First Make the Bed

Have you ever worked with someone who brought you to your knees? I have—and this impossible woman humbled me. Nothing I said or did seemed to help her. She had airtight reasons for why her life would never change, and why she’d never feel better. She hit a nerve, reminding me of my own vulnerabilities, my own uncertainties. In fact, she more than reminded me.

She was me.

On a cold morning in February 2004, the lights went out. I’d been feeling incredibly stressed at the time: work was unusually overwhelming, my long-term marriage had hit a rough patch, and our youngest was about to leave for college. Perhaps you’re thinking that our son’s leaving home for college was a good thing, and it was. But frankly, I like my chicks in my nest. Besides, my son’s departure meant that I had the arduous task of finding a place to store, or better yet to junk, the helicopter I’d used to perfect my parenting style.

During the weeks leading up to that frigid February day, I found myself ruminating endlessly about the issues that were troubling me. I realized that ruminating was making me feel worse, but I simply couldn’t stop. Days blended into nights. I even dreamed about the issues plaguing me. Many nights, I barely slept at all.

Then one morning, it was as though someone had flipped a switch. From that day forward, I felt the most intense anxiety I’d ever experienced. My stomach was twisted in a constant knot. My heart raced. I lost so much weight that my clothes hung on me. My eyes were sensitive to light. Sounds overstimulated me. I felt as if I were in constant danger. As if that weren’t debilitating enough, I then plunged into a deep depression. I’d never experienced this before, and nothing in my then 30 years of clinical experience had prepared me for what was about to happen. If you’ve ever been depressed yourself, you know exactly what I mean.

Depression sucked the life out of me. Waking up felt like a curse. I just wanted to pull the covers over my head and stay in bed, but I was too anxious to do that. I couldn’t keep still. Each day was a battle to stay connected to the things that gave my life meaning, the things that anchored me, like my husband, my children, my mother, my supportive friends, my work with couples, even my dog. But I couldn’t. It was as if I were in an insulated space suit, floating in darkness, completely untethered.

One day, in the midst of the darkness, I picked up the phone and called a psychiatrist. Although I viewed medication as an undesirable last resort, my deepening depression prompted me at least to get evaluated for the possibility of beginning a regime of antidepressants.

The psychiatrist’s office was housed in a large, sterile-feeling hospital, not exactly the feng shui I’d been hoping for. He greeted me in the waiting room, white lab coat and all, with barely a smile. I think I even remember his having a stethoscope dangling from his neck.

The good news was that, after talking to me, he said, “You won’t need medication. You just need 6 to 10 sessions of CBT and you’ll be fine.” Enormously relieved, I scheduled a second appointment for a week later, and the next seven days were remarkably depression and anxiety free. I couldn’t wait to tell the doctor how well I was doing! When I did, he said matter-of-factly, “It’s good that you’re feeling better, but it probably won’t last. Besides, you need to stay in therapy to figure out why you were vulnerable to depression in the first place, because not everybody is, you know.”

Do you know the meaning of the phrase iatrogenic disease? It’s when a condition is made worse by a healthcare provider or treatment. And that’s exactly what happened that day. I thought I was on my way up, but as soon as the doctor said that, I started to sink again. Mustering my last ounce of energy, I set out on a path to find the magic bullet that would relieve my pain. I’m pretty sure I tried every model of psychotherapy, from top-down to bottom-up, and everything in between. You wouldn’t have wanted me in your practice. I was your classic “yes, but” client. I knew just enough about each therapy model to be dangerous. No therapist was going to pull a fast one and trick me out of my depression.

When therapy didn’t work, I read every book on depression I could get my hands on. I went on week-long retreats. I changed my diet. I tried vitamins and supplements and hormones. I used a light box. I did acupuncture. Then, out of pure desperation, I tried numerous antidepressants. Nothing worked.

Almost a year later, I realized that there was no single magic bullet. I had to face the fact that I couldn’t afford to wait until I felt better to do better. So I promised myself that every morning I’d make my bed. This might seem like a small thing, but believe me, it was huge. Making my bed gave my life structure. It was a metaphor, a springboard for forcing me to engage in other therapeutic behaviors, such as exercising daily, finishing a long overdue book, and honoring my work commitments. Realizing that I had the strength to get my feet moving, no matter how crappy I was feeling, was a major turning point for me. I began to feel some hope.

