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These are journal excerpts about my fitful beginning work with meditation as a guide through depression.

After a day of feeling the chaos of panic, immobilized at work, I went to see JL, first therapist in years. This guy is real. He wasted no time, quickly running through some patterns he observed (explaining that he was hurrying things up because I had been through therapy) and then hit on something that caught me off guard completely. He said he knew how much I loved my brother, he could hear it in what I said, he could feel it in his body. At that, realizing it was true, I wanted to cry, almost did, but covered it with a forced jerky laugh, fooling no one. I was right there, ready to let loose with the feeling I have been sitting on for so long. He explained that he had methods, he did not shoot from the hip. He realized he could have pushed harder about my brother and gotten somewhere, but he prefers to work carefully, using the models he knows from Buddhist psychology. The guy wanted me to know he’d been around, as he says, raised in different cultures and countries. This should be good. I like his attitude: We can break that cycling, that pattern, we can break that, I guarantee it. Who talks like that these days? I sense in him that he’s witnessed, probably experienced, conversion or at least deep insight within the light of a powerful soul. But he’s not trying to become my guru – at least I hope that’s true.

Fast forward a few days, and I’m messed up again. I dragged myself around at work, unable to concentrate, aware only of wanting to break out of the office prison with its cash flow problems and staff tensions. I was also angry at JL as I thought back over incidental remarks he’d made about depression becoming an artifact of advertising – that seemed insulting when said to someone who first ran into the problem decades before anyone even talked about it or named it. And of course the forbidden subject never got anywhere near the mass media. I argued with him in my mind and felt myself falling into a typical pattern of battling with a dominant male, damned if I’ll let another guy glibly analyze me, and in so doing establish power over me. That male to male contest is so basic (I’ve started analyzing again!), a primitive drive to kill the rival men and possess the women – the caveman buried deep but still whacking against the shell of social rules. There is so much savagery ready to rip through civilized rationality. And I go on and on like that – I guess it’s a way of raging myself out of panic. Bad swap – one smash in the head for another.

Then it was back to JL. He went through my psychic profile based on a test he’d given me that first time. “I’m talking to your psyche now, not to you.” Well that’s interesting – to be a puzzled witness to this communication between a therapist and the invisible me. But even though I was eavesdropping, it’s helpful to hear how JL organizes the forces inside me or rather in this psyche guy. How much is obsessive, how much depressive, strains of anxiety, phobia, restlessness – he got pretty well the highlights of how the psychic force splits up and reshapes the struts of a soul. Then he gives something new – for me – a series of meditation assignments to help change things. He says they can even body chemistry. I will keep a journal – not hard since I’m doing `something like that now. We’re starting on loving and kindness as well as relaxation. He taught me a nice meditation reviewing the people who have brought love and happiness into my life, then the people whom I have given warmth and happiness to. Then I pray for compassion, for ?? – I knew I would forget the words! Depressed mind likes to blank out on important things. Anyway, it has to do with warmth and self-acceptance and peace and relaxation. Twice a day I do this – not forgetting to exercise for an hour a day and to write in the journal. At least I’ve got part of that going.

I spent this day completely nervous and unfocused, increasingly anxious as each hour passed filled with small tasks I didn’t want to do but somehow had to. None of them helped me with issues at work – I’m completely stressed out about getting forward movement on a couple of cases. All this fits with JL’s portrait of my psyche – lots of nervousness, lots of unfinished projects, lots of obsessing, little focus. Tonight I finally made time to meditate, just focusing on keeping the belly soft – awful image since I feel so fat – but I found what power there is in the act of concentration. It was late but even with eyes closed and concentrating on this one thing, there was no sleepiness, only the intensity of mental energy, a cleansing feeling, and a waking up. This is my real beginning on the assignments, and I can see that doing this twice a day with a lot of walking will help restore me.

Interesting to see how just hearing the psychic profile from JL has helped relax me at home. That’s part of what L wanted in pushing me into therapy – or any damn thing that would make me easier to live with. She gets the raging, when I can’t see anything good, and then she gets the loving side, when I’m me again, attentive, baffled that I could ever be so crazy. All that twisting rage in my gut, all that obsessing, paranoia, panic and general stress – they all seem at the moment like barriers to fear. And fear of what, exactly? What monster is going to break out, what caveman with his club, what horrible wreckage and carnage will I cause? I’ve had a few clear-headed moments – like the one years back when I understood deep down that my feelings of anger when coming home masked the real fear of losing my family. This pervasive stress and anxiety washes out everything else.

But I’m reaching for the words JL has been teaching me, trying to focus away from that chaos, focus on what? What do I catch onto in this static? Breathing in, breathing out – I have to keep remembering that simple starting point. Count the breaths, focus on the in-rush, the outflow. How high can I count before my mind wanders away. Just look at the thoughts, the feeling flashes, don’t get too close, just watch the jumble from a distance. JL said the fear was what I most wanted not to feel, but at this point fear is floating on the surface of a sea, and I’m looking at it. Is that scummy stuff really a part of me? But I turn back to my breathing – I keep losing count. It feels so simple, so refreshing just to pay attention to breathing – yet how hard it is to hear that constant rhythm in my body when I’m all shot nerves and drained by panic. At least I can hear it now. Maybe tomorrow I can remember all the words of the loving kindness meditation.

