Less than a joy
I never planned to fail. Especially not in something I worked so hard to achieve. So, when I returned home in 2024 after a failed attempt at thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail, something I had put my heart and soul into, it didn’t take very long for depression to sink in.
This depression was more than the post-trail blues that so many hikers experience. It rapidly developed into something far more serious. I began losing days—lots of them. Days in which I didn’t have the motivation or energy to lift my head off the pillow. I had little interest in anything. In addition to the depression, I was having trouble completing even the most basic of tasks. Getting showered and dressed—hell, even standing up had become a chore. Conversations with my wife became increasingly strained because the racing thoughts in my head made it impossible for me to pay attention. This led to needless arguments. My temper was short-fused, which made me less than a joy to be around. It was all a downward spiral—one that I didn’t have the willpower to stop.
Please doc, fix me
Thank God for my mother. Recognizing that I was in trouble, she scheduled a Zoom call with my primary care physician. After a short conversation, the doctor gave me an initial diagnosis of major depression along with a prescription for the antidepressant Wellbutrin. As for my racing thoughts and lack of focus, she suspected I may have ADHD, attention deficit hyperactive disorder. I certainly didn’t feel hyperactive, but attention deficit? She may be onto something.
My doctor referred me to a specialist for a psychiatric evaluation. This was a process. It took over a month to get in. There would be a series of three appointments—the first was a consultation in which I was interviewed by the psychologist and asked to explain in detail every year of my life. Considering I am 57 years old and have a hard time concentrating, this was no easy task. I was questioned as to my family’s history of mental illness. It’s no secret that my father suffered from major depression, but I also recently learned through Ancestry.com that my maternal great-grandmother had been institutionalized. The sound of the psychologist’s pen scratching against his notepad when I divulged this information made me cringe. “I’m screwed.” I thought.
The evaluation itself consisted of an eight-hour day of testing on everything from math skills, which I lack, to verbal and written communication, at which I excel. I was stoked about the communication tests because I was nailing them. But when the very nice lady conducting the test pulled out a set of blocks and asked me to mimic the shapes on a piece of paper, my eyes glazed over. I couldn’t figure it out to save my life. I literally couldn’t “see” the answers. “How in the hell…” I thought, “…could I be this stupid?” I left the testing segment not knowing what to expect next.
The third appointment was the big “reveal”. This is where the psychologist would give me my results along with a diagnosis. After ruminating about the tests over the previous two weeks, I was convinced that I was a shoo-in for ADHD.
Cocaine Bear—my spirit animal
The psychologist began the review by reassuring me that I did not have a learning disability. “Good, but that’s not why I’m here.” I thought. He stated that he wasn’t convinced that my ADHD symptoms were a result of ADHD. “Confusing, but also good—I think.” He went on to inform me that even though my math skills were subpar, I still had an above-average I.Q. In fact, my communication skills were bordering genius. “Well, step aside J.K. Rowling!”
We were four pages into the dissertation that was my psych eval and there was still no bad news. “I might be home free, but if that’s the case—then what exactly is wrong with me?” It wasn’t until he flipped to the last page of the evaluation that the demon made its presence known. It was as if the words literally stood up on the page—bipolar II. It came with a side of general anxiety disorder and ADHD had not been ruled out. I may still have that too. Apparently, bipolar disorder can share ADHD symptoms. “Yep, I’m screwed.”
If you have seen the movie Cocaine Bear, a cult classic, I might add, you will agree with me that it is hard to imagine anything much worse than a wild bear amped up on five kilos of cocaine going rogue on a killing spree in southern Appalachia. Well, there I sat staring my cocaine bear right in the hairy eyeball.
The best way to describe how I felt receiving my diagnosis is numbness—almost a mental paralysis. After hearing the word bipolar, everything else the psychologist said sounded muffled. His voice became like the parents’ voice in the Peanuts cartoon—blah, blah, blah blah.
Like so many people who have had no experience with mental illness, I thought bipolar disorder meant I was crazy—volatile—a loose cannon. A Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde. There I sat with my cocaine bear, part of me wanted to cuddle it and tell it everything would be okay. The other part wanted to run for the hills!
I sat in the parking lot at the psychologist’s office for a good twenty minutes before calling my wife. I don’t know if I was afraid of how the news would be taken, or if I just wanted to sit alone with my “truth” for a while. My words were met with “It’s okay, come home and we’ll talk about it.”
In good company?
I’m sure I’m not the first person receiving a bipolar diagnosis to Google the words “famous people with bipolar”. Spoiler alert—the results are impressive. I was greeted by a plethora of A-List authors and celebrities, including Ernest Hemingway, Virginia Woolf, and Amy Winehouse. Hugely talented folks—titans of the literary and entertainment world. Amazing lives and careers that, unfortunately, for several of them, ended in suicide or substance abuse.
Following my diagnosis, I went through a period of discovery. I wanted to learn everything I could about bipolar disorder. Google led me down some pretty frightening rabbit holes. I discovered that not only is suicide the number one cause of death amongst individuals with bipolar, but the average life expectancy is only 67 years! By the time I returned to my primary care physician for a follow-up, I was a basket case. The shock had turned to curiosity, which turned into fear, before developing into a rabid case of anger. I had wasted my life and I only had ten years left! I spilled all my newly found “facts” to my doctor who told me, rather harshly, to “Stay off the f#@$ing internet!” Google wasn’t my friend—but medication was.
