There Are No Silver Bullets: My Family, My Depression

By Brent Blonigan

In this emotional memoir, Brent Blonigan recounts his lifelong battle with depression. Through self-reflection and personal anecdotes, he examines the impact his family, culture, religion, and society have had on his life. He is bold, honest, and forthcoming as he presents his experiences and evaluates their impact on who he is today. There Are No Silver Bullets: My Family, My Depression sheds light on one man’s depression, along with his experience of the medical system’s shortcomings in diagnosing and treating it. Reflective questions at the end of each chapter offer self-examination as a tool readers can use to consider the internal and external influences that may have contributed to their own emotional reality. Blonigan provides sympathy and support for those fighting the demons of depression, abuse, and adjustment disorders, along with coping strategies that he has found helpful—even lifesaving—over the years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brown Books Publishing Group
• Release date: Jun 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781612549811

Brent Blonigan

Brent Blonigan grew up in a small town in Minnesota, where he first experienced the struggles that inspired him to write this book. Through it, he hopes to give voice to some of the harsh truths about depression in order to educate and support those who suffer as he has. He now resides in the Dallas-Fort Worth area with his family.

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INTRODUCTION

Depression is a condition that is almost unimaginable to anyone who has not known it. . . . Let us make no bones about it: We do not really know what causes depression.

—Andrew Solomon

The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression (29)

I started thinking about this project in 2008. At first I tried to convince myself that this book was not necessary; no one would want to read another book about depression. I talked about it. I obsessed about it. I thought about it some more. I looked for help writing it, for help finding a focus, for help figuring out how to write about depression in a way that wouldn’t be depressing to read. Where to start?

It is easy to say, Well, start from the beginning. Start with your childhood experiences. Start with your first experience of depression. So I started writing my story. I started remembering things and putting them in focus. I know that depression is something many of us have in common. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, sixteen million adults aged eighteen or older in the United States had had at least one major depressive episode in 2012. That represents 6.9 percent of all American adults. We can all relate to depression because, at some point in our life, we all feel depressed. Unfortunately my depression has been a little bit more than an average dose.

I composed this book in layers. I put to paper the story of my life, my autobiography. But outside a small circle of family and friends and business associates, nobody knows me. So who cares? Who cares that I was born in Minnesota? Or that I was a late bloomer? Or that I did not fit in in high school? Or that I ended up in a mental hospital twice (one time, it was a month stay)? Or that there were years when I was OK and then it all came back? I found out how hard it is to make sense of my life—but you know what? I think I have. And I wanted to share that process.

I also wanted to investigate the influences on my life that may have predisposed me to depression. I do not think the roots of my depression are with my mother and my father—they may go back as far as my grandparents and great-grandparents. I think the conditions under which I grew up, combined with other factors—perhaps most importantly my own temperament—predisposed me toward depression. Past influences are anything but water under the bridge. Your family’s past and your own past carry you forward. Depression does not just happen to people. It is something that builds up, something that ebbs and flows, something that, if left unchecked, can take you over the edge. We have recently seen an example of this with Robin Williams. While he often talked about his battle with depression, who would ever have believed he could commit suicide? We loved him too much—right?

I am telling my story because I have an intense need to figure out what brought on my depression, what influences in my life contribute to it, why it continues even now, and why it becomes so intense. I know my challenges were unique, as perhaps are yours. But I believe we have common questions and common reactions to some of life’s challenges. We may be predisposed to depression and not realize it until it strikes. This book is based to a great degree on my memories, my personal interpretation of things that happened to me, things I did, things I witnessed. Still I have questions. I have lapses of memory and gaps of awareness. But the more I do remember, the more I can assemble the pieces of the emotional puzzle that is my life.

