“‘It’s not logical,’ he says. ‘It’s psychological.’”
- Paul R. Linde, MD, Danger to Self

Last weekend was supposed to be a good one, and it started off as well as I could ask for. I was up early, got to see my dad and pet the family dogs. Then I drove to a referee training on the other side of town. If I’m unable to be on the field, my next favorite place is to be with a bunch of officials talking about rules and mechanics. Yes, I am a nerd.

That was, unfortunately, where things began to take a turn toward the negative. I failed to follow the P.L.E.A.S.E. skill, a DBT skill that I will write about in greater detail soon, and I paid the price for it; physically and emotionally. This mnemonic stands for:

• PL - treat physical illness

• E - balanced eating

• A - avoid mood altering drugs

• S - balanced sleep

• E - exercise

Essentially, the most basic guide for taking care of one’s physical body so that one’s mental wellbeing will follow. Join me as I break down how I did in following this skill:

• PL - I wasn’t ill, so this one doesn’t count much. I did take my morning medications, so plus one for me.

• E - I didn’t eat food until 4PM. I got lost in running around to different training rooms and failed to care of me; minus one.

• A - No legal or illegal substances entered my body; plus one.

• S - I slept for three hours, and compensated by drinking a Venti blonde roast from Starbucks; minus one.

• E - When I returned home, I immediately put on sweatpants and crawled under the covers; minus one.

Some days I would count two out of five as a success, but on a day when I was speaking in public, shaking hands with dozens of people, and sharing oxygen with well over a hundred others; I broke down. Then I made a decision that would haunt me for the next thirty-six hours.

That evening, I was supposed to meet with a fellow speaker to discuss our experiences and exchange ideas on how we could help one another in our growing speaking careers. While managing the first of several early pre-panic attacks around noon on Saturday, I asked if we could reschedule to another day. I was barely holding myself together, and could not face the idea of going out to meet someone new. She graciously agreed to this sudden inconvenience, and asked why I could not follow through on my commitment. Understandably, she was concerned that this lack of forethought on my part did not bode well for a future professional relationship. I had to agree with her assessment, I had failed to consider how worn out this training would make me, and I was eager to meet with another speaker so I took a risk that came back to bite me.

Depressives, in general, hate disappointing people. I made a choice to cancel a planned meeting because my anxiety was approaching overdrive, but it was my depression that led to the next day-and-a-half of mental self-flagellation.

Returning home after scarfing down a quick meal around 5pm, I walked straight to my bed and cocooned myself under the covers. This is an evolutionary response to a severe threat. Locked behind my apartment door, my bedroom door, surrounded by a soft comforter, and curled into the fetal position; my internal organs couldn’t have been more protected. You may notice that when you are afraid, you hunch your shoulders. Or, if you have kids, and you called them out on something they weren’t supposed to do, what is their posture? Arms crossed over their belly, head down, shoulders slumped. They are unconsciously protecting their vital organs, their vulnerable throat, and making themselves appear smaller because that is how most primates signal submission.

I spent thirty-six hours like that. Mentally kicking myself for disappointing someone. Not only that, but disappointing someone that I haven’t even met yet! Imagine how badly I would castigate myself if I had upset someone that I knew well; I’d probably still be in bed. All I wanted was for time to stop so I could let my mind let go of itself, but time marched on and Monday arrived with its typical uncaring attitude.

Then I had to motivate myself to get out of bed and drive thirty minutes to day treatment where I’d get to talk about all my feelings. I was not enthused by that thought, and still felt like an awful human being. I wanted to remain curled up, protected, and I knew that I needed to move or risk falling deeper. So I took one, extraordinarily small step at a time. I put one leg out from under the covers, then an arm. I blinked open my eyes, reached for my phone and turned on some calming music.

After a few moments of listening I made it my mission to place both feet onto the floor. Once accomplished, the mission became to stand up; then to walk to my bathroom, drink water, shower, and so on. Each time I thought about how much I had to do that day, I stopped myself, focused on the current task, and repeated a quote from Brené Brown:

No matter what gets done today, or how much is left undone. I am enough.

It took me two hours to get ready for the day; normally I take about twenty minutes. I arrived late to treatment, but I managed to get there. Tracking my mood over the course of the day showed that it improved with interactions with friends, and my favorite activity: cleaning.

Do I wish I could have snapped out of this mindset sooner? Yes, and I’ve spent weeks in bed so thirty-six hours is a marked improvement from the depressive episodes of which I am accustomed. Couldn’t I have just thought happy thoughts?

That implies, unfairly, that I wasn’t trying to do just that. I was.

Would you tell a friend with a grievous bodily injury to “think positive” to make it better? No! You’d help them apply pressure to their wound, call for help, and keep their spirits up. Same principle applies to mental injuries.

My mind was protecting itself using what it knew. I’m grateful I only fell backward for a few hours, and I need to make some adjustments to my living space to combat similar experiences in the future. Two changes:

• Place my therapeutic blue light on my nightstand.

• Move my Google Home Mini into my bedroom so I can call people without having to leave my bed to ask for help.

I’m a third of the way through learning DBT skills in the curriculum at the day treatment center, and working to overcome fifteen years of ingrained behaviors from my depression. This weekend was a step back, and, in many ways, it was also a step forward. I was able to recognize that I needed time to myself, that I did not care well for my body, and I pulled myself out of a depression in record time. Though I’m quite certain I’ll be in a self-protect mode again some day in the future, I’m betting I’ll get out of it even faster than I did this time around.