Tag Archives: Depression

Your “Depression” Could Be Alcoholism

05 Wednesday Mar 2025

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-by Bill Watkins
Formerly Suicidal
Los Angeles, CA

***

I was in a freefall. The order of events seemed to be: I had a spiritual awakening at the Betty Ford Center in February of 1995, dropped everything to become a dedicated member of the Al-Anon 12-step program for about four years, then… the roof caved in. I felt like I had entered a Black Hole. Not depressed at first, but more like empty, unsure, and listless. My joie de vivre was suddenly tres blasé, the spirit from my awakening at zero… I just thought I was dying.

Of what, though? The rounds with doctors began… Psychiatrists, psychologists, a neurologist and a cat scan. I had Clinical Depression, that’s it! Manic Depression even a better one because I would swing up emotionally with creative projects, then dip down at other parts of my day. With that handy diagnosis, prescribed medication became readily available to me, and doctors began to prescribe various drugs to me.

Their doses didn’t create the desired effect, so I conveniently took over their management, got high on Lithium hours before that experiment sent me to the hospital. I had overdosed for the first time, but was it? When I blacked out on alcohol as a kid, that was an overdose wasn’t it? We didn’t call it that, but it might have been. For a few years I wasn’t ready to link alcohol use with my depressive state.

How depressed was I? Suicidal eventually. For days, weeks, months on end – unsure if I wanted to live through days, unsure if I even could live through them. Sometimes I still thought I was just dying, moreso after the overdose on lithium, which left me gravely injured physically. Of all things, that psychotropic natural salt on the element chart, used by some as an industrial cleaner and certain physicians as a way to calm the mind of suicidal patients – it tweaked my brain enough to tweak my diaphragm.

I remained suicidal and now physically injured from an overdose for a period, then overdosed again, mostly on another psychotropic they gave me called Celexa. It was during that hospital stay when I looked up at my very tall psychiatrist doctor and noted, “Dr. W, there is no Pill for Will!” A true statement that jarred me back to my twelve steps. I started to slowly piece together my alcohol and substance use as a child, relate it to my current depression.

I started drinking alcohol on Dad’s lap at five years of age, his last sip of bourbon and water. He didn’t want to give me that “adult drink,” but I kept asking for a sip, knowing it was that liquid standing in the way of our intimacy. When I took that sip, I crossed several thresholds that would come back to haunt me. I had jumped into the alcohol drinker’s club young, kept that secret from Mom, so had learned how to lie – which for the religiously inclined like myself let in an evil force I call the devil, you can call it what you want.

That evil led me to a career of underage drinking, reconnecting with the substance with friends at twelve, blacking out on it for the first time at thirteen. I was a little thirteen year old, by the way, not a burly young man… still a squeaky-voiced boy, chugging flammable, toxic liquid around my sport playing, thinking that was normal. I didn’t know how to tell the girl I loved that I loved her, but I could play sports and drink alcohol.

A sad past, leading to a sadness doctors called a clinical depression, green lighting drug intake without checking my alcohol and substance abuse history. I suspect this happens when the doctors in question are out of touch with their own alcoholism. Lee Harris, the social worker who led me to my spiritual awakening at the Betty Ford Center on February 7th, 1995: was in a position to truly help me, coming from relevant training and… I suspect life experience.

Lee created a safe room of strangers at the facility’s “Family Program,” inspired us to tell our truths out loud to the group. Hence the awakening, as it will always be true that the Truth sets us free. I dream that this humble piece stirs the truth in readers, perhaps one veering toward depression and a merry-go-round of “know-it-all” doctors who don’t know it all.

Suicidal

14 Tuesday Jan 2025

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If I wanted to take my own life
in my late twenties, it was because
I loved my father.

I loved him so much, I used to wait
by the front door every weekday
before six, when he entered.

I grabbed his leg, and we walked
to the den, where he prepared
a drink of bourbon.

He turned on the TV, and we took
a seat on the couch, started the night’s
play until bedtime.

The drink got in my way of the play
enough that I asked him to remove
the drink.

He would not remove the drink, like
a proper running back with the ball,
so I changed tacks.

I was five years old.

My mind worked in its quick, young
pace, and I changed tacks to ask Dad
to have a sip.

Dad said no a few times, “No, Billy,
this is an adult drink.” But one day
he broke down…

He gave me his last sip. Became a nightly
tradition. Mom was in the kitchen, talking
with friends.

She was talking about divorcing my dad.
I didn’t just learn how to drink a toxic
liquid, no.

I learned how to keep something from
Mom. I learned that my favorite person
liked the drink,

and now I was in his club, so that when
the drinks were passed around at
twelve, I was ready to fall.

I was blacking out on the substance
by thirteen. What was I not doing?
I did not love.

I did not know how to express love.
Dad loved my Mom, but could not
express it.

She fired him.  And with his departure,
my best friend was no longer there
on weekdays.

I was alone.  I had two skills to go
out and fight the world:  Sports playing,
and alcohol drinking.

Those “skills” were not enough to love
women or life.  And I was suicidal and
depressed by twenty-five.

