Journey Through the Great Sadness

After my diagnosis of Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (thanks to my doomed suicide attempt), I was assigned to an out-patient mental health facility. The length of my stay would depend on my own participation, or lack thereof.

Initially resistant, I also looked forward to moving forward. The entire group consisted of about 18-20 (more or less) people at any given time and four licensed therapists. We would spend parts of our day in a classroom-type setting where one of the therapists would teach us all about depression, anger, grief, sadness and all the other emotions most of us were experiencing. Thanks to my own previous issues, depression and subsequent therapy sessions,I could have taught the classes myself. More often than not, I felt frustrated that we spent so much time on such elementary issues.

Other parts of each day – about two to three hours – were spent in smaller groups where we focused on one or two of people and simply let them talk. For me, this was the meat I was hungry for. This was also the place where most of the intimate details of each person’s plight came to light. The four therapists split up among two groups. Suzie and Mike led my group. The other two – whose names escape me for the moment – knew of my trauma and some of the details through bits and pieces I had revealed in “class” and through the regular check-in’s the therapists conducted with one another.

Lunch was also part of each day and provided a much more relaxed environment. The therapists often joined us during lunch if they weren’t involved in a private counseling session or in-take of another patient. One particular day, I stood next to one of the other therapists… we’ll call him Phil since I can’t seem to recall his real name. We greeted each other for the first time that day even though it was already lunch time.

“How’s it going?” I asked.

“So far so good,” he replied. “You know, it’s like that joke – have you heard it? This guy jumps out the window of a high-rise building. On his way down, he passes a window washer who greets the jumper by asking, ‘How’s it going?’ The jumper says, ‘Oh, so far so good.’”

About 10 seconds of silence passed as I gazed at the look of shame, shock and despair on Phil’s face.

“Oh my gosh,” he exclaimed. “I am so sorry… I just realized what I said… are you ok?”

I blew off his ignorance with a smile and a “Oh, sure. I’m fine. No big deal.”

But I wasn’t fine. My mind’s eye returned to some of the images that put me in this hospital in the first place. I avoided him for the rest of the day and Suzie helped me lick my wounds. Eventually, Phil searched me out in genuine concern to profusely apologize again and to make sure I was ok. I appreciated his sincerity and concern for my well-being.

In the end, it all turned out ok. And in some ways, I can chuckle at the irony. And perhaps that’s why I am so incredibly careful of the words I choose to use around someone who may be in pain – with or without my knowledge.

And with each passing day I can say, so far so good.