On November 14, 2016, I had a mental breakdown, and for a brief period of time was a definite danger to myself. I was involuntarily committed to psychiatric treatment per Florida's Baker Act, but not before a 2 day detour in the cardiac telemetry unit to address dangerously high blood pressure (somewhere in the 220/140 range when I arrived at the ER).

Despite my initial denial that I was depressed, eventually one the patients I met made a comment to me that he felt that “depression is anger focused inwards”. That resonated, and soon after I had a 60-90 minute discussion with a psychiatrist, who diagnosed me with moderate to severe atypical depression. I've never had sleep problems, or withdrawn from family of friends, but since the age of about 12 I have had a tendency to have emotional outbursts that are triggered by the stupidest things. A couple years prior to that my family went through major convulsions – my parents almost divorced, my youngest sister (6 years older than me) ran away from home and stole a significant amount of money from my parents after telling major lies to everyone in the family. The rift from that has never healed, at least for me, even though Celeste died of a cocaine overdose 8 years ago.

I have had a tendency to hold onto old questions and obsess over them, and beat myself up inside. Why did my employer lie to me 12 years ago and say my job was being eliminated when they were looking for a person with my exact skills at the same time? Why did my first wife want to end our marriage so much? Did she cheat on me more than I was aware? Why have I been laid off 3 time in the last dozen years? Do I just suck? Am I just a pain in the ass to work with?

The psychiatrist I was assigned gave me a nice visual analogy – I was functioning a high level for many years as my emotional well being was dropping. Slowly at first, but my emotional stability decreased rapidly this summer after I was laid off, and the job search stalled. For a few months I busied myself with rehabbing my houses wood siding, then with the help of a friend got the structure painted for the first time in 20 years. But I could tell I was drinking significantly more, and deep down the painting work was a stop gap. While I probably added far more value to my house than the money spent, learned a lot of new skills, there was always a dark side of my emotions peeking through. Once the work was basically finished, and I started to concentrate more on the job search again, the dark thoughts began to rapidly increase.

As to my diary title, I refer to my father, who I suspect suffered from a similar depression, and quite likely PTSD from his service in WWII. My dad was a functioning alcoholic – never lost his job or got a DUI, never retreated to the bed room, always went to work. He helped raise 5 kids (and really was more involved with us than many 1950's-70's fathers, and was not above helping my mom with housework – in fact my dad ALWAYS did the dishes after dinner), paid for 2 homes...

But he was prone to the same emotional outbursts that I am prone to. I never saw him be physically abusive to my mom (obviously being the last of 5 kids, and 14 years after they were married, I have no idea of what happened before me), but one time I saw my brother and him throw some punches. They obviously reconciled, but I also have no idea what the true affect on my brother has been. He might be in a similar place to me...

I also suspect my dad was deeply troubled by his service as a tail gunner in a B-17 crew. He rarely talked about the experience, usually only relating the good/fun aspects – sneaking onto base a few minutes before reveille on a milk truck after a night of partying, the horrific mid air collision he went though in training where my dad was the hero for getting his fellow crew members to ignore the bailout order in order to help their crew mate who was somehow clinging to the wing (this story was confirmed at my dad's wake by a fellow crew mate), the quest to recover his clothes after his plane had to ditch in Sweden and they were MIA for a week or so...the only battle story he would relate was the time his gun jammed at the same time a German fighter gun jammed, and they were able to lock on each others eyes for a few seconds - “he was a young snot-nosed kid just like me, just as scared as me. I hope he's bouncing a grand child on his knee just like I'm doing now”. My dad was officially credited with one kill, but after he passed we got a diary from one of the crew covering the last 13 of their 26 missions. At least 5 times the writer penned “Tony bailed our asses out again”. It's not hard to imagine what exactly that meant.

After my dad died, his semi-estranged sister came to Florida from Alaska to visit my mom, and shocked my mom by saying “Tony was never a believer”. I'm not sure about that – he went to church with my mom every Sunday (except for the couple years my mom flirted with an evangelical group that didn't even have a name for themselves). But when my mom rejoined the Catholic Church my dad was right by her side. He often chastised me for being cynical about religion, but unlike my mom he probably sympathized with my growing religious doubts as a teen. He kept a volume of the Catholic rules on his book shelf and read from it often. But looking back on it all I think his faith was shaken by the fact that he had to kill other men for his country, and indeed for his own survival.

They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree...

While in treatment I began to understand, however dimly, what I need to do. I need to stop drinking. It'll be tough, as my wife likes to get her drink on. But last night I had no urge to drink while she had a few. I need to concentrate on my music more, consistently practice all 3 of my major instruments (bass, guitar and piano) rather than let one of them fall off the radar depending on what instrument I'm playing with in bands at any giving time. I need to stop obsessing over things I have no hope of understanding completely.

As for that last point, I came up with a mantra to try and help me with that. I thought of the Tool song “Schism” and it's main idea – “I know the pieces fit”. But I don't know how all the pieces fit. And it's impossible to know how many pieces there really are.