In the Beginning

I was about 10 years old when I started feeling the "depths of depression" and the accompanying euphoria associated with what was then called "manic-depression."  No one in my small hometown in Wisconsin had any idea what was wrong with me.  In the late 1940's, no one thought of seeing a psychiatrist, even if there might be one nearby (there wasn't).  Besides, "no one in OUR family has THAT type of illness" was the common attitude.  So I wasn't diagnosed until my husband and I came to Cleveland, Ohio, in 1961.  I had then gone through an awful lot of unnecessary suffering, especially with the depressions.  I actually enjoyed the "highs."  I felt on top of the world, could run faster than any other kid, type faster than anyone in my class, and accomplish everything much faster (and better, or so I thought) than anyone else.  At first, I was treated for plain old depression, but after taking a few anti-depressants I soared so high that the doctors soon realized it was a horse of a different color and made an effort to help me get some balance in my life.  Unfortunately, I was in and out of hospitals so often it was like a series of revolving doors.

In 1963, a very astute employer brought in to work a column by Ann Landers.  (When in my depressed moods, I would walk around like I had a cloud pouring rain on me.)  Ann was a solid backer of Recovery, and in the column she answered a letter from a woman suffering from anxiety by telling her about the good things accomplished by an organization named Recovery, Inc.  My mumbled reply to that was, "It's a hope."  "Hope nothing," said my boss.  "Find a meeting and get there!"

To be continued . . .