How I Rescued My Brain by David Roland Page B

my brain out of this groove.
    With the radio jangling my thoughts, I managed to hold it together until I arrived home, trembling, and collapsed onto the bed. I was afraid of myself — what was my brain doing? When would the next suicidal urge swoop down upon me?
    I knew from my work that when people are overwhelmed by sustained physical or emotional pain, they can lose hope that the pain will ever go away, seeing no point in sharing their thoughts with others. The world would be better off without me , they think.
    I was sliding down this path.
    I summoned my courage and told Anna about the experience on the road, explaining how worn down I had become and how I couldn’t deal with the financial stresses anymore. She was taken aback, almost speechless. ‘I’m sorry you’re feeling this way,’ she said.
    I caught up with Lily. She reminded me of all the people who cared about me. She asked me to contact her at any time, even if it was only to go for a walk when I was grumpy.
    I wanted to have a proper talk with Ian: not one of our standing-at-the-car updates after a swimming-squad session. I wanted to know, specifically, if he thought I should take antidepressants. I had taken St John’s wort for short periods over the last two years when feeling low, and this had helped.
    St John’s wort was a herbal medication that many trials had shown was effective in the treatment of mild to moderate depression; in fact, it was as effective as the commonly prescribed selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors (SSRIs) in these cases. It didn’t have the side effects of the SSRIs, although it could have a few of its own — thankfully, none of which I had experienced.
    It took two weeks before Ian and I could catch up for lunch; I hadn’t told him what I wanted to talk about. He’d been preoccupied with family and work, he said when he arrived at the cafe. ‘I need to give friends greater priority,’ he said with a rueful smile.
    We sat at an outside table, where we could smell the nearby ocean. The sandaled foot of his leg, which was crossed over the other, poked around in the air like the snout of a sniffing dog.
    I described my experience the other day, driving home. I said those thoughts had hung around for a few days afterwards; now they were gone, but they didn’t seem far away. He asked how readily I was able to get out of a low mood. I said that a swim or a music session was usually enough to do it. St John’s wort made a difference.
    â€˜It sounds more like you’re reacting to circumstances around you,’ he said. ‘If the St John’s wort is helping, keep this up, but be consistent with it.’
    After opening up to Anna, Lily, and Ian, my suicidal thinking seemed ridiculous, embarrassing; I might have been exaggerating it, I tried to tell myself. But underneath I knew that this wasn’t the case, and I was still apprehensive — not at all confident that the urges wouldn’t come back. Anna checked in with me every now and then, asking how I was faring.
    The suicidal episode was constructive in one way: if the thought of going back to work was bringing on such extreme notions, I shouldn’t be contemplating a return at all.
    My other option was to make a claim on my income-protection policy, the one I’d been paying into for all these years. I’d never thought the policy was necessary (if we did have to draw on it, it would only be because of an unexpected physical injury or illness), but our financial planner had encouraged it strongly. I thanked him for it now.
    I had considered this option over the previous months as our money ran low, but I’d wanted to cope using our own resources. And I hadn’t wanted to put myself through the insurance wringer. Many of my past clients had been made worse by the sometimes brutal insurance-claim process and in dealing with young, naive insurance case managers. But recent events had forced