One of the hardest admissions I have had to make about the effect of depression was to say bluntly to myself, after years of denial, that my performance in my profession had steadily deteriorated under the impact of this illness. The truth had been obvious for some time to colleagues depending on me to be a consistently outstanding performer, but it only came home when facts kicked me in the teeth. The experience was a bit like what alcoholics describe as hitting rock bottom.

I was in danger of losing not just a job but a professional practice that I had built over years whether self-employed or working through an organization. Clients were unhappy, I was taken off assignments after fogging through meetings under deep depression, and I was not carrying my weight with colleagues in bringing in new work. That was hardly surprising since my basic will to act so often disappeared. The director who had hired me was deeply disappointed and angry at this mediocre performance. I, who had done so much in the past and come in the door with such great promise, was not measuring up, pure and simple.

Of course, the last thing I wanted to say to them or to myself was that depression might have something to do with it.

If I could just admit to myself what was obvious to others, I could begin to work with the people running my program to address these limitations. They were upset with me, but they were human and they knew exactly what depression was all about. God, what tortured lessons in humility have to be learned in order to do that! After all, how many sources of self-esteem does a depressed person have to turn to?

When I’m good, I’m really good – and that concept of being on top of things was critical to what sense of self-worth I had left. I wanted to keep thinking I was still at the top of my game. Instead I had to admit there were things I couldn’t be trusted to do without a level of structure and guidance I had never imagined needing. After some intolerable lapses, I could no longer trust myself to do the work that once had come to me so readily. When I could admit that, really understand that it was true, I could begin to get real about this part of my life.

I remember a line I read once in a newspaper story about Dwight Gooden. He had been the amazing young Mets pitcher of the 80s who won all the awards. Like every great pitcher, he might get himself into bases-loaded trouble, but then under terrific pressure he could methodically take out each batter to keep any runs from scoring. Sadly, he steadily lost his skills, apparently because of addiction problems. After a series of spells in rehab, comebacks, relapses, run-ins with the law, he lost forever the sharpness of his game. He said something like – it’s hard not being great anymore. He obviously had to come a long way to admit that and deal with the reality of his life and damaged career.

That was step one. Just admit the goddamn truth. So I did that to the director I worked with and a few close associates. For the rest of the world, it was just health problems. No, I can’t take that assignment for you because I have health issues to deal with. I’m pulling back for a time. We’ll see how it goes in about six months. And so it went. Lesser responsibilities, lesser rank – but also less worry about not meeting expectations, my own as well as those of others. It gave me a chance to work at a slower pace while trying to get better, look for new treatments, understand the full impact of depression on my life.

This answer has not been pretty, but it has given me a way to keep going. I also learned a new vocabulary that I never dreamed could possibly apply to me. That word is “accommodation.” It’s a term of art under the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA). When I was discussing with a therapist the mess in my worklife, he suggested I look into ADA. That started some investigating to see what relevance the law could possibly have to me.

I found out what others know so well, that ADA covers severe emotional and mental disturbances in its definition of disability. And the institution I worked for was a public agency with policies on all this, plus a handy form for applying for “reasonable accommodation” in the workplace. I also found a procedure spelled out online that advised starting with my supervisor to discuss the problem and attempting to come up with an informal solution. “Informal” for the institution was important. It was their way of expressing hope that I, and many like me, wouldn’t seek a medical review to get a legal designation as “disabled.” That could create long-term liabilities they clearly would rather not have to worry about. I decided to stick with the informal route I had already started on. It was hard enough having to deal with this at all, much less undergo whatever interviews and testing “their” doctors might put me through.

Though I had come far in confronting what was going on at work, I didn’t want to link myself to disability in this legal sense. I intend to get better so that I won’t need to operate with diminished expectations. But until that happens, I have to face what’s real. So I get help at work to get a job done because that help is available, and because I know I need it.

I’ve had to grit my teeth, though, every time a high pressure assignment comes up, and someone else gets it. All my instincts say – you can do it, despite what they think! Not being trusted at work, despite what I knew, felt like defeat. My ego can still boil with anger at being passed over.

My therapist heard that and helped me out with a story about defeat.

Once, he was doing a Buddhist retreat with uninterrupted days of silent meditation, and it was driving him crazy. Try as he might, he couldn’t sit still, his mind was wildly unfocused, his limbs ached for release from the confinement of the seated discipline. Having lost all patience, he talked to the monk overseeing things that day and explained that he thought it would be best under the circumstances if he just left. The monk said, I understand, why don’t you speak to X (the manager of the retreat).

So he went to X and carefully explained again his discomfort and inability to make good use of the experience. The manager said, That’s fine. Of course, you can see that there are others who are using chairs or pillows to help. Would that work? Oh, no, he said, I can’t see myself getting an assist like that. Either I can do it on my own or I can’t. I’d better go. And the manager replied, Good, but if you would bear with us, the Roshi always likes to see people before they leave. Would you mind?

Of course, he couldn’t say no, so off he goes to explain yet again what was going on. The Roshi greeted him silently, and he launched into his explanation: I understand that I can use a chair or something to help, but that seems all wrong. It would feel like a complete defeat to get artificial assistance. Whereupon, the Roshi smiled, leaned forward and boomed in good humor: Ah! But defeat is GOOD!

That was the end of his complaining. He went back and finished the retreat – with a chair and pillows.

Thanks, Jim, for that story. I hope I got it right.