Darkness Visible, Depression, and Suicidal Ideation

By Anonymous

Him the Almighty Power
Hurld headlong flaming from th' Ethereal Skie
With hideous ruine and combustion down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In Adamantine Chains and penal Fire…
As one great Furnace flam'd, yet from those flames
No light, but rather darkness visible
Serv'd onely to discover sights of woe,
Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes… 

~ from Milton’s Paradise Lost, Book One (1674)

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In the passage from Paradise Lost above, Satan has launched his unsuccessful war against God and heaven and rightfully been cast down into the pits of Hell. He finds himself chained in unbreakable chains to the floor of a fiery pit without even the comfort of light from the flames. In “darkness visible” he sees only “sights of woe, / Regions of sorrow, doleful shades.” In the absence of God’s presence he flails about in pain, doomed to never know peace, rest, or hope again.

It was on a beautiful spring day—birds chirping, sun shining in through the window, adoring, four-legged friends at my feet—that I used the passage above to describe to my girlfriend how empty and defeated depression made me feel.

We have different names for these things now, but “sights of woe” sound an awful lot like intrusive thoughts; “doleful shades,” to me anyway, accurately described the synesthesia of strength-draining darkness that had creeped over me. With all promise of “rest” and “peace” dashed by medical science and the constant voices of doubt in my head, I had certainly lost hope.

Worst of all? The closest comparison I could come up with to describe myself was that of Satan. A lot of doctors would call that “a poor self-image.”

Fast forward a few months.

Not many people talk about suicidal ideation. It seems they’re either embarrassed, worried about alarming their loved ones, or afraid of being locked up. These reasons are all valid, of course. But I made a promise a long time ago to be open and honest about what I’m going through because I think it makes me stronger while helping those around me. So, again, here it goes.

The other night I was lying in my bed, completely in the dark, waiting to fall asleep. The self-effacing negativity and spitting of curses at myself ran rampant as it had for a while. It was something I’d grown accustomed to since quitting my medications in the spring. For me, not having medications is a tradeoff where I can better control my impulses at the expense of increased depression. When I’m alert, the dark thoughts are easier to push away. But when I’m tired, about to fall asleep, it is often a different story.

For me, as a man who experienced a suicide in his immediate family, it will never be an option. I realize on both an emotional and intellectual level that it only hurts the ones you love. But that doesn’t stop the theatre of the macabre from acting itself out my head. Thoughts and images of hurting myself flash before my eyes faster than I can stop them. I know I will never act on them. I know I am physically in control. Still—and I doubt I am alone on this—simply having the thoughts can be discouraging.

I find that flashes of self-harm occur vividly and alongside waves of self-deprecation and doubt. The slightest slip-up or failure can trigger them. Those who know me well have learned that I vent this negativity through jokes and creativity. I used to be able to pop a VA-prescribed pill when I felt down or anxious. I used to be able to PRN-my-way through about any situation. But since going cold turkey I’ve been forced to find more and more behavior-based methods to deal with PTSD and its aftermath.

I’ve been grappling with this issue both intellectually and spiritually over the last couple of months. My goal has been to symbolically represent the causes of the condition through language and understand—beyond the limits of medical science—the role of my soul. But learning causes didn’t result in the ability to produce effects. So, each day I’d learn something new. Each night, I’d lie in the dark, struggling, waiting for that ability to come to me.

Suicidal ideation is like being strapped to a chair and forced to watch a really graphic movie of your own death. Here’s the catch: You’re both the protagonist and the antagonist—literally your own worst enemy. The voice you hear, the one screaming that you’re “pathetic” or “weak” or “disgusting,” it’s your own voice. And, after a while, you become convinced that you are the one doing the talking. Why wouldn’t you? It’s your voice. Your brain. You are the one conjuring up these thoughts because you are “sick,” right?

I’m no longer convinced.

On the night in question, I looked up. There hung my trusty shotgun—the one that PTSD tells me to keep ready for intruders at all times. Then came a flash of me shooting myself and collapsing on the bed. It lasted less than a second. But it was so disturbing and graphic that it wounded me. It was like being punched in the gut.

In its shocking repetition, suicidal ideation makes you feel very much like a victim of abuse. But you’re the abuser. What gives?  I was in control, but the thoughts weren’t going away. I felt like I was losing the battle—that it would just get worse and worse until I wasn’t in control. That was what knocked the wind out of me.

I said to myself, “You know...if you’re thinking about blowing your head off, the responsible thing to do would be to lock the gun up in your safe.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to do that. What if someone breaks in?”

I tried to be rational. It dawned on me that the safest alternative to locking up the weapon would be to crawl over to the corner of the bed and sleep there. That was the furthest spot away from the gun. I wouldn’t have to risk getting near it but could if someone broke into my house. Then it hit me that I’d just told myself to curl up in the fetal position on the corner of the bed.