This fledgling sense of hope, in turn, enabled me to appreciate the life rafts that had been floating beside me all along—my people! I began to feel the power of their love. I had an insatiable need to talk about my feelings all the time, and I can still picture the faces of my family and friends as they listened patiently, their eyes filled with quiet compassion. They sent me self-help articles, drove me to appointments, and answered my frantic, late-night calls. My mother sent me daily emails with inspirational quotes. No matter how exasperating I must’ve been, they wouldn’t give up on me, even when I felt like giving up on myself.

I began to notice, too, the love that showed up in unexpected places. About a month into my struggle, I’d contacted Michael, a friend and colleague who specializes in depression. We spoke on the phone for an hour, after which he said, “Get out your calendar so we can schedule another appointment next week.” At the end of that session, he said the same thing. And he continued to say that for a solid year. Repeatedly, I told him that I wanted to either pay him or stop having the sessions. His only response was “Michele, we’re not stopping, and I’m not taking money from you.” This man threw me a lifeline. Little by little, I began to feel tethered again.

And then there was my Buddhist therapist, Jennifer. Many times, she encouraged me to meditate. “Start by doing it for one minute every day,” she said. I told her I would, but I never did. I was a “yes, but” Buddhist. So what about Jennifer was helpful? Plain and simple—she loved me. I wasn’t just her 2-o’clock appointment. She had a way of making me feel cherished. She always seemed happy to see me. I felt certain I was her favorite client, even though that’s what 30 other people who saw her each week probably thought.

Because my crises didn’t always happen during the time of my sessions, she made herself available to me between sessions for reality checks or pep talks. She’d talk about rising above adversity in her own life and say, “Michele, if I can do this, I know you can too. You’re going to get through this.” That’s all I ever really wanted to hear. And somewhere deep inside I knew she was right. It just felt so comforting to be reminded of my inner resources by someone who I deeply respected—and loved. It was as if she held up a mirror to reflect the best, most resilient parts of me.

Of course, my healing from depression didn’t happen in a straight line; there were many hills and valleys. The biggest challenge came one morning when I was getting ready to do a two-day intensive with an out-of-town couple. I was standing in my kitchen, feeling at peace and thinking, I’m doing so much better, when the phone rang. My mother, one of my primary anchors in life, had been in a car accident and was being airlifted to a hospital in Denver.

The world stood still.

When my daughter and I arrived at the hospital, the staff placed us in a “family room,” not a good sign. After what seemed like an eternity, I learned my mother had died—without my holding her hand, kissing her goodbye, saying, “I love you” for the billionth time, or even being able to tell her that she didn’t have to worry about me because I was going to be okay.

In the days that followed, my biggest fear was that my grief would consume me, taking me to a frightening place from which I’d never be able to return. But while I did experience depression again as I tried to embrace this unfathomable loss in my life, I found each emotional setback was slightly more manageable than the one before. Each time, I found my way home.

I’m back now, and I’ve been back for a very long time. But I’m not the same person. One of depression’s gifts has been the deep sense of gratitude I feel on a daily basis for the blessings in my life—the way the morning light casts shadows on the mountains near my home, the boisterous laughter of our grandchildren, and the enduring love of so many people in my life. My clinical work has deepened, too. Although I’ve always recognized the importance of this thing we call “the therapeutic relationship,” I now understand it in my heart. When I’m with my clients, I’m totally in the flow. They feel my laser focus. Together, we laugh, we cry, we hug. I’d always been comfortable being open and vulnerable with my clients, but now somehow the membrane between us feels more permeable. And when they lose their way between sessions, they know they can count on me.

Most importantly though, when my clients seem disheartened, I flash on that granite-faced psychiatrist in the white lab coat I first saw—and I intentionally ooze hope. I brazenly predict, “You’re going to get through this. I know you will. And I’ll help you get there.” You see, the worst part of depression for me was the unbearable loneliness, the sense of being untethered, and the belief that things would never change. And the antidote to that was love and hope. Love and hope, as it turned out, were the medicine for my soul.