More Than Half the Days

by

A.J. Daulerio

History is the family.

*****

Whenever I feel a depressive episode coming on, my wife can usually tell. She'll ask me how I am, and I tell her, "a little off," "eh, not great," or "Bad." Because she’s the best, the next sentence out of her mouth is usually, "I'm sorry, let me know what you need." Usually, I tell her, "I need a new head." Or maybe I don't tell her that, and it's a thought that swims by and disappears before I can grab hold of it. And even though I'm well-versed about my mood disorder and on all the good meds, I'm still prone to random blank-faced darkness. One minute I'll be present and engaged, but the next, my children will hug me, and I feel boneless and distant, unable to hug them back. It's the worst feeling in the world. 

When this extreme emotional paralysis happens, I get flashbacks of several episodes in my 20s. There were so many times when I was in a roomful of friends, and I’d be chatty and borderline charming, then out of nowhere, I'd be unable to speak or make eye contact anymore. One time this happened at an ex-girlfriend's house in front of her roommate, and it was such a bad, upsetting scene. I remember thinking the best way to preserve some dignity was to set myself on fire in the middle of their family room. It would have saved me the embarrassment of explaining what was happening to me. But then again, I had no idea what was going on. I just knew I had a willingness to be happy, but it was overpowered by an urgency to be sad. 

*****

Historically, whenever a doctor asked about my family history of mental illness, I definitively said there were no signs of it. But more recently, I've attempted a more nuanced approach, explaining that although I had my suspicions, no one was ever officially diagnosed. Growing up, my mother and father experienced outward sadness when it was appropriate: a medical emergency, a significant death, financial stress, unexpected bad weather, and, of course, me being a fuck up. But if something was tugging at them internally, it was promptly smothered. 

I thought my mother showed flashes of clinical depression during her cancer treatment a few years back, but when I brought it up to my father, he was surly and dismissive: "Of course she's depressed–she has cancer!" But it seemed more significant than that. I offered to help them find a therapist, but he said they'd already tried–no shit–a hypnotist to help her, which didn't work. So that gives you a sense of what their mindset was like. 

When I would reluctantly tell my father that I was seeing a therapist, he would usually interrupt and offer his own opinion about why I was depressed: I needed to dress better and make more money. If I had a job with a matching 401k, the skies would always be blue.

But if I shared too much vulnerability with him, it would make him very uncomfortable. He'd hang in for a bit and allow me to share my feelings up to a certain point, but, eventually, he'd turn on me. 

Do you remember that scene from "The Sopranos" when A.J. (Soprano, not me) came home from the mental hospital? It was in the episode before the series finale, titled "Blue Comet." 

"I find this really depressing. I was already having so much trouble maintaining," Then A.J. (Soprano, again not me) began to weep.

Tony, utterly exasperated by his pathetic son, drags him out of bed and yanks him onto the floor. He grabs a pile of clothes and throws them on top of him. "Pack a bag!" 

Every time I watch it, I wonder which of the Soprano men I am in that scene. I'm both emotionally weak and unstable–but I can also become annoyed and hostile towards anyone else who just needs a damn hug. Both of those men need serious help.

*****

My father was supposed to move into a memory care facility last month, but that never happened. His medical assessment wasn't entirely up to date, and his needs were far more significant than expected, so he wasn't admitted. Now he's still living with my mother, and she’s still struggling to be his primary caregiver. He’s verbally abusive, unpredictable, and unstable and somehow escaped their apartment several times. She has given some home health aides a few additional hours to watch him, but she's still finding no time to breathe.

I had my mother send me his neurology assessment so I could share the info with a few assisted living places in the Philly/N.J. area I'm checking out. I figured getting as much information as possible will help narrow and expedite the search. 

The most recent one was from July of 2021, describing his Lewy Body Dementia diagnosis plus the prescribed medication for each of his symptoms. The sad details about his cognitive decline are all perfunctorily outlined: "Only on one occasion having a delusion, thinking that one of the neighbors was stealing or trying to steal his wife away…."

Then there was a part I didn’t expect: a depression screening. It had listed out my father's responses to a series of prompts about his overall mental health:

Little interest or pleasure in doing things – More than half the days.

Feeling down, depressed or hopeless – More than half the days. 

Trouble falling or staying asleep, or sleeping too much – Nearly every day.

Feeling bad about yourself or that you are a failure or have let yourself or your family down – Several days. 

Trouble concentrating on this, such as reading the newspaper or watching television – More than half the days. 

Moving or speaking so slowly that other people could have noticed; or the opposite, being so fidgety or restless that you have been moving around a lot more than usual – More than half the days. 

I think he knew that his brain wasn't working anymore, but he was either too stubborn or scared to share it with anyone. Or maybe he was just ashamed.

*****

I asked my mother about the assessment yesterday to see if she remembered him being depressed. She said she didn't notice anything. I asked her if he ever talked about it with her throughout their 50 years together. “Of course not,” she said.

But she admitted he was deeply insecure about his job, baldness, and his unspectacular education. I asked her if he had ever considered therapy. “Never,” she said. "He believed in the stigma."

It's obvious to me now that my father was suffering for most of his life–his rage, his judgment, his obsession with status, and his toupee were all ways to cope. He was never comfortable, even when he'd put barricades around his comfort zone. He was never comfortable for more than half the days. It’s another missed opportunity for us to have connected, but I'm glad we finally shared something in common.