My clinical depression

August 14, 2014
             Day 106

In 1996, I was a mess.  One person even described me as being completely crazy.  I was sad, I was confused, and I was lost.

And then it got worse.

And then, it got worse than that.

In 6th grade, when I was just 11 years old, I began feeling attracted to boys instead of just girls.  The feeling grew until 9th grade, when I was in an all-boys Catholic high school, and felt very much attracted to my classmates.  By the time I joined the monastic life and became "Brother Sean", I felt by taking the vow of chastity, I was vowing to give up women, which wasn't all that difficult to do!  Since I was 18 then, and never did anything about my other leanings, I felt they would just stay dormant in me, asleep, and not cause me any problems.  Throughout college though, even though I was a vowed Catholic monk, I found myself still thinking about my classmates at Manhattan College, and the feelings were just getting too difficult for me to contain.

On January 1st of 1997, just a few minutes after midnight, I came out to another person in my religious order.  It was the first time I'd ever said the words out loud to anyone, let alone myself.  And though the moment was extremely painful for me, the equivalent of passing a stone I'd guess (an emotional stone for sure!), the day that followed was one of the happiest I have ever experienced in my almost 40 years of life on this Earth.  It was just such an amazing feeling knowing someone else now knew my biggest secret, and I felt like everything would now be better.

It wasn't. 

The depression got even worse now, as I realized not only could I accept being gay, and think that maybe even God wasn't judging me, but now I was reminded of my situation.  I was a Roman Catholic monk in a very conservative religious order, and escape was not an option.  I literally felt completely helpless, completely powerless over my life.  I'd told God I'd be his servant, and I wasn't going back on that promise, no matter what feelings I was having.

I don't know what kind of "crazy" I must have given off in those days, but my religious superiors noticed it, and decided to get me help.  I was brought up to Dunwoodie Seminary in Yonkers (Saint Joseph's Seminary), and introduced to a psychologist named Paul Moglia.  The day I met him, Paul was giving a standard psychological test to a group of men studying for the Deaconate.  I learned he was the official psychologist of the Archdiocese of New York, so I knew I was in good hands.

He gave me a series of tests, asked me to answer a whole bunch of questions and even draw a few items, and then later told me I was suffering with clinical depression.  I can't tell you exactly how I felt when I heard this, but I must confess there was definitely something good about it.  Paul helped me see right away that there was something chemical going on in my brain, and the severity of my emotional lows were not the result of something bad I'd done, or any truth I happened to believe.  He also knew right from the start that I was gay.  I didn't have to tell him, because my religious superiors had informed him in advance.  (They'd gotten it out of me in what was its own extremely difficult conversation days earlier!)

Six months followed all this, and I went to see Dr. Moglia once a week for the entirety of this time.  I was told not to tell my fellow Brothers where I was going.  "If anyone asks, say you're going to visit the other community," is what they told me.  My depression and my struggle in general was my new biggest secret.  Not only was I a closeted homosexual, but I was a closeted clinically depressed homosexual too.  And throughout this time, I was also in my final semester at Manhattan College, pursuing not one but two degrees as a double major. 

At some point right near the end of my battle with clinical depression (and it was absolutely a battle), my doctor finally said he'd done everything he could for me, and would be happy to keep seeing me, but said I absolutely needed medicine for my condition.  He spoke to my religious superiors directly, and I did as well.  They said no.

They didn't just say no, actually.  They told me the Holy Spirit would help me, and not medicine.

My doctor, who you'll recall was the official psychologist of the Archdiocese of New York, was livid.  He contained his emotions, but he was very upset that these people were denying me basic healthcare.  He suggested we take the next step, and secretly talk to my parents.  They didn't know what was going on really, but they knew I had lost an awful lot of weight, and wasn't very happy.

And then, before any of this secret medical help even happened, I was summoned to meet with my religious superiors out of the blue one day.  "You're not happy here, we think you should leave the religious life, and we think you should leave right now."  The words aren't exact, but trust me, they are pretty much exactly how it went down.  (I'd failed out of their high school as a freshman, so this was now the second time in my life I'd been told to leave the premises.)  An hour after the meeting, I was dropped off at my parents' door, just a handshake and a wish of good luck to end it.  Four years of my life had just disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Now I can't tell you how to heal clinical depression, or how to treat whatever version of it you might be suffering through, but I can tell you that seeing my psychologist was more helpful than I can even put into words.  Seeing any doctor, especially if you have a great rapport with the person, is one of the best things you can do to help heal your hurting head space.  And for me, getting out of the religious order was enormously helpful too!

Though the day itself was one of the worst I've ever had, the days afterward slowly got better, and I had a new sense of hope and optimism about my life.  I had no money to my name, no bank account, and very little possessions, as I'd given most away when I joined the religious order, and only took a few boxes back out with me when I left, but for some reason, just getting away from some of those people really was the best thing for me at that time.

No, I can't tell you how clinical depression works, or how exactly to fight it, but I have learned it's a cruel fate for anyone to go through.  You feel lost and alone, depressed beyond measure, and nothing can help you feel better.  You need professional help, and nothing short of it.  And even before getting the help, you need to admit you need the help.  You need to surrender to the help others can and will be happy to give you. 

If there's a person, a group of people, or a situation that's making you feel this way, you need to get away from them, even if just for a little while.  And if you're a friend or spouse or family member of someone who's going through what seems to be depression, you need to help them do this.  Don't guilt them for needing to run away for a little while, even if just metaphorically.  Encourage it.  Obviously, don't let them be alone any more than they need to be, but if some kind of escape from responsibility or schedule will help ease their brains, please consider helping them through that.  And most importantly, find a professional psychologist to help too! 

If you had a broken arm, you'd want to get treated immediately.  The same is true for depression.  It needs to be treated through tender care and careful counseling.  It helps soooooo much, trust me! 

I'm no doctor.  I can't help you with all your pains.  But look one up in your area if you need to.  Most work with health insurance companies too, so you may only have to pay a copay.  And if you don't have insurance or money, please talk to me or someone else close to you for help.  No guilt!  If you're in need of medical help, your loved ones will help you however they can.

My particular story may sound unique, but depression itself is unfortunately far from rare.  Too many live through it without telling anyone, and so many others battle it with drugs and alcohol (or many other programs, communities, and tactics) instead of dealing with it the right way, with qualified professionals who know how to help you. 

As Professor Albus Dumbledore put it, "Help will always be given...to those who ask for it."