MEMORIES

Recalling everything accurately is difficult because memories tend to lose their accuracy over time. David Carr highlights this on page 12 of his book The Night of the Gun: A Reporter Investigates the Darkest Story of His Life—His Own: There is only so much space on any one person’s hard drive, and old memories are prone to replacement by newer ones. . . . The power of a memory can be built through repetition, but it is the memory we are recalling when we speak, not the event. And stories are annealed in the telling, edited by turns each time they are recalled until they become little more than chimeras. People remember what they can live with more often than how they lived.

The details of my life are not the focus of this book, which makes this book unique: It does not fit the mold for a memoir. It is not constructed as an inspiring narrative that runs from page one to the end. There is no single defining episode in my life. My life weaves in and out of a cloud of depression. I am asking how and why. I hope that I can help others by telling my story and asking questions. My foremost goal is to help those suffering from depression, or from any other adjustment disorder, to get a grip on their symptoms by reading this book. Other goals that motivate me to share my story include helping others to understand both mental illness and abuse, thus equipping outsiders to better support those in need. This book is about my depression process. I want to share what I have been through, what my experience has meant to me. I also want to share some conclusions I have reached that perhaps should have been self-evident all along.

There is a reason for everything. In life we have friends who come and go. Some come at the right time; some we learn to send on their way; some can offer us guidance if we let them. The foremost question revolves around who we are—for me the question is twofold: Who am I? Why am I depressed?

Writing has become my way of organizing my mental chaos. There is a Zen to writing. I recommend reading Zen in the Art of Writing: Essays on Creativity by Ray Bradbury. I found him inspiring: What, you ask, does writing teach us? First and foremost, it reminds us that we are alive, and it is a gift and a privilege, not a right (xii). He also writes, You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you (xiii). Writing is cathartic, and it is real—at least, that is the case with me.

I recently read On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft by Stephen King. Toward the end of the book King writes the following:

Writing isn’t about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it’s about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It’s about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy. Some of this book—perhaps too much—has been about how I learned to do it. Much of it has been about how you can do it better. The rest of it—and perhaps the best of it—is a permission slip: you can, you should, and if you’re brave enough to start, you will. Writing is magic, as much the water of life as any other creative art. The water is free. So drink. Drink and be filled up. (269–70)

King’s book is not a writing manual, is not a memoir, is not an autobiography—it is all of those and more.

As I write, the past becomes present to me in the form of illuminating flashbacks. Chronicling these memories is cathartic. Sharing the isolation, pain, and hopelessness of my individual experience is critical for me and, I hope, helpful for you. After recording the story of my life, my family, the many circumstances of and influences upon my depression, my multiple treatments and medications, I retraced my steps and added a second layer of reflections and commentary throughout the book with the intention of providing clarity about what was going on within me. There’s no sudden revelation that clarifies once and for all how to cope with depression (Sorry!), but I have applied to my experiences the corroborating wisdom of a substantial number of doctors and patients, experts and questioners, proponents of status quo medicine and its challengers, poets and prophets. I hope you find the cumulative effect enlightening and encouraging. And then I added a third layer: At the end of each chapter I make a serious attempt to sum up the dynamics of that chapter and engage you, the reader, with a reflective question or two pertinent to the dynamics of your efforts in overcoming or understanding depression.

I know I am not alone. I know that I am all right, that there is hope, that there are others going through experiences similar to mine. There are so many excellent writers who offer their take on depression with their research, reflections, resources, and inspiration. I have taken the liberty of incorporating their insights at the beginning of each chapter and throughout the book. You will find a complete list of the books and materials I quote in the bibliography at the end of the book. I realize that no book is going to lift one’s depression. What makes a difference is what you do with the book. There is great value in putting your story into words and sharing it with someone who will listen. It is a fact that one’s story or narrative is sacred and that its sharing is paramount for both the writer and the reader. Depression is not an intellectual reality. It is an emotional, mental condition that I am convinced can only be relieved ultimately through person-to-person interaction with a professional, a close friend, or possibly even a fellow depressive. Sooner or later, you learn that what works are not the antidepressants (which numb you) but the sharing and the talking (the expressions of your feelings). I still find that hard, but I have tried to write down what I have learned. I hope it helps.

