I flopped down onto my back afterward, throwing an arm over my eyes.
“This is very common, Ben,” Brian, my therapist, told me earlier. “Having setbacks as we lower your dosages is completely normal. Your body needs time to adjust. If these overwhelming feelings persist, we might need to talk about raising your SSRI back up a bit, but we can cross that bridge if and when we get there.”
SSRI stood for selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. It acted by freeing up serotonin – commonly called the ‘happy chemical’ – for use in the brain. They were a much safer antidepressant for someone who might have CTE than tricyclic ones, which came with strong anticholinergic side effects. Anyone with a potential brain injury or a degenerative brain disorder didn’t need help inhibiting parasympathetic nerve impulses – which is what anticholinergic agents did. In laymen’s terms, they raised the suicide risk for someone like me.
“Have you been ingesting caffeine or alcohol lately?” Brian had gone on to ask.
Yes, to both. He’d advised me to stop. Immediately. Because they could further compound depression and anxiety. I promised him I would. So far, the man had never led me astray. But goddamn it,sometimes I just wanted to sit back and drink a beer after a long day of working on the house.
I growled in frustration and rolled onto my stomach, clinging to my pillow like it was a life raft. The underlying feeling that made this all so unbearable was the guilt. It always went something like this: I want to drink beer – Zach can no longer drink beer; I want to get over my crushing sadness – Molly can no longer feel crushing sadness; I worry that I’m no longer capable of having a healthy romantic relationship – Micah died long before he could develop romantic feelings for another person.
For every selfish thought I had, there was my brother, telling me to stop being an asshole. At least I was alive to feel depressed. My fear of CTE wouldn’t be possible if I were dead. I should have been thankful I didn’t have any obvious signs of the disease yet.
I dug down deep and tried to muster some joy at that thought.
Nothing.
Which made the guilt even worse.
You’d think their sudden deaths would remind me that I only had one life to live. That I shouldn’t waste this life on negativity and regret. If only I had a choice in the matter. My depression and anxiety had stolen it away from me.
The symptoms started not long after the car crash. As soon as Zach’s autopsy was released, I broke my contract and quit the league. And then I began actively speaking out against it. No longer constrained by my old team’s strict social media policy, I got political on Twitter. I voiced my opinions. About race. About rape culture. About toxic masculinity.
I was immediately ostracized. Hung out to dry by former teammates and coaches who disagreed with me, or didn’t want to weigh in on my “drama”. The fans turned on me too. People who had followedmy career since college filled my social media feeds, telling me how disappointed they were in what I had become. It left me cut off from the community I had belonged to almost my entire life.
That’s fine, I told myself. They made their decisions, and they would have to live with them. Their unwillingness to stand up and do the right thing only served to spur me on. Someone had to act. How many other parents were out there, thinking about putting their kids into children’s football leagues without knowing the risk? How much safer would professional players be if only the league enforced tougher rules and higher fines?
Mom and Dad were right there with me after clawing their way out of their own grief. Together, we formed the non-profit. We shot Public Service Announcements. We funded research. There were web-sites to set up, doctors to approach, and studies to retweet. When the league’s misrepresentation of the TBI risk to its players first came to light, I found myself joined by more and more men who realized their lives were more important than fame or fortune or the love of the game. Our lawsuit soon followed.
For those first two years, I kept myself so busy that it was easy to miss the early warning signs of my depression. The apathy I felt toward other humans, the mood swings, the insomnia, they could all be chalked up to an agitated state brought on by Twitter trolls and ignorant assholes.
A year ago, the symptoms worsened. They became unavoidable. Inexcusable.
Eight months ago, I almost had a mental break.
Seven and a half months ago, I had my first therapy session with Brian.
“Are you experiencing any severe mood swings? Thoughts of suicide?” he asked me earlier.
A little bit. And no. Even when my depression was at its worst, I didn’t think about killing myself. Because how could I do that to my parents? How could I do that to Zach? As much as I resented this never-ending guilt, it had probably saved my fucking life.
My phone went off again, pulling me from my dark thoughts. I rolled over to see a text from Ella lighting up my screen.
Okay, so I have a brilliant idea. AND I NEED YOU TO HEAR ME OUT.
I grinned. For the first time all day. It was fleeting, but it served to remind me that I could still feel positive emotions like amusement.
Hit me with it,I texted back.
You know how you were saying the other night that you’re going a little stir-crazy shut up in the house?
If she only knew.
Yeah,I responded.
Well, my cabin sits on about 30 acres, and I have a couple miles of trails winding through them. Did you want to embarrass the shit out of yourself by coming over and learning how to cross-country ski? In a controlled, quasi-safe (see previous comment about embarrassment) environment without the threat of being seen by anyone but me and the dogs?
I’m in,I told her.But I don’t have skis. I’ll have to order some first.
