If you attach your identity and self-worth to your job, you play a dangerous game. This was me in the early 2000s when I became a police officer. I became addicted to the feeling of importance.
People noticed me wherever I went, and no matter what tragedy played out in someone’s life, they looked to me to fix it. Drivers got out of my way on the road, women liked the uniform, and people either loved or hated me — nothing in the middle.
After being bullied for years, this represented the pinnacle of my journey. I felt invincible — like I could do anything.
It was doomed from the start.
Three months into my career, I attended the suicides of two teenage girls who’d jumped from the top of a tower block. One died immediately, while the other died in hospital. I had to guard the body left at the scene for hours.
While other police conducted inquiries, for much of the night, it was just her and me. I absorbed every detail of her injuries. I became fixated on the turmoil she must have felt — preferring the cold concrete to a moment longer in this world. I didn’t know it at the time, but this marked the beginning of a 20-year battle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
The signs were there. Shortly after this tragedy, I had to seek counseling, but I was desperate to get back to work, so I pretended I was better. I lasted another five years, but trauma piled on top of trauma until I couldn’t take it any longer. I retired at 27.
I remember the first day I went home. I had loads of upcoming assessments, but I knew I wouldn’t be returning to the police no matter what. As I lay on the sofa and contemplated my life, I felt relief that I’d never have to see another horrific incident again.
A hollow feeling overtook that relief. What now? Who was I, and what would I do with the rest of my life?
The descent.
The days rolled by, and I saw a psychiatrist who put me on a powerful antipsychotic to “help me sleep.” It did the trick. I gained 80lbs in a year, slept up to 15 hours a day, and could barely talk without slurring my words. I later learned psychiatrists used this medication to treat psychosis, which, by cruel fate, I would experience in the years ahead. But to give it to me to help me sleep was an “off-label” use, and it messed me up.
Occasionally, a friend from the police would call me and try to be supportive. But he was a reminder of everything I’d lost. He’d tell me all his exciting stories, and I longed to be there. I knew he was making it sound better than it was, but it always hooked me. I knew he could hear my slurred speech, and every time I put the phone down, I sank further into hopelessness.
As well as the standard symptoms of PTSD, I was sinking into a dark depression. My colleagues were out there fighting crime, and I was nobody again. Worse than before, I was now a fat, lazy, bored, tormented, and hopeless nobody.
I spent my days crying with disappointment that I’d woken up. Then, I’d stagger out of bed at midday and sit around watching TV for hours. I’d cry with flashbacks, go to sleep, have nightmares, and repeat this process for years. I’d lost everything except my family and my girlfriend, which added to my guilt for making them miserable.
I tried to do voluntary work at a shop, but every time a police car went past, I would feel like I’d been kicked in the stomach. I was too unreliable, and I quit.
On top of all this, psychiatrists diagnosed me with Schizophrenia. They put me on even more medication. Tortured by my symptoms, I had nothing to look forward to and no idea who I was other than a worthless slob.
Life had become nothing more than an accumulation of anguish.
Hope.
The turnaround came after I was put on a new combination of meds. I’d been on 13 combinations until then, and every combo needed up to 6 weeks to see if it would work. As most of them did nothing, that meant continuous six-week periods of no help and pure suffering.
No one knows why some mental health medications work on some people and not others. No one knows how or why they work at all. Psychiatrists give people meds they don’t understand for illnesses based on opinion. It’s a miracle that any of it works for anyone, but for me, it finally did.
One day, I woke up, and I wasn’t devastated at still being alive. It felt weird, but it was as sudden as that. I got up, and I didn’t feel like I was walking in quicksand. My depression was lifting.
For weeks, I’d wake up and do a body check, looking for signs of depression. I couldn’t believe it had gone, so I was very tentative in everything I did. Coming out of depression is the most dangerous time. When you’re depressed, you can barely brush your teeth, never mind kill yourself. When you emerge from the pain, your energy returns, and you cannot bear the thought of suffering again. I was scared and hopeful in equal measure.
I continued to be free of depression. The best thing about it was I could now feel the love of my family again. Depression acts like a barrier between you and everyone else. It’s like living in a terrible bubble. People want to help you, but they can’t break through the barrier. People loved me, but I couldn’t feel it. In my distorted mind, I thought they’d be better off without me.
The joy of emerging from the bubble and feeling love again is something I can’t describe in words.
A new horizon.
Gradually, waking up without wanting to die and being able to brush my teeth weren’t enough. I now had the luxury of expecting more from myself. Money was never a problem, so I had no pressure and could explore any project I wanted.
I started to learn Japanese. I gave it up, but it was my first tentative step into pushing myself again and talking to others.
I took up Chess, which I love and still play now. It brought me closer to my dad because we’d play every day until he died in 2019.
I enjoyed traveling again and visited my dream destinations, Japan and the Maldives.
I learned to play Poker, which is as difficult as Chess and sometimes more infuriating.
Then, at 40, I found my two new loves. I became interested in the Stock Market and found that I loved to write. In the last few years, I’ve built up a six-figure stock portfolio through investing.
I’ve written hundreds of articles on the internet focused on my illness and recovery. I improve all the time. I’m often moved by the kind comments from people with similar struggles telling me I’ve helped a little. Turning my pain into something positive means it wasn’t wasted.
Nothing contributes so much to tranquilizing the mind as a steady purpose.
I began to miss the police less and less. Eventually, I saw it for what it is — a thankless, dangerous job that affects every officer’s mental health. Now, I’m calmer, less angry, and more appreciative of life; I wouldn’t return to the police even if it were possible.
You’re never too old or broken to reinvent yourself. Having your life derailed can be devastating. But if you dare to hold on, help can come from the most unlikely sources. You might uncover passions and abilities you never knew you had.
I had to lose everything to find the real me.
Don’t quit too early, or you might miss the miracle.
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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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