid of hard work or trying new things. This had always worked me for me in the past, so why not now.
I figured art is not rocket science - it's just expressing what's inside of me onto something outside of me. If it's the truth - it's good art. How it looks and whether it is 'good art,' well - that's just somebody else's opinion.
Aside from the fact that I'd had no formal art training and knew nothing of art, I decided to just figure it out on my own.
I went to the library to check out some books to learn how to become an artist. I discovered a book entitled "The Simple Screamer", a book written by Dan 'The Monster Man' Reeder. As I sat there on the floor of the library reading, I couldn't stop laughing ... it was a book showcasing and describing how to build papier mache monsters. Dan's creations struck a nerve with me ... they were tongue in cheek, colorful and fun. This exciting new medium offered unlimited potential, allowing me to create 3 dimensionally, anything that my mind could conceive - and That's Scary.
Dan's wonderful creations reminded me of life sized cartoons, NO, larger than life (something me and my ego were quite fond of). I'd found my medium and immediately commenced to build my first 'creature-ation.' From this first effort came inspiration to create many more pieces, each one providing a means to ex-press myself more fully.
I desperately wanted to be happy and find some meaning in life, I supposed, just like everyone else. Art would be my new addiction - something I could throw myself in to in yet another desperate attempt to fix my defective self from the outside in. I just didn't know any better.
"The Strangest Little Art Gallery in Washington."
In the Fall of 2004, my son Alex, (now 18) and I decided to move to Ocean Shores, a small beachfront community on the Washington coast. There I had decided to create a gallery and working studio. I was hoping that I could sell enough assorted artworks from friends, so that I could focus my time and energy on creating larger works.
This gallery, which I named 'Rochon Sculpture Gallery and Studio' was commonly referred to by the locals and media as 'The Strangest Little Art Gallery in Washington.'
I didn't sell enough of other people's art to pay the bills, so I created a line of more affordable papier mache art pieces which I called 'FisHeads.' Living in a beach town (fish theme), and pricing them within range of most people ($500 - $900), 'FisHeads' were very popular and sold well. My new problem ... I had created an art factory. I would have to create and sell four a month in order to pay the bills. There was no time left to do any of the work I wanted to do. I was basically living to work and wasn't very happy about it.
Calling it Quits for the Gallery Business.
When the lease was up for annual renewal (9/2005) I took a hard look at my situation and assessed the goals that I had set out for myself when deciding to start the gallery. What I concluded was that I was basically creating art for my landlord, and the utility companies, and all the other overhead that was consuming all of my income. This simply didn't make any sense to me. I wanted to work to make a living, not live to work. If I could have been creating my big art, I probably would have stuck with it. All I was doing was mass producing fun, colorful crafts.
I decided to close down the gallery and move back to Whidbey Island, to my mother's home, where I could help with property maintenance, have a nice place to live (cheap) as well as create a studio (see studio link for images). I needed to simplify my life, enabling me to work on whatever it is that I wanted. The constant anxiety wasn't helping my depression. Once again, I had no clue that I was sick, physically or mentally. Life only got worse.
From Depression to Heart Surgery
A big part of my decision to close down the gallery was due to the onset of yet another serious bout of depression which eventually resulted in cardiac problems. I didn't know it at the time, but 5 of my coronary arteries were almost completely closed off. Over the next two years, I would have two heart surgeries with 6 metal tubes (stents) placed into clogged ateries, to keep the blood flowing.
I was dangeroulsy close to death in this picture, 5 unknown blockages of coronary arteries, yet with the depression, I really
didn't care. 'Fix it if you want,' was my inner attitude, all the while
hoping I would not survive the surgery. I just wanted the pain
to end and didn't care how.
I happened across a little book in an onscure book shop in Ocean Shores. Somehow, I knew that I needed that little book. Immediately, I started reading and implementing the spiritual practices in 'The Power of Now' written by Eckhart Tolle.
Another Life Line from God
Tolle's book, unlike any of the dozens of self help books I had devoured, showed me that I was OK exactly as I was and that I didn't have to fix a thing - just fully accept myself - now, at this very moment in time.
When the waves of depression got so severe that I couldn't talk to customers, (which happened a lot), I'd shut down the gallery, go to the beach with Tolle's book, pray and read, all day, many days. I'd heard many complaints from the locals that they'd gone to my shop, repeatedly, and it was always closed. I didn't care. That was a major benefit of having my own business - I could do what I want - when I wanted. This isn't, however, a very successful work ethic. Maybe not being open to the public might have contributed to not making sales? Ya think!
These books, 'Power of Now' and 'New Earth' as well as 'Stillness Speaks,' kept me alive, acting like life preservers. I didn't know it at the time, but future 'Tolle' book groups would help me to build a strong stable foundation of presence, of consciousness in which I could start building a new life, a real life. Thank you Eckhart.
Hitting a Suicidal Bottom &
Discovering My Mental Illness
On December 24th, 2006, I had finally fallen to my lowest bottom.
For months, I was trying to cope with relentless waves of depression and mania squeezing me from both ends. They call this 'rapid cycling' or 'mixed mania.' This night, I felt as if my head was exploding. I could not take anymore pain and suffering - it just hurt too bad and I'd lost all hope that I could ever get any relief, let alone any semblance of peace. I just had to end the pain, regardless of consequence - I was burning alive and had to put out the fire.
