Functional, not fine(part 4)

 Saying It Out Loud

Men my age grew up with a simple rule set: you’re a man, you don’t show emotion, you put your head down and keep moving. You bury things deep and don’t think about them again. Keeping it together meant you were strong. Cracking meant you failed. You weren’t a real man.

And even if you wanted to talk to someone, you didn’t. You didn’t want to bother anyone. You handled your own problems. For a long time, that’s exactly how I lived.

I have to give my VA primary care provider credit. With her help, I finally reached a point where I started asking for help — even though I fought it at first. When I initially started seeing her, I still had the wall up. She asked me questions, and I lied. Not big dramatic lies — just the “man answers.” I’m fine. Nothing’s wrong. I’ve got it handled. She gave me a lifeline. All I had to do was grab it.

It took several visits, but eventually I let the wall down. I told her I had been lying to her about most of what she had asked me. She looked at me with that look — the I already know look — and from that point on, things changed.

I told her how bad the depression had gotten. I told her about my wife’s concerns. I told her about the rage and anger that were becoming harder to control. I told her about the numbness, about feeling broken. She didn’t judge me. She listened. She gave me direction and helped me connect with the care I needed. That got the medical and psychological side moving forward.

My personal life, though, is still in limbo. I talk to my wife about some things, but not everything. I’m still learning how to do that.

I recently talked with my EMS director about my self-confidence, my anxiety, and my depression. She told me she never would have known. I told her that I’m very good at hiding it from people who aren’t close to me. I also told her something I hadn’t really admitted out loud before — that life felt easier when I worked nonstop. Being exhausted didn’t leave room to think. At times, part of me wanted to work myself to death again just to avoid what was in my head. We both said it at the same time: the self-doubt would still be there, and it would only make things worse. She was genuinely concerned about my health. She was not concerned about my patient care being compromised. That mattered more to me than I realized.

The medications have helped some. Not completely. I still have dreams and nightmares. My sleep meds work sometimes and miss other times. I still wake up in the middle of the night. Falling back asleep can be hard, but when I do, I usually get a few more hours.

I’m not fixed. I’m not done. I’m not “better” yet. I’m a work in progress, and I know this is going to be a long road. But I’m not pretending anymore.

I’m still functional. I’m still not fine. But I’m finally being honest.