The perfect “cocktail“
Prior to all of this, I was taking zero medications, and I liked that idea. I was very hesitant to take anything more than Wellbutrin, but Wellbutrin was only addressing the depressive side of my bipolar, which, for me, was the most prominent symptom. I still had anxiety and ADHD symptoms.
I am fortunate that it didn’t take very long for my doctor and psychiatrist to come up with the perfect “cocktail” of psychiatric medications to address all my symptoms. I was kept on Wellbutrin, with an increased dose. To that was added the mood stabilizer Vraylar and the stimulant Vyvanse, which greatly helps with my ADHD symptoms. These three medications together are quite effective, although not perfect, at giving me a sense of “normalcy”—a feeling of mental stability that I have never known. I am good with taking these medications because, for me, the relief they bring gives me back parts of my life that I was missing before my diagnosis. Not losing days means living more days.
Walking naked through Walmart
In addition to medications, my doctor recommended therapy. I was hesitant at first, believe it or not, I am typically quite shy. The idea of discussing my deepest feelings with a stranger seemed horrendous. I don’t like feeling “exposed”, so for me, this was like walking naked through Walmart. It was something I just wasn’t going to do. But as my desire to understand my condition deepened, I eventually gave in and made an appointment.
My first session was about as awkward as I had anticipated. I was suspicious of every question the therapist threw at me, but soon my apprehension softened, and I found myself vomiting out story after story to a very nice woman with a notepad. Dare I say, I enjoyed it.
I really like that my therapist gives me homework assignments. One of the most helpful assignments was to create a mood chart in which I track my daily moods—whether I’m experiencing anxiety, depression, or both; as well as the hours of sleep I get each night. This chart shows me patterns—something known as “cycling” in bipolar, in which I go in and out of hypomanic or depressive episodes. With it I can track whether my moods are a result of events or situations that are happening in my life, or if they are part of a cycle. I have found that every couple of weeks, almost like clockwork, I have an episode in which I feel anxious or depressed for no apparent reason. This chart helps me to recognize these episodes for what they are and to put them into perspective.
I have been going to therapy for eight months now, and I am benefiting greatly from it. If you have considered therapy but are apprehensive, like I was, I can tell you this—you get out of it what you put in. You have to do the work. If your therapist is worth a lick of salt, they will give you homework. Because healing is a process, and progress takes work. So do the work.
A little tree-hugging never hurts
It’s no secret that I’m a nature junkie. I love the great outdoors. Nature therapy, for me, is exactly what it sounds like—letting trees, dirt, and a good long walk do some of the emotional heavy lifting I didn’t realize I was carrying. It’s the act of sitting on a rock, staring into nothing in particular, and realizing my problems feel a whole lot smaller when I’m not surrounded by fluorescent lights and a thousand unread emails. I’ve tried the scented candles and spa playlists. They help a little. But there’s something about pine needles, wind in the trees, and actual silence that cracks me open in the best way. I don’t have to know what I’m doing out there—I just have to be. And when I do, I feel the shift.
What makes it powerful, I think, is that it’s honest. There’s no pretending when I’m out on the trail. No polished version of myself. Just me—sometimes anxious, sometimes exhausted—walking it out one step at a time. The woods don’t care if I’m feeling broken or if I’m just there for the view. I’ve cried on switchbacks, laughed out loud at squirrels, and had moments of clarity that therapy sessions couldn’t quite touch. It’s not magic. It’s movement. It’s stillness. It’s nature showing up for me in a way that’s so steady, so nonjudgmental, it feels sacred.
Life is loud. My brain can be even louder. But when I get outside—really outside—it all quiets down. Not instantly, but gradually. I stop refreshing my thoughts like they’re a feed. I stop needing to explain myself. I just breathe. Walk. Let the rhythm of the trail settle into my bones. And somewhere in that repetition, I start to feel like myself again. Not the perfect version. The real one. The one who knows that healing isn’t about fixing—it’s about remembering. Remembering that I’m still here, still trying, and that sometimes, that’s more than enough.
My superpower
I have made a regimen out of taking my medication. I never miss a dose. It is the single most important item on my to-do list each day, along with prayer. I kind of feel like taking my medication and praying go hand in hand, because there isn’t a day that goes by that I am not thankful that I have help. Taking my medicine, going to therapy, and being kind to myself, are my way of saying “thank you” for all the things that in my younger years I took for granted. The years in which the depression was normal to me. The hypomania was normal. Prior to getting help, I never felt a sense of being even-keeled. Like I said, it’s not perfect—I still have bad days. But I don’t lose those days anymore.
Mental illness isn’t something that we should put on a shelf or hide in a closet. It’s something that we should continue learning about—continue talking about. So I’m going to continue learning and talking and discovering. I’m going to make it my superpower.
That trail is still calling me
I’m not finished with the Appalachian Trail—not by a long shot. I’ve spent the last year healing and growing. I’m getting stronger. My mind and body are coming into sync. I’m doing my homework.
It is said that persistence turns time into transformation. I am becoming. There are adventures in my future that my former self couldn’t have imagined. I am living the adventure of discovery—part of that discovery is learning that my bipolar disorder doesn’t define who I am. If anything, it’s an opportunity to know myself in a deeper way. And what I know is that I don’t subscribe to those Google statistics. My glorious life is meant for living.
The trail is calling…
Read more: Life After Bipolar 2: Finding Peace in the Diagnosis101 Miles on the Appalachian Trail Saved My Life