How I Defeated Depression by Discovering My Life’s Purpose
I’d made the most significant decision of my life. I’d confessed to my sergeant that I was experiencing flashbacks. I told him I couldn’t sleep due to nightmares, and I dreaded every shift in case I saw more horror. I’d meant to tell him in a calm and dignified manner, but I broke down and sobbed like a baby.
That day marked the last shift I ever worked as a police officer. The sergeant sent me home. The start of a long descent into PTSD and depression had begun.
The special ingredient of depression.
Being sent home was a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing because I didn’t have to serve the public any longer. I’d become a liability.
It was bad because it gave me all the time to be alone with my thoughts. The decline in my mental health picked up steam the day I lost my identity.
Depression grows from loss of purpose. I had a plan in place for my life. I wanted to become a firearms officer (most police here are unarmed). I also wanted to become a sergeant and was studying for promotion. I’d recently transferred to a new force, and things looked good.
In one sweep, I lost all that and more. I lost my friends, who fell by the wayside as they didn’t know what to say. I lost my income and security. I couldn’t imagine doing any other job. Policing felt like it was in my blood. Now I had nothing.
Without purpose, I took up voluntary work for Cancer Research. I was a cashier for one of their shops. The problem was its location — in the middle of my old policing area. I’d see my colleagues roaring past, going somewhere important, and I felt like my heart might burst. They were doing something heroic while I was folding up old people’s clothes.
What had I become? What was left of me?
The charity work accelerated my depression. The world didn’t look the same anymore — it was grey from the moment I opened my eyes. Food tasted bland, yet I still managed to gain 80lbs in a year through medication side effects.
Getting out of bed took Herculean effort, and enduring a typical day felt impossible. I was waking up into a nightmare. Sleep was my only relief. I started to wonder if I’d died. Maybe I was in some kind of limbo. It didn’t feel like earth. I felt like life had deserted me.
I wasn’t far from the truth. Something had died — my identity. I couldn’t grieve my loss because the pain was too great, and I was too bewildered. So, I survived each day, struggling not to give in to suicidal impulses.
I’d lost my purpose and felt uninterested in everything. Invisible walls prevented me from feeling love or any other positive emotion. My family never left my side, but I couldn’t feel their kindness.
I felt like this for years.
The confrontation that lay on the other side of depression.
During my depression years, psychiatrists put me on many different combinations of medication. Each one took six weeks to test if it would work. If it didn’t, I had to start another six-week trial with a new medication — with new side effects. These constant six-week tests were torture when every moment was excruciating.
There were times when I was virtually comatose. I used to slur my words and sleep 15 hours a day. I even spent time in a mental hospital.
After years, I hit the jackpot. I found meds that worked for me. I woke up and didn’t feel the heaviness. The world regained color. I could almost feel life flowing back into me. I started reconnecting with my loved ones. Being ordinary felt like bliss, and this time around, I had no side effects.
I couldn’t relax yet, though. What if this wasn’t permanent? I lived in fear that depression could return at any moment. Every morning, I’d check my body before I got up. Starting at my feet, I’d scan for any physical signs of depression — the tension, the heaviness, the ache.
I grew to accept that my depression wasn’t likely to return. But now I had a big problem. As bad as depression was — and it was the most awful experience possible — it kept me from facing up to something. I still had no purpose or idea of what to do with the rest of my life.
I had to confront the emptiness in my life. The fight was entering a new phase.
The search for meaning.
Through painstaking self-reflection, I realized that the identity I’d lost wasn’t real. I thought policing showed strength, so losing that role showed weakness. But real strength comes from within.
Occasionally, I’d made a difference to the world as a police officer. I was sure I’d uncover my real identity if I could find another way to make an even more significant difference.
One day, on a whim, I started writing about my experiences. The writing was terrible and unpolished, and hardly anyone read it, but it sparked a fire within me.
I began learning everything I could about writing well and worked on improving daily. One of the most beautiful things about writing is that it’s a never-ending process. There’s always more to learn.
Through my writing, I helped more people than I ever did as a police officer. People identify with my struggles, and I identify with theirs. Writing became the best therapy I’ve ever experienced.
This whole process gave my ego a reality check. As a police officer, I had an enormous ego. I thought I was better than many other people. In fact, through illness and anger, I was worse. I had to learn to be less judgmental.
It was only after I had been away from the police for years that my family noticed that my anger had drained out of me. I was no longer a powder keg, ready to explode at any little thing. Along with my anger, I also became less tired and bitter. The priority in my life is now to make a difference instead of asserting myself as a tough guy.
Depression and PTSD showed me how unsuitable policing was for me. Only by hitting rock bottom could I find the way forward.
The worst experiences can set you on the best paths.