Letter to Someone Considering Suicide

10 Thursday Mar 2022

Posted by in Addiction, Alcohol, Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, Depression, Health, Men's Health, Mental Health, Poetic Blog, Recovery, Suicide, Women's Health

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Suicidal2

by Bill Watkins, formerly suicidal
3/10/2022

Dedicated to the memory of Robin Williams

***

I would have told Robin just to sleep.  Stop trying to breathe.  Stop doing stuff and thinking you have to do stuff.

What suicidal people sometimes forget is the glory of the “mini-deaths” cleverly built into this life: sleep.  The complete cessation of activity.  The suicidal want to stop, want all thinking to stop, so… STOP!

Complications arise with drug and alcohol addiction.  Next to that, or maybe the same thing, is a bedevilment of negative thinking, insane thoughts—which any human being is capable of thinking from time to time.

There is a snowball forming, and suicidal people might start to believe the lies they are telling themselves that all would be better, if they were dead.  If they took an action to stop the heart and stop breathing… for good.

I was a victim of a suicidal depression that lasted about three or four years.  Parts of it are cloudy still, but I can now sum it all up as:  Alcoholism.

I started drinking Dad’s last sip of bourbon when I was five.  I started drinking the flammable, volatile, toxic liquid on my own with friends by the age of twelve.  I was blacking out on the substance by thirteen.

The above facts were not of interest to the multiple doctors I saw for depression at the end of the last millennium.  They saw and heard some symptoms, started to prescribe me drugs.  One of those doctors is now a recovering alcoholic, but because they missed my obvious alcoholism I sometimes think all of them were either alcoholic, drug addicted or just plain incompetent in the field of mental health.

I forgive them.  Alcoholism is “cunning, baffling and powerful,” to quote Alcoholics Anonymous—a powerful, tough, formidable foe.  I don’t blame anyone for my alcoholism and subsequent suicidal depression, but have come out of it to celebrate twenty years of consecutive sober days to distrust Western medicine in some areas.

They and all of us are fallible!

To the person who is at the time of reading this letter considering suicide, I say: “I love you. Thinking of suicide is a normal response to pain, when the pain builds and builds and sustains over a long time.  Love and accept yourself in this moment, but if you have a place to sleep that is warm and sheltered, be grateful for it and ‘die’ the mini-death that is sleep.  Stop trying so hard to breathe.  Slow down.  Do nothing.

“Do nothing for as long as it takes, with no time limit.  Based on my experience, the good rest and permission to stop will after time become a meditation or dream that makes you want to ‘go’ again.  You might get a vision that is positive.

“As far as managing life through a suicidal depression, stop doing that. Get out a piece of paper after your rest, and write down one or two things you want to do.  Eventually a bucket list (since you’ve been craving death anyway) of passions and activities.  Today, of course, you can only manage one or two of those things.

“Do them.  Love yourself for this one day.  That’s the only day that matters and exists.  If something makes you smile (that is not harmful to anyone, drugs or alcohol), note that and do it.   Repeat it, and follow that bliss throughout your day.  Your day is now your life!

“Note stuff in life we can’t control, like results or the future.  Let them go.  Maybe even consider prayer to a power greater than yourself.  Call it whatever you want to call it.  Just know you’re not in control of everything, and if you let yourself go… if you stop trying so hard and just rest… you’ll find the world continues to spin, and I do believe based on my own experience that positive thoughts and dreams are within us all…

If we wait for them.”

The Poem Not Written

16 Saturday Nov 2019

Posted by in Humor, Poem, Poems, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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Poetry1

I had plenty to say about
British invaders “using
natives kindly” and coveting
their land before stealing
it amidst the chaos of
mutiny, rebellion, starvation,
and forced coups in a land
natives called Wingandacoa
but the British vainly called
“Virginia” after their queen.

I had even more to say about
living at LAX airport in a city
most call Los Angeles, but I
prefer the native name,
Otsungna, signifying “place
of the roses;” I lived there,
trying to raise 600 bucks to
catch a plane for London
because Sigi Schmid, the
L.A. Galaxy soccer coach,
never called me to give me
a tryout in 1999.  Instead of
being depressed about that,
I rode my bike to the airport
from Pasadena (Chippewa:
“crown of the valley”), parked
the bike, lost the bike for
twenty-four hours, figured it
was stolen, then it reappeared
magically where I had left it
at the front door to the international
terminal, un-scratched and
unscathed.  So I sold the bike to
a redcap for 250 dollars,
which is how much I needed
to buy my ticket finally,
after camping out at the airport
three days.

I would have written something
about living in psych wards, when
filled with self-doubt and un-
checked alcoholism—how I
literally checked myself in
once at an emergency room in
Pasadena with symptoms
of “Self-Doubt.”  That helped me
to realize that was crazy, and
I slowly began to believe not
that I was crazy, but that I was
alcoholic, and that if I just
refrained from drinking alcohol
or using drugs one day at a time,
all would be fine!  Even if I just
watched TV or a movie, made
that my whole day, it was okay,
and better than doing something
bad like putting mind-altering
substances in my body.

