“If your life was a book, would anyone want to read it?”

A piece of wisdom — or perhaps foolishness — I latched on to at a young age, and never really let go of. This little adage whispered in my mind throughout my life —when I spent a month backpacking through Central America on a shoestring with my sister at 20, as I clicked ‘confirm’ on a one-way ticket to China when I was 22, and when I quit my job and went to Burning Man on a whim at 29.

Taking my seat on the plane, yet another one-way flight headed out of the country, I am confronted with those same emotions I felt 10 years ago. But this time is different. This time I am on a mission, not for some tangible result like a job, or mastery of a foreign language. I’m on a mission to find myself. And in the process, to hopefully heal from depression.

In the following series of posts, I intend to share some of my healing journey with others. For my friends and family, so that they may better understand why I had to leave home. For others too, in the hopes my story may in some small way help them on their own healing journey. And for myself, as a reminder of the path I’ve traveled so far, and the distance still to cover.

But first, how did I end up here, in seat 25A on a Spirit airlines flight bound for Lima? 

Depression

It was January of 2018 when I first named it. The symptoms had been there for at least a month. A month of not getting out of bed in the mornings, or leaving my room during the day. The cold, dark winter had taken hold in Colorado. A dark, shrouding loneliness had taken hold of me — a loneliness that begat isolation. I did not want to see, nor be seen by, anyone. I did not want to talk to my family, or my friends back home. I felt shame and guilt over my situation, objectively:

• I was 31 years old, privileged to have a family that loved and supported me, a good education, a reliable vehicle, and seemingly every advantage in life, and yet I was:

• Unemployed, 

• Living with roommates out of financial necessity,

• No house or spouse in sight or even on the horizon, while all my friends seemed to be buying homes and getting married

In all aspects of my life, I had failed. The career and company I once dreamed of. A husband to love and support me, and I him, and to travel and explore the world with. A tight-knit friend group in my community. A home where I could host warm gatherings of these friends and family.

While I didn’t have suicidal ideations at the time, all reasons for continuing to live had slipped away. My mind was a spin cycle of negative self-talk and worst-case future scenarios.

The Origins

A month earlier, I had arrived at the difficult decision to close my startup, UglyFruit, a packaged food company I founded to combat food waste by turning excess, blemished, misshapen, or otherwise unsold produce into fruit and veggie snacks. 

And a month before that, an emotionally turbulent break-up and subsequent move into a new living situation with Craigslist strangers. 

These events, I later learned, were only the tip of the proverbial iceberg. But at the time, I derived an odd sense of comfort from identifying (or perhaps justifying) the genesis of my mood disorder. 

Clawing my way out

A few weeks later I found myself at a presentation by a double PHD from the University of Colorado - Boulder (CU),  on some intriguing and potentially groundbreaking findings on the treatment of depression. A team of researchers at CU was puzzled by the efficacy of SSRIs, in particular, the fact that these compounds do not activate regions of the brain that would in any way alter or improve mood.

The researchers hypothesized that one of the side effects of SSRI, elevated body temperature, might actually be the mechanism by which they alleviate depression. The presenter explained their line of thinking: that depression is an evolutionary mechanism designed to help humans survive in times of low resources — droughts, famines, extended winters — by triggering a behavioral response that would have early humans lay low in their caves or other abodes, expending as little energy as possible in a low-level, low-temperature metabolic state. 

I was struck — I realized I had been feeling very much like one of these early humans, holed up in my cave of a bedroom.

The presenter proceeded to explain their methodology. The researchers devised an experiment to increase body temperature, by placing subjects in a sauna chamber of sorts. The initial results were astonishing: Raising the body temperature of clinically depressed volunteers to the equivalent of a mild fever improved their symptoms of major depression for as long as six weeks after a single treatment. (CU Boulder)

The presenter noted the implications of this were far-reaching, and wondered whether similar results may be achieved by other means of elevating body temperature as well, such as exercise. 

At that moment I decided to give it a shot. After all, given my lack of income and dwindling savings account, therapy or SSRIs weren’t an option for me. For the next 3 months, I dragged my weary body out of bed every morning at 6:00 a.m., and did an intense bodyweight exercise routine in my living room while all my other housemates slept. Pushups, sit-ups, pull-ups, air squats. I began to borrow my roommates dumbbells to incorporate bicep curls, shoulder presses, and thrusters. I super-setted these exercises with no rest, a modified version of a CrossFit “AMRAP” (As many rounds as possible, in a 10-, 12-, or 15-minute time segment), all in service of getting myself sweating. 

I was pleasantly surprised to feel my mood returning to normal. The hopelessness that had overtaken my outlook on life, morphed into cautious optimism. It wasn’t a drastic shift overnight, but there was now a light shining into the entrance of my dark, sad cave.

Continuing my routine for a few more months had me feeling great. I had done it! I had overcome depression, and I was elated. In short order I found a great job, making more money than I ever had. I got back into dating. Life was good again.

But my jubilation was short-lived. Fast-forward a few months later, I am sitting alone on a Friday evening in a dark office building. Isolated once again, and stressed about work. A dark thought wells up from deep inside of me — before I know it I am envisioning my body lying on the floor next to my desk, in a pool of my own blood, self-inflicted lacerations on my wrists.

And the whisper again, “Is this how the book ends?”

The depression was back, and it was suddenly clear it never really left, but had merely slipped beneath the surface of my consciousness, waiting to re-emerge.

*Suicide and suicidal thoughts are topics I will explore in a subsequent post. If you are struggling with these ideations please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline or a mental health professional for help.