“How did it get to this point? Listen to yourself!”

In the background during all of this, that vile, contemptuous voice kept talking. It had been telling me to “do it” and reinforcing its previous points about my being weak, pathetic, and disgusting. In my mind’s eye I stepped back for a minute and asked myself something I hadn’t before:

“If I’m listening, who’s doing the talking?”

I created a representation of the scene the best I could in my brain. I saw myself stepping away, outside of a circle of white light. Inside the circle, crouching and holding a severed head like a puppet, was the thing that had been talking. It was black like venom with skin the texture of a smoky-ink. The head it was holding, and by extension the voice, was my own. But I was clearly on the outside of the circle. I was listening.

“There you have it.” It wasn’t me talking at all.

I’d describe what happened next as an epiphany, but it wasn’t really that. It was more like something remembered—something I used to know but had forgotten. I paid particular attention to the voice: it tapered off; its tone described someone who’d just been caught. And it muttered something to the effect of “this doesn’t change anything.”

But I knew better. I made one conscious decision to listen and, for the first time in months, the voice shut its mouth.

What ensued was astounding: my head and face tingled. I felt a distinct crunching feeling in the tip-top of my brain—as if the folds of my cerebral cortex where tightening and strengthening themselves. I’m used to getting headaches, but a new, different one presented itself at my forehead. I welcomed it. I knew something big was happening. That some new—or old and forgotten—pathway was being opened up and I was (re)learning how to use it.

In “darkness visible” I opened my eyes.

Since then, I’ve come to call that voice the “Puppet-Master.” It was like he had his hand in the back of my neck, making me spout off terrible obscenities and lies about myself. The sound of my own voice did a lot to convince me. But so did the constant message that there was something wrong with me.

There might be something wrong with my brain. There might be something wrong with the way I live my life or the decisions I’ve made. There’s definitely something wrong with the things that have happened to me. But those things are not and have never been me. I held somewhere deep down inside the view that there was something defective with my soul—that I deserved the constant torment. It was a lie, and now that I’ve learned to put a muzzle on the liar, it’s one that makes me burn with a healthy anger rooted in self-respect.

I’m sure that the Puppet-Master reinforced that lie. He still likes to catch me unawares and slip in self-hate and violence when he gets the chance. But I’m onto his game now. When I catch him, I get angry. I step out of the circle, locate him, and drag his wretched ass to a nice box I constructed in the corner of my mind. I borrowed the box metaphor from my fellow veterans. Now I know what to put in there.

What should you make of all of this? I don’t know. You might think I’ve lost my mind or that I’ve used too many psychedelic drugs. To me, it seems like a lot of veterans and people struggling with mental illness believe lies about themselves. What I’ve done, in my best estimation, is find a way to represent the source of the lies—a Puppet Master—and a way to control it. Some people achieve this through medication and therapy, others through exercise, and still others through religion and service. My journey has been a combination of all of these things and it isn’t over. But I just won a major battle.

For now, I’ll just keep listening. I’d encourage you to take the time to listen to yourself, too. You might be surprised at what you learn.

Ty Carter's Advocacy in Context

The most recent Medal of Honor recipient has perhaps one of the most impressive citations in the War on Terror. As a participant in a battle that nearly overwhelmed a small Combat Outpost (COP) named Keating, Army Staff Sergeant Ty Carter repeatedly braved danger, injury and certain death to aid fellow wounded soldiers. When running to the assistance of wounded comrades his fellow soldiers attempting to aid others were killed. Carter provided first aid and ammunition so the wounded could maintain a desperate stand, Carter stated that the outpost lacked water, necessary medical supplies and ammunition. Despite hunger, thirst, and injuries and, in some cases mortal wounds, they continued to fight. In a battle that carried multiple valor citations, Carter’s performance carried the most accolades....

See full post on Khronikos here.

(Thriving) Chick Hill

The Peaked Mountain and Little Peaked Mountain faces.

On a hot, but manageable August Sunday I found myself in Bradbury Mountain State Park running the toughest race of the year. The course's 1450 ft elevation gain and equal loss in only 9 miles makes it one of the most challenging in Maine without factoring all of the roots, rocks, and New England rock-wall obstacles you traverse to get to the finish. Ian Parlin is a sadist in the way that any good trail race director should be. He decided to cut out some downhill switchbacks to add about 400 more feet of gain and let us all know that at the starting line. That's why I run his races. So while getting to the boundary road with the addition of a strong climb I was excited about my pace without any panic attacks. After two days of rain  the course was wet and slippery, and I was still in a large crowd of people. As we started the first real climb (on the old course that is) my left foot landed on a rock was deceivingly wet and slippery. My left leg slipped, and from the bruising it appeared to have slammed into another rock or stump: a fact I was oblivious of at the time. What I was intimately aware of was the movement of my leg.