Part I

I AM WHO I AM FOR A REASON

Your brain is designed to hyper-learn during childhood, so issues from that time . . . cast a long shadow . . . Your personal history matters, it has consequences. It can leave you with a hole in your heart.

—Rick Hanson

Hardwiring Happiness: The New Brain Science of Contentment, Calm, and Confidence

The influences on our lives are constant and never ending, and they all have an impact on and affect our being. An influence that is not apparent early on, such as one’s family heritage, may become apparent later or not become apparent at all. While we may never be conscious of earlier influences, that does not mean they have not impacted our current state of mind. In a way, we are the summation of our experiences, and whether or not we are aware of what has influenced these experiences has little bearing as to their impact. These chapters are all about what I have come to see as early influences in my life—during that time when I was most impressionable. Most likely, you have had—or someone you know has had—a similar array of experiences.

DEFINING ADDICTION

While many professionals have attempted to define depression, there is little agreement as to its definition. As far as my own experience goes, I think that my depression was tied closely to addiction—an addiction to passivity. It is possible that depression is—or its symptoms of inaction are—addicting. I have wondered why so many depressed people are resistant to change and if that is a form of addiction.

When I think about addiction, I consider whether it is about abundance, about too much of something (or nothing). That something could be anything. As human beings, it is probable that overabundance, whether chemical or process, can lead to what is perceived as addiction. In this society there is too much stimulation, which in and of itself could be addictive. Frankly I think real solutions come from within ourselves. And sometimes, it is doing without that may be illuminating.

One thing that is common with many who are addicted and/or depressed is the both-and scenario; dual diagnosis seems to be prevalent. We know that both have been with us since the earliest of times. We also know that the need for such labels is necessary to access remuneration, and, in that vein, the loose usage of these terms could be considered dehumanizing.

1

TIME AND PLACE

Family Background and Social Setting

We must understand that it is our conditioning that makes us the way we are. We were born in a certain kind of family and social environment . . . Once we really see this, we can begin to have compassion for ourselves, and not be threatened by critical remarks from others.

—Sister Gina in

Thich Nhat Hanh: The Joy of Full Consciousness, Jean-Pierre and Rachel Cartier (44)

Is it possible that there is a carryover from prior generations of one’s family that affect a person psychologically or emotionally? My parents both came from agricultural backgrounds, but they both became educators. They wanted more. They needed fulfillment. They were good at what they did and were respected. My father was a librarian, and my mother was a teacher. There is something about teaching that has always attracted me. Teaching is a noble profession, and it takes a lot of energy to be a good-to-excellent teacher. The teacher needs the right environment, and both parties in the learning relationship—teacher and student—have to be willing participants.

My father was an English major who went to graduate school to be a librarian. My mother was an accounting instructor. They both graduated from St. Cloud State. This college was located in St. Cloud, Minnesota, which is about seventy miles northwest of the metropolitan area of Minneapolis and St. Paul. My father was born and buried in the town of St. Martin, which is about thirty miles west of St. Cloud. There are probably more Blonigans there than in any other place on the planet. My mother was born in Albany, Minnesota. Both of these small communities were in Stearns County, an interesting amalgamation of German and Irish immigrants. Many of the Germans came from the Bavaria region of Germany, which is primarily Catholic and located in the southern part of Germany next to Austria. (If you look up Stearns County online in the Urban Dictionary, you can find an entry for Stearns County Syndrome that refers to people, mostly of German descent, who never leave Stearns County, Minnesota, inbreed with each other, and drink too much German beer.)