I was seriously considering a shotgun ending.
There have been many times in my life when I felt desperate and thought about suicide, even had half-assed attempts which were really desperate 'cries for help,' but this was completely different. I was done. I simply could not take it anymore. I'd lost all hope. I hit my knees, sobbing and in despair pleaded to God for help.
A Christmas Miracle - Really!
This truly was the moment when I was reborn,
yet it would be another couple years when looking back, before I would fully realize this. This was not a religious, burning bush kind of re-born - this was one of those rare moments in life - a 'divine' moment of clarity. It was no easy task to put the pieces together again. I was sick. Really sick.
I really didn't want to die - I just had to stop the pain; I was going insane.
Next thing I knew, I found myself on the internet, frantically searching suicide hotlines and ran across a posting, which I thought was from a person suffering with suicidal depression. I needed some hope, to hear someone that I could relate to. I needed to find someone that had been where I was and had made it through to the other side.
As I read more of the story, I realized this was was not a letter from a fellow depressive, but from the 17 year old son of this man that had killed himself. The letter was a detailed account of this boy's shattered life since the time that his father shot himself in the garage, with a shotgun, on Christmas Eve!. In trying to end his suffering, this father's solution destroyed his only son. In essence, he killed 2 people that day.
These words struck me like a lightening bolt.
I clearly saw an image in my mind
of my own son, Alex, 17 years old at the time,
writing that letter, about me,
after I had shot myself,
with a shotgun, on Christmas Eve.
Instantly I knew that suicide
could never be an option. N e v e r !
I could not kill my son.
I had to find another way out.
Oddly, after this revelation, you would think there would be relief. It was exactly the opposite. Instantly, it was as if the pressure was turned up 100 fold. With suicide no longer an option, I could see no possibility of relief. I felt like a caged animal in a pressure cooker about to explode and I was mad at God!. Was I ever mad at God! Why? Why me?
I never realized He was there, by my side, the whole time. I didn't realize that He showed me that letter from that boy and that He lifted that phone to my ear when I callled a suicide hotline and spent hours talking with angels over the phone, through a very long dark night. No doubt about it - Christmas eve, 2006 - that was my bottom and a turning point.
In January of 2007, I was finally diagnosed properly as having Bi-Polar II, formely described as Manic Depression. Since then, I have been working incredibly hard with a specialist using mood stabilizers to adjust the chemical levels in my brain. There have been many ups and downs but today I know there is a solution.
There is a Solution
Recovery (remission really, as there is no total recovery from BiPolar II) is a slow methodical process. There will always be peaks and valleys, cycles of depression and mania, often at the same time. But today, I have options. Today I have accumulated many tools that if I maintain dilligence in their use, can dramatically improve the quality of my life and greatly diminish emotional suffering.
Some of the tools in my bag include; continuous monitoring and taking of my prescribed medications, getting enough sleep, eating right, exercize, therapy as needed, eliminating stress and situations that overly excite me, service to others and accepting the love and support of family, friends and one incredible woman in particular - my loving girlfriend Sandy.
I am no saint (as this bio clearly demonstrates) but I do the best I can. I have found that peace of mind is directly proportional to the degree in which I use my tools.
One of the most powerful tools is 'service to others.' I am an outspoken supporter of mental health issues and post on various sites. I freely offer my story in hopes that it can bring hope to others. I am no mental health expert and will not offer advice, but I will, as I feel it is my responsibility, reach out to others as God, so lovingly reached out to me.
Good Dog
is Born-Again
In February of 2007, as part of my new self implemented mental health program, I started researching and collecting positive quotes so that I could re-train my thoughts.
I started to distribute some of these quotes to friends and family. Soon, these daily quotes, which were now referred to as "Daily Good Dog Feedings," took on a life of their own.
Finding inspiration from their 'Daily Good Dog' feedings, people would forward them along to their friends and soon 'Good Dog' was spreading rapidly to folks all over the world. Apparently these short daily inspirationals were helping many others besides myself.
Wanna check out the New Dog House?
CLICK on Diaper Dog's Belly
____________________________bio__________________________
U P D A T E
August 24, 2009 - Brain Surgery
After experiencing stroke-like symptoms in July, we (Sandy and I) stopped at the local hospital to have it checked out. Many tests later revealed a large anneurysm located in a particularly nasty area of my brain. My neurosurgeon told me after the operation, that I was one lucky son of a bitch - that an anneurysm of that type and size 'should have' ruptured long ago - and if that had happened, would most likely have resulted in a quick death or vegetative death.
Looking back, either I am 'one-lucky-son-of-a-bitch' or God has something in store for me. I don't feel real lucky so I'm open to the next directive.
As to other life stuff ... nothing too exciting - enjoying a great Seattle summer, lots of fishing, writing daily Good Dog's, playing with my flowers (my day job) and spending time with my honey (Sandy) - life is good!
Some Images of My Life ...
Slideshow of Walk Across America Click for Walk Across America
Slideshow of Flowers of 2009' - My Day Job. Louie's Summer Garden.
|
