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I wrote this story neither as an advocate for, or a critic of, electroconvulsive therapy. The story really began as an exercise—as a first step back into the world. Last June, after nearly three weeks at Princeton House in Princeton, N.J. and seven shock treatments, all I wanted was to return to work and to the job I love as a feature writer at The (Newark) Star-Ledger. But I was still unsteady, still unsure of myself, afraid that my mind no longer worked and that I might never write again. My editors told me just to ease back in, maybe try writing about the massive, paralyzing depression I'd just been through, and the ECT. It wasn't an assignment meant for publication so much as it was a kind of prescription.

By and large journalists shy away from first-person stories—they're against our news nature. But after trying to write about my experiences in the 3rd person, and at the urging of my editors, I gradually re-inserted myself back into the story, knowing that to tell it well, to tell it completely, I needed to tell about myself. The result, "A Shock to the System," proved to be palliative, personally, and also much much more. After it ran, I was inundated with responses from readers, from colleagues, from mental health professionals, and I was humbled by the outpouring of support and the willingness of strangers to share their own experiences.

I could not have written this story anywhere else than at The Star-Ledger. My editors visited me and called every day that I was in the hospital. When my insurance ran out, the editor of the paper, Jim Willse, let the hospital know that the Ledger would pay for anything I needed, for as long as I needed it. Truly, no amount of thanks will ever convey the depth of my gratitude.

If you'll permit this former philosophy teacher a classical reference, I'd like to quote Aeschylus from his play Agammemnon:

"Drop by drop upon the heart sorrow falls, memory's pain, until, almost against our very will, comes wisdom by the awful grace of God."
There was a time in my life when I would have traded away my memories for anything. But not now. I am thankful for the painful ones as much as I am for the joyful ones, and I am no longer embarrassed or ashamed to say that I am manic depressive. I celebrate it. I celebrate whatever wisdom it brings, whether by struggle, by reflection, by writing… or by the awful grace of God.