I have broken my ankle before, and I have never felt my leg move like it did at Bradbury. The ankle rolled so extremely that my knee snapped by the strain. I was instantly sickened in the way that you feel when ice breaks underneath you. "Fuck! Its time for six months of rehab." My brother-in-law was behind me and he later said that he thought I broke my leg. For a few seconds I knew that I broke my leg. The pain and nauseous feeling put me into a walk before my mind even fully reacted. I needed to walk as far as I could with the adrenaline I had because I was in the most remote place on the course (another runner passed out nearby and it took hours to get him off the course). "How was I walking though, my leg was broken right? It had to be." I walked up the hill. It hurt but my leg was working. "How was it working?" Sick and crying from the shock and the pain I started to run. I didn't know how I still could, but I'd worked too hard to run my best time. I deserved this and it might be my last run of the year, and I knew that, for some reason, my body takes three to five hours to swell up. Let's go! (Oh By the way Let's Go is the modo of my of my Airborne Infantry Regiment. Glider up son!)

The view from Little Peaked Mountain.

Chick Hill is not actually the title of the mountain that I have been climbing a lot lately, but it is what here everyone calls Peaked Mountain, which is situated near Chick Hill. I like that about Peaked Mountain. A lot of people climb it, but few really know its actual name. Even fewer truly appreciate it. Most of its trails are overgrown, its rocky road up to the cell phone tower is the only thing that is, albeit reasonably, well maintained. Its older, perhaps better, ridge-line trail has been absorbed into the forest. The fire break/road like surfaces are as technically difficult as any trail in the area. This would be where I would reconnect to my strongest mentality. The drive to Clifton Maine has become an obsession of mine lately. The whole week I am be excited about my sole foray to the mountain. I read maps, look at Google imagery to try and find new trails to run. I was working out, exploring and fusing with the place.

Birds eye view of Acadia National Park.

Peaked Mountain felt right, it was poorly managed, in places grossly clear cut, in others the forest had claimed the trail, and it was small and underrated. It felt like me, and I was building a relationship with a place. Not the tired and common unrealistic anthropomorphizing of a space, rather I was falling in love with its flaws as well as its charms. I'd come home covered in its tall unchecked grass, at times bleeding with little bits of mountain inside my knee and palms. Weeks later I would vacuum little bits of mountain from under the door mat for almost 10 minutes. I've bled and swet into the place and carried a little of it home with me with every trip. Too many people try to shape the land, or possess it, but few are shaped by it and let themselves be possessed by the space they live in. Even fewer would feel that way about a place with a man made road, a large cell phone tower, and beer bottles strewn about at the summit. Not me, I loved the place because that felt more like me. I could see Acadia to the south and the larger peaks to the west. Running goals that this place would help me meet, but I was deeply attached to the imperfections of the space. This was life and space that defied narrative: imperfectly appropriate. It was so much more like myself, in its beauty, its unkept and unfinished nature, yet at its summit was one of the most beautiful scenes in vacationland (Maine). Peaked Mountain had recharged me in ways that I haven't felt since I went to war.

Check the wince. Image Credit Maine Running Photos.

Bradbury was decidedly frustrating because of the sprained ankle, but I'd been here before. I'd sprained my ankle at my first 100 mile attempt and I went 29 miles on it before deciding it wasn't worth it to risk worse injury (my main effort that year was JFK and I wanted to get to the line uninjured). I'd sprained my ankle early on Bradbury's 12 mile Bruiser and finished. In Ranger school I had the worst sprain of my life on the march to Darby and made it through the whole phase (I recycled because I was too weak with that ankle). My wife says,"if Joe's gonna sprain his ankle its gonna be in the first two miles and he's gonna finish;" she just gets me. I was frustrated because I was doing so well and I thought that I wasn't going to have an improved time.

Bloodied compression socks. TRWB

No, I was ready for this and I could still do it! I'd spent too many days on Peaked Mountain and I'd earned an excellent performance. That was different, for the first time in years I felt like I owed myself a victory. I was worth it, and I might have even owed it to Peaked for all the time I spent on it. More pragmatically the way I'd run Peaked Mountain prepared me. On my toughest 8 miler, I started by climbing the grade 8, 1.5 mile, 800 ft gain, category 3 climb up to the summit. After catching a toe I scraped up my knee and it was initially bleeding pretty bad. I pulled my compression socks over it to stop the bleeding and ran down the mountain. Halfway down the mountain I checked my leg and the bleeding had stopped. Let's go! I wanted to add some to speed to my total pace so I turned unto a firebreak that led to the actual Chick Hill. I took a left hand turn down what, I guess, was a logging road that wasn't on the map and didn't make it to Chick Hill. The initial climb made my calves all but useless so I had to rely on my quadriceps to ensure that I could hike up the summit and still be at a good ultra pace (12 minute miles).