I would surely have tackled
Western Medicine, and how sick
it is.  I frankly think it has serious
health problems, along with
the insurance game littering
its offices, halls and examination
rooms—perhaps why they’re often
too cold with air conditioning that
makes you sicker than before
you left home.  The sicker you
are the better deal health
insurance is for you, so good
luck with that; the healthier
you are, you lose and the health
insurance companies win that
round, so what’s it going to be?
Remember War Games from 1983?
“The only winning move is not
to play…”  From that year I also
remember “Owner of a Lonely
Heart,” Octopussy, Never Say
Never Again—two Bond movies
in one year!  English Beat’s last
year together, Chevy Chase
in Vacation, Harold Ramis
directing the John Hughes script.
I had thirteen dollars to my
name that year and felt rich…

Last, I was going to write
something on an impromptu
date at the post office.  I ran
into Mrs. Right, I’m sure of it,
so why was she hollering outside
the name of some dude, sure
to be a husband or boyfriend?
Could it have been a friend or
brother, and I still have a chance?
No matter what, it was rather
an enchanted meeting, and
I hope to see her again.  Does
that mean if her other guy
sees this poem, he’ll come
after me, email me, threaten
me with violence, if I
don’t stay away from his girl?
It’s happened to me before,
because I try to be true to
my own feelings and let women
decide what they want to do,
and sometimes someone will
let you make moves on them
because they’re bored or
not thrilled with their current
guy, but there is a danger of
ticking someone off, so I’ve
resolved to at the sound of
“I have a boyfriend” staying
generally the heck away,
hoping for romance when the
coast is clear.

I would have written all that!

Pain

11 Monday Feb 2019

Posted by in Loss, Pain, Poem, Poems, Poesia, Poetic Blog, Poetry

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Pain3

You thought you had something
you did not; your expectations
not met.

Part-abuse, part-my fault for
residing too close to the truth,
you find that if praying on a thing
not omnipotent and perfect,
there’s a decent chance of failure

by nature of Newton’s laws,
entropy and a tendency for all
things to fail.

A rainbow awaits rain’s end,
and similarly with pain.

There is a shelf-life to pain,
an end game not too far from
“this too shall pass.”

It may be that the expectation
was at fault for the loss, and
it was all in a plan to make us
prepare better for next time.

Everything happens for a reason,
they always say from a place of
comfort—

but they’re right.

What It’s Like to be Suicidal

09 Monday Oct 2017

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Suicidal image1

-by Bill Watkins 10/9/2017

***

I was suicidal off and on from 1998 to 2002.

The first glitch I felt toward unhinged depression was around my 25th birthday in 1997.  Mom got me my first laptop, I liked hanging out with her, the computer was cool, but…

I was writing a very creative piece, attending many Al-Anon 12-step meetings, and more and more: I felt weird, a manic-depression settled into my life.

High in the throes of my creative projects, low afterward, with NO SCHEDULE FOR MY DAY, nor contentment at a day well-lived toward Sleep.

***

I was and am alcoholic.  I did not fully know that back then.

The suicidal bug, which came from the manic-depression bug, stemmed from my first drink of flammable alcohol on Dad’s lap when five years old.

I started drinking it with friends at age twelve, started blacking out off the substance at age thirteen.  Yes, Maradona was down in Mexico becoming a legend while I was awoken by my sister’s friends PEEING ON THEIR COUCH.  I was in a sleep-walking blackout after many beers consumed into my sub-five foot, sub-100 pound frame.

My drinking peaked at age sixteen, the false god alcohol fully worshipped in place of God, life, and being honest with the girl I loved.

None of that story went away when I started to curb back drinking Senior year of high school and into college.

I was a periodic partier, who drank and smoked pot on occasion, overdosed in the form of blackouts and pass-outs before officially overdosing on prescribed medicine in 1999 and 2000.

The OD’s came on the heels of a trip to the Bay Area from my native Southern California.  Up there I flagged down old friends, and considered jumping off the Golden State Bridge.

I stared down that jump all of one afternoon, for hours.  I finally “chickened out,” which made me more depressed, then saw an old school friend and his beautiful wife before hitting an AA meeting in town.

Within a week, I finally jumped—into the bathroom cabinet and its pills instead of into that San Francisco Bay water.

It seemed less illegal, but it hurt just the same.  My body stopped working during one of those first overdose cycles, and I called 911.

My stomach and diaphragm still don’t always work, eighteen years later, because of what I did.  I am now fifteen-plus years sober and off all medication, drugs, caffeine, soda—even sex.

I found parenting and help in God, the bible, Alcoholics Anonymous and wise friends who had recovered from insanity as well.

***

Being suicidal is scary, confusing, and groundless.

Some do mass murder before they commit suicide, some dream about it while suicidal—I myself had visions of glory’s blaze, stepping out into traffic, jumping off bridges, turning a fast-moving car into a center freeway divider.

Those are potentially homicidal acts, and so the reader should note that being suicidal has a homicidal quality—a lack of care for All life.

What kept me from a lot of those acts was a growing concept of Higher Power, a symbol of the quiet, peaceful Jesus within me.  I’d call on it when tempted, and here I am still alive, just for today!