I returned to Westmeath because my father prompted me too. My mother had passed a few years before. I was going through a divorce, was ready for retirement and would have had to move somewhere. The decision was an easy one.
Once settled in, I realized it was different from when I left at 21. My Dad knew about a reunion for the 100th anniversary of Westmeath Public school. The whole family had attended that school. He suggested getting involved, which I did, which led to other volunteer opportunities to participate. Every month became busier for me. I made acquaintances, many of which were newcomers to our area.
In volunteer work, there was an upcoming bicycling event (Tour de Whitewater) scheduled for July 2019 as well the ongoing WDRA activities and the Social Senior Club actions. I began to notice my enthusiasm I had only months ago was in decline. Discussions and reading about global warming effects was worrying to me.
Everything was put on hold due to Covid. The first month of confinement was like a holiday – I needed the break. I didn’t want Covid restrictions to ever end as I found much relief in not having to socialize.
It was afterwards I realized how sad I’d become, increasingly sadder over the months to come, mostly about the world’s future. My usual interest in local and global affairs had fizzled out. There was finally a time where Covid ebbed allowing permission to socialize but for me it was dreadful.
I declined with gripping guilt when invited to an event or a meeting that I would normally attend. Some friends put on a little pressure to get out me of the house. I resisted as much as I could, now avoiding phone calls if possible. The occasional time I did give in for a lunch, I was totally uncomfortable, with nothing to say or contribute and so grateful to be back home to isolate. I never blamed my ailment on anyone or anything. At home, I could use imagination to become someone of importance at a different time and place to pass the hours more easily. Today a diplomat for Canada, tomorrow a senior manager for a railroad company.
Each and every day seemed to drag despite my imagining things for part of it. I spent a few hours watching television, but more hours than that sitting in my chair and daydreaming about various ways of dying. My desire for dying (disappearing in a puff of smoke) was virtually in every thought. I wanted to die but not through any action on my part, just having the pleasure of not being here so that I wouldn’t have to face anyone or anything ever again. This wishful thinking became part of all my waking time. There were only a few distractions as writing my column for the Whitewater News. I finally mustered the courage to confess my despondency to my doctor. She listened carefully. She suggested reading a book that demonstrated how important it was to have a purpose. I realized I had no purpose in life. I decided my purpose would be to make Sheila’s life easier. I didn’t realize it then but that meeting initiated changes behind the scenes.
The toughest part of my day was getting out of bed in the morning. Once awake, I had to convince myself to get up. A good day took 20 minutes of considering and self -negotiations, most days it was more like an hour.
This depressed state was a feeling of meaninglessness and to some degree of feeling invisible with no expectation of tomorrow being any different. My depression brought with it slowed-down responses to near paralysis; my energy throttled back close to zero. I couldn’t cut the grass or shovel snow. Even my own identity was distorted, one with a minimum self-worth.
People when they could reach me would remind me of all the wonderful blessings I had. This was no help because I had no interest in those so-called blessings. If anything a friend’s job in these circumstances is not to cheer me up but to acknowledge the reality of the situation; it’s to hear and respect me; it’s to show they haven’t walked away.
But like just about anything, the unexplained can happen. A neighbour invited me for a Thursday afternoon meeting. My gut said yes. I was so relaxed, especially when he wanted me to come back. It still continues – every week for nearly two years. It became a milestone I could count on, the discussions keeping me looking forward to the next session. Another friend joins us when he can. Then there is a special friend from Toronto who calls regularly–to see how I am doing, not to push me.
Meetings with a social worker were set up. The first one, I said it all, omitting nothing. On the way home I was dumbfounded. I had not thought of ‘dying’ for the first time in over a year and it has continued even to this very day. I was so relieved it brought tears to my eyes. And for the first time I had a little edge on the hope factor.
The third session was like a party. We both believed I had made the grade. When she said I would make a good poster boy, I was delirious with happiness. Since then other good things have been happening to me.
I can now say that if anyone is suffering from mental stress, tell your story to somebody, it may change your life.