I was busting my butt (literally) and quads to maintain nine minute miles so that my ending split would still be at running pace with all the hiking involved. I pushed up Little Peaked Mountain's summit at a good hike and ran up Peaked again. My pace on that 1900 ft total climb was faster than last years Breaker. I began to realize that I needed both the climbing calves and quads to manage the terrain at the Chick area so I started adding faster flatter running with my dog Darby and my mountain days got better and better. I felt awesome, and fulfilled.

More importantly I'd hiked so much at racing pace. Just minutes after my sprain came the south ridge of Bradbury Mountain. I was not feeling up to running that kind of grade just yet so I leaned forward put my hands on my knees and hiked. To my surprise my walking wasn't only keeping pace, but gaining on most of the runners around me. The descents were more difficult. I had my ankle fully extended when it twisted so it seemed to only really be acting up on steep downhill terrain. The down hill was easier physically, but I couldn't shred and gain speed. It was frustrating to basically lose all the calf strength I gained climbing Peaked, but I'd also focused on hiking and quad strength. Two out of three wasn't bad.

Last climb. Ian Parlin in left corner. Image Maine Running Photos.

On the descents I just kept telling myself "10 minute miles, push with quads. Run with quads on the flats, don't waste a second when your ankles don't matter." Still I was very practical about my climbs. The summit trail is foolish to run anyway. Its 200 ft gain in maybe a tenth of a mile. I just ate an Espresso Love Gu, hands on knees hiking, and I lost very little on the worst climbs. There is about a mile of descent afterwards and I would hold onto the others as long as I could and then back to my ten minute mantra. When I saw the top of the last climb I was ecstatic. I ran up ignoring the pain. I held my pace on this descent, "who cares about pain in the last mile. The pain will subside a lot more when I stop running right?" At the beginning of the last climb I'd looked at my watch and saw that I was at about an hour twenty. My best finish was 1:51:20 so I think I was also charged by what I'd done. I ran at full speed, ten minute pace be damned at that point, and caught two who closed up on me after the last descent. 1:42:21 was my finish nine minutes faster than my best time.

Where's the medic?

"I can't believe you finished the race" was how my brother-in-law greeted me. He'd beaten me and I didn't want to steal his thunder by complaining about the sprain, and imply that he'd won by default because I think he would have prevailed regardless. We made our way to a fireman who checked to see if I'd broken my ankle. Apparently I hadn't broken it and as I sit here drafting this post icing my swollen ankle, I am surprised at how well it is healing. I have subsequently ran my fastest two splits to the the top of the mountain, back to back with only time to refill my bottle so it seems like I've recovered. At Peaked I'd gotten better at small quick steps and the only good thing about the sprain was that I hadn't fell. A quick small step pulled my leg up before all of my weight was placed on my precarious ankle and it was relieved of a break or worse injury. In remembering those moments when I felt like I owed myself a great race regardless, I am reminded of why it is I race on trails. It reminds me of how tough I can be in a crisis.

No matter how much writing, research, and advocacy I do for PTSD I still deep down feel weak. Races like Bradbury, and days like on Peaked when I hurt myself, but still pushed on, remind me of how I respond to injuries. They remind me that I finished the Darby Queen a day after a minor surgery once and another time without all the skin on one of my heals. They remind me that I am excellent at finishing physical challenges even when I am injured. They remind me that all the stereotypes and perceived stigma about PTSD being a result of weakness are bullshit. I don't know how to be a tougher person than I am (sure there are tougher) and I have PTSD. I am both the 90% disabled vet and the guy who finished one of the toughest races in Maine despite an injury. Better, perhaps even tougher, runners called it quits for the same kind of injury that day. Physical injuries are so much easier for me, because they are concrete and have time tested solutions. Rest, Ice, elevate, and compress. With every sprain, fall, cut, and painful day on the trail I am reminded the value of recuperation, and it helps me value and manage my invisible injuries a little better. I also feel like I owed it to Peaked/Chick for what I'd learned and becoming closer to a space is helping me with all my triggers in ways that I wouldn't have expected. By getting attached to this space I am having an easier time remembering that it is not Iraq, and that helps a lot. Transcendence for me comes with effort that pays dividends in every facet of my life, but it also helps me see a place for what is is and not idealize it in ways that are unrealistic. Home was never the ideals I shaped in my mind to escape the the hell that is war, and it takes time, for me miles, and effort to recreate my sense of safe space. I'll still sprain ankles, get bloodied and bruised in my safe spaces, but every-time is an opportunity to get a little stronger, push a little harder, and value the same recovery from the wounds no one else can see.