I’ve been writing a series of articles about my personal struggle with depression on my website, landonblake.com. It’s been difficult for me to find time to continue this series, but I believe it’s important to talk about depression because we don’t discuss it enough, especially for men in American society. Not talking about it is unhealthy. For me, sharing my experiences is part of my healing process. Some people are surprised that I’m willing to discuss this so publicly, but I find it therapeutic.
In this article, I want to share my journey to treatment. It took a long time for me to understand that I dealt with what I call clinical depression—long-term, severe depression. It took even longer to get on the right medication and take care of myself through diet, exercise, and adequate sleep. I’ll explain why it took so long, why you shouldn’t wait as long as I did, and how my wife played a crucial role in helping me get treatment.
The First 20 Years: Depression Without Treatment
My depression began very early, during my preteen years. In third or fourth grade, I remember going out for recess, sitting alone in a corner of the playground, and not talking to anyone. I would sit cross-legged on the ground until the bell rang, then return to the classroom. Looking back at 45, I can see this wasn’t normal behavior—I was already struggling with depression.
As a preteen, I felt intense loneliness and craved intimate relationships with girls my age. This wasn’t sexual: I was craving love, friendship, and acceptance. I wanted deep, meaningful connections, which wasn’t possible at that age for many reasons. I believe some of this was rooted in my severe depression.
When I hit my teenage years, my depression worsened dramatically. I became extremely antisocial and began dealing with strong desires to cut myself, burn myself, and commit suicide. From about 13 or 14 until my early 20s, this was a severe problem. Looking back, I’m not sure how much of this amplification was due to puberty and hormonal changes, and how much was related to my family falling apart during that time.
My parents were having major problems in their marriage, and my parents eventually divorced. It was a tumultuous time for my immediate family, and my parents had isolated us from my extended family. I didn’t have any place to go for support or help other than work, which I started at a very young age.
It’s hard for me to disentangle what was due to life circumstances and what was due to the changes I was going through as a teenager. Regardless, my teenage years were miserable and horrible—I wouldn’t repeat them for any amount of cold, hard cash. Looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t commit suicide during that phase because I was suffering terribly and had no answers.
The Next Phase: Marriage as Treatment
In my early 20s, I began to recognize that my suicidal thoughts and desire to harm myself weren’t normal. I was in the workforce and enrolled in college, so I had acquaintances and casual friends. Based on those interactions and my observations of other adults, I was starting to understand that some of my behavior wasn’t typical.
The next 10 years of my journey began when I met and married my wife, Monique. This initially “cured” some of the horrible loneliness and isolation I was feeling. My wife is a beautiful person—she loves others and is almost always happy. She had a significant positive impact on my own happiness.
Looking back, I realize that my relationship with my wife probably delayed the ultimate changes I needed to make to deal with my depression. My relationship with her became my “substitute” treatment for a long time. This created problems because whenever we had challenges in our marriage—which is normal, especially for a young marriage across cultures—I would get deeply, deeply depressed. This wasn’t healthy.
For the next decade, I still didn’t recognize that I had a problem with clinical long-term depression, and I wasn’t treating it. But as my wife spent more time with me and got to know me better, and as she matured as a person, she began to recognize that there was a problem.
She would tell me, “I think you’re depressed. I think you have a problem with depression. This is something we might need to get help for.” I don’t remember exactly how I reacted to these initial conversations, but I know I didn’t go get help. I didn’t see a doctor or therapist.
In this phase of my journey, I was very aligned with American male culture. I believed I could handle this without professional help. I thought, “I want to be strong enough to do this on my own. I don’t need help. If I need help from a therapist or doctor, it means I’m weak, and I don’t want to be weak. I’m supposed to be strong.”
So while my wife had recognized I had a problem, and I was starting to acknowledge I had an issue with depression, I still did not seek treatment.
The Turning Point: Flashbacks and Getting Help
I eventually sought treatment when I was in my early 30s, maybe around 35. What changed? I started to have severe flashbacks of childhood sexual abuse.
The first time it happened, I was in the car with my wife in our driveway, talking about things that had happened in my family. My first flashback was a terrifying experience and was completely unexpected. At that point, in my mid-30s, I had no idea that I had been sexually abused as a child. Even when I had the flashback, I didn’t understand what was happening.
I don’t know why it happened at 35 and not 30, 40, or 45, but the flashbacks began occurring a couple of times a month. There were triggers for those flashbacks, though I didn’t fully understand how they worked (or what they were) during this period.
After the first few flashbacks, my wife intervened. She essentially said, “You are seriously messed up, and you must get help.” She recognized that experiencing the emotions and memories of a four-year-old boy being sexually abused wasn’t normal and that I was going to seriously injure myself if I didn’t figure out what was going on. She was right.
She made a doctor’s appointment for me, and I went to see my general care doctor. I saw the physician’s assistant, a man younger than me, maybe in his late 20s.
The conversation went something like this: He asked why I was there, and I told him I thought I was depressed, that my wife told me I needed to get help, and that I was there to make her happy. Early in our conversation, he asked how depressed I was, and I told him I was very depressed. When he asked if I ever thought about suicide, I decided to answer honestly so I could get the help I needed. I told him yes, I thought about suicide.