ST. MARTIN AND ST. CLOUD

St. Martin is a town with a population of about 350 people (308 in the 2010 census). Over the last fifty years that I can remember, I have not seen the census change on the sign you pass coming into town. St. Martin has two taverns. Neither tavern has been noted for its proficiency in asking for age confirmation. In fact, I had a second cousin who was a bartender when he was fifteen. It was noted as a town where Friday evenings are dominated by out-of-town bikers and partiers. There was a grocery store where you sometimes were able to watch the house cats chase mice down the aisles. It was a place where German was spoken, and still is by some of the old-timers. Probably the most impressive part of the town was the cemetery, which was behind the St. Martin Catholic Church. When you enter the cemetery, you have a panoramic view of the countryside that stretches for miles and miles.

I have many memories of St. Martin—some fond, some rather humorous. There were no secrets. Everybody seemed to know everything about everybody. My father made it a point to know about everything that was going on, and his memory was exquisite. It was not much of a secret when the parish priest would ask an altar boy to go to the basement with him, and we all knew what that meant. The Blonigan family had five boys, including my father. When we were younger, Gregg (my brother) and I both would ask for the retelling of my father’s stories.

The Blonigan family is the family in St. Martin. I’m not bragging, but there are probably more Blonigans buried in the St. Martin cemetery than there are in any other cemetery in the world. The Blonigans are known for their large heads. The men all have large heads and have to have hats specially made. I am still frustrated by the fact that I cannot find ball caps large enough to fit my head.

I enjoyed going to St. Martin more than to St. Cloud. I am not sure why. Sometimes, I would go with my aunt Mary Lou, or sometimes with my parents and my brother. When we arrived, our first stop was at Matt Rausch’s Grocery Store. Invariably, my brother and I would receive a dime or a quarter, and we would run over to the store. I still remember the fat cats that roamed the store. Occasionally one of the cats had caught a mouse. Matt would be talking to some of the old-timers. As he talked he would shoo the cats off the meat counter or swat a fly. It was not a particularly sanitary situation. The only language spoken in the store was German. As a child that frustrated me because I did not understand German. When my brother or I would ask a question about what was being said, it was a big secret. Usually the response was "Raus! We knew what that meant—Out! (As in Get outta here!")

The German they spoke was a peculiar mixture of Bavarian and English. Bavaria is a province of South Germany, and Munich is the capital. There was a town named New Munich right next door to St. Martin. Bavarians were farmers. Some of the houses in St. Martin back then did not have plumbing, so there were a lot of outhouses. If one was going to the toilet, or perhaps to the outhouse, one would hear the phrase "boom-boom pott engehen." Essentially, that meant that someone had to sit down. The German spoken there, certainly, was not Hochdeutsch or high German.

I remember a neighbor of my grandfather whose name was Ella Gully. She was a widow who lived alone and relied a lot on the family. She was an enormous woman. She was demanding. I am not sure she bathed a lot; she just plain stunk. Her house was even more odorous. I remember asking why there was an odor, which made her rather perplexed; then she got angry. She was always angry. Frankly she was rather horrid. When I was young, I watched her drown a litter of kittens and wring the neck of another. As she was doing it, she muttered in German. We knew that the German word for shit was scheiss. She cooked cabbage and bragged about her pickles. My uncle Charles used to tease her about needing a dump truck to drive her around.

The farmers in this area had some of the richest soil in the state. The residents of St. Martin were dependent on the farmers for business, and bartering was commonplace. During the Depression, my grandfather had to barter—it was a matter of survival. And they still barter there. My grandfather was successful through hard work and bullheadedness. The large family was never hungry. The family business fed that large family and the workers, and it became a multigenerational business. When my godfather, Jerry Blonigan, sold the business, it was sad. As I grew up, there were times I wanted to go into the business. While my father was growing up, this was something he wanted no part of—which is perhaps why I wanted to.

If you look up St. Martin today, you will discover the notorious bar that I remember as a child called the Corner Bar. It is now known as Doochie’s Bad Company Bar and holds one of the biggest motorcycle rallies in the Midwest; that’s where you would go. It is a great biker’s bar. My grandfather’s house was right across the street. The other large affair in