It was through learning about love-true love-that I became whole again. It was through coming to the realization that I am loved that I learned to have inner peace. I began writing a personal memoir on New Year's Day of 2000 in a very confused state. In his famous prayer, Thomas Merton says, "I don't know where I'm going, I can't see the road ahead of me…" And that was the case in my life on the first day of this new millennium. I knew not where I was going. I don't know what I would have done if on that day I had known what the year 2000 had in store for me.
I soon would find myself being asked to do some very difficult things for my job. I was always an analyst and never a salesman type. I shuddered at the thought of having to go out and sell something, and in the process, have a great amount of contact with clients or potential clients. And sure enough, I was asked to do just that for my job. "Is this what I studied Applied Mathematics at Columbia for?" I asked myself. I got on a plane to go to Indianapolis to sell our consultancy services to the great pharmaceutical company there. I broke down and cried in the airport bathroom because I hated my life so much.
"I'm your worst nightmare," said a client over the phone to me one day. I could remember putting the receiver down on the phone and feeling myself crumbling. "Could this be depression?" I thought. I felt like telling the person I was then: "Of course it is! Go get help!" But I have to say that the words "I need help" kept running through my head. I feel now that God made me say that to myself.
I did seek counseling at St. Francis counseling center where I learned that I probably needed a psychiatrist just to get some medication to help me sleep. I didn't know at the time that I probably needed a lot more than a sleeping pill. So I soon came under the care of a doctor who was schooled in psychoanalytic methods. This skilled psychiatrist came to become my sole mental health provider. In his office in the Manhattan neighborhood of Murray Hill, he began to analyze me and determine how my family could have been the cause of the quandary that my life seemed to be at the time. Both he and I now know that my family was not at all responsible for what happened to me in 2000 and early 2001. I now also know that the hand of God was at work, because I was under the care of a psychiatrist when I had my first break.
I remember that day very well, although I still have trouble figuring out if some of the things I thought were happening really did happen. I was supposed to go to a pharmaceutical company in New Jersey with a salesperson from overseas. One of my co-workers "crashed our party" and pinned the guilt for a laptop being missing on me. He and everyone in my office kept chiding me and making fun of me. They were so cruel, ripping down everything I had built up. "It's okay Johnny. It's okay honey," my father said to me in the car that night. "Your window on reality has become distorted," he said putting his hand on my lap. "John, I've done some research on the internet," he said, "You have an illness called schizoaffective disorder."
Dr. Beeferman must have called my parents earlier in the week after my visit when it became clear to him that I was in the middle of a psychotic episode. "If life hands you a lemon, make lemonade," said my mom in her reassuring tone. My delusions continued for several days, maybe weeks. It did take about a week to determine that three milligrams of Risperdal was enough. Risperdal and Paxil: they've definitely been saviors for me, but they have not been the answer. Well, they've been part of the answer, but there's so much more!
"You could stay as long as you want. You could come back here anytime you like." Those were sentences spoken by my mother that comforted me. Her words cut through the delusions. "If the world is against you, your family will always be for you. Your family is the true source of unconditional love. We'll protect you." These were the words of my father that gave me confidence. I would have been lost without my family. I think things would have gotten so much worse without their support.
Listening-what a great skill. I had to really acquire that skill myself, and it only came after two years of therapy, and it's still not that great, but it is a skill that my friends possess. When I told them everything, they just listened. At times they nodded. At times they gave the reassuring "aha." They heard, listened and did not judge. How could they judge me? After all, this was not my fault.
After a couple of failed attempts, I have finally written that memoir. Well, it's almost complete except for a few prayers I would like to add at the end. And while I cannot say honestly that I have fully recovered from serious mental illness, I do have a better glimpse of the road ahead of me.