Once he heard that, his whole demeanor changed. He became very assertive and said, “I’m not letting you leave this doctor’s office. You are going directly to a mental health institution, and I’m not giving you a choice.”
In hindsight, I understand that he meant well and was concerned about my life. He was probably reacting the way he’d been trained. But as a patient and an American man with depression, this was exactly the opposite of the reaction I needed.
I immediately felt attacked. I worried he was going to handcuff me and put me into a treatment facility against my will, which would be horribly embarrassing. I had negative associations with that process because I had seen my mother go through it.
I looked at this man—who was about 5’2″ and 110 pounds—and said, “I don’t know what army you’re hiding in this doctor’s office, but you better calm yourself down. There’s no chance in hell that you’re taking me against my will to a treatment facility. I came here because I wanted help. Don’t make me regret that decision. I am not an immediate danger to myself or others. Don’t make me force my way out of this this doctor’s office right now.”
Something in what I said changed his demeanor again. He calmed down and said, “Okay, I won’t try to forcibly commit you to a mental institution, but this is serious, and we need to talk about some things we can try.”
I left the doctor’s office with a prescription for an antidepressant, a fairly low dose of Prozac or Zoloft, and a referral to a therapist.
My Experience with Therapy
I went to a therapist in my hometown. She was a nice lady who meant well, but she wasn’t the right therapist for me. I don’t remember how many sessions I did with her—maybe half a dozen or a dozen—but I was totally disappointed in therapy. I did not get what I wanted from it.
I’m not saying therapy doesn’t work. Therapy is very personalized, and some people respond well to it. I think partly because I’m a man and partly because I’m very pragmatic and practical, I was hoping for tangible benefits from therapy. What I got was mostly me talking to my therapist about what was wrong with me. Some people find that therapeutic and healing but I felt it was a waste of time.
That said, I did get a couple of things out of therapy. She kept me on my medication—I probably would have stopped taking it otherwise—and she helped me understand why staying on medication was important for myself and for others I cared about. She also helped me better understand my relationship with my wife, especially when my wife attended one or two sessions. I’m not saying therapy provided no benefit, but overall I was disappointed with the experience.
My Treatment Plan
Every person needs a tailored treatment plan for severe depression. I’m still treating my depression 10 or 15 years from the first flashback. Here is what my treatment involves:
- Taking a small dose anti-depressant.
- Getting regular exercise.
- Getting lots of sunlight.
- Getting enough sleep.
- Eating well.
Lessons from My Journey
Looking back at my long journey to treatment, there are several important lessons I’ve learned:
- Depression can start very early. My depression began in childhood, long before I had the vocabulary or understanding to recognize what was happening. Parents, teachers, and others who work with children should be aware of signs of depression, like social isolation and abnormal behavior patterns.
- Men are particularly resistant to seeking help. The American male ethos of handling problems without help is powerful and dangerous. We need to challenge the idea that seeking help means you’re weak. Acknowledging a problem and seeking appropriate help requires tremendous courage and strength.
- Relationships can mask depression. While my marriage provided significant emotional support and happiness, it also delayed my seeking professional treatment. Using relationships as your only coping mechanism puts enormous pressure on those relationships and doesn’t address the underlying problem.
- The approach of healthcare providers matters enormously. The threatening approach of the physician’s assistant almost drove me away from treatment altogether. Healthcare providers need training in how to discuss mental health issues without triggering defensive reactions, especially with men who are already reluctant to seek help.
- Finding the right treatment is personal. Though therapy wasn’t particularly effective for me, medication was. Others might find therapy transformative but struggle with medication side effects. Treatment isn’t one-size-fits-all, and finding what works for you may take time.
- Loved ones can be crucial advocates. Without my wife’s persistent encouragement and eventual insistence, I might never have sought treatment. If you love someone with depression, your advocacy could save their life.
- Trauma and depression are often intertwined. The flashbacks of childhood sexual abuse were the catalyst that finally got me to seek help. For many people, depression may be linked to past trauma that hasn’t been processed or acknowledged.
- Treatment works. Despite my initial resistance and disappointments, getting on appropriate medication dramatically improved my quality of life. The intense emotional pain I described in my previous article has become manageable, and thoughts of suicide have become rare rather than regular occurrences.
Conclusion
If you’re reading this and recognize yourself in my story—if you’re dealing with depression but resisting treatment—please don’t wait decades like I did. The suffering isn’t necessary, and it puts you at risk. Depression is a medical condition that responds to treatment, not a character flaw or a weakness.
If you love someone with depression, understand that your advocacy matters. Be persistent but compassionate. Recognize that their resistance to treatment may come from fear or cultural conditioning rather than stubbornness. Help them find the right provider who will approach their condition with respect and understanding.
My journey to treatment was longer and more difficult than it needed to be. I endured decades of unnecessary suffering because I didn’t understand depression and was unwilling to seek help. But I’m grateful that I eventually did get treatment, and I’m sharing my story in the hope that others might take a shorter, easier path to healing.
Depression is treatable. Life can get better. Don’t wait.
This article is also available as an audio recording.
Photo Credit: David Banning On Unsplash