It's a story I have no doubt will help many. I've included my interesting life experiences of which many will be familiar with i.e., poor choices, their consequences, and what it takes to overcome the obstacles that resulted later on. It's about never giving up hope of coming out the other side clean and sober. I've shared my stories in order to give others hope that they can improve their lives, be happier, and more productive.
How? I would say ultimately it will help inspire others in their own recovery. To encourage people struggling with trauma, addiction and mental illness by sharing their personal story without having to write a book or if they wish, write a book as I have done. We all have much more in common with each other than our differences would have us believe.
At the age of twenty-one he began a career in the New York State Department of Corrections. After nineteen years of working as an officer he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and PTSD. The details of his experiences from those years include being admitted to substance abuse rehabs, and mental health facilities.
It's a story I have no doubt will help many. I've included my interesting life experiences of which many will be familiar with i.e., poor choices, their consequences, and what it takes to overcome the obstacles that resulted later on. It's about never giving up hope of coming out the other side clean and sober. I've shared my stories in order to give others hope that they can improve their lives, be happier, and more productive.
How? I would say ultimately it will help inspire others in their own recovery. To encourage people struggling with trauma, addiction and mental illness by sharing their personal story without having to write a book or if they wish, write a book as I have done. We all have much more in common with each other than our differences would have us believe.
At the age of twenty-one he began a career in the New York State Department of Corrections. After nineteen years of working as an officer he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and PTSD. The details of his experiences from those years include being admitted to substance abuse rehabs, and mental health facilities.
I began drinking beer at twelve. At fourteen I had my first toke of marijuana while taking a couple of gulps of vodka from a bottle. My friends also passed around a quart of Miller High Life telling me to take a couple of swigs. They called it a chaser, which was supposed to help to get rid of the vodkaâs burning sensation. But they never said anything about the terrible puking that would come later.
I was willing to try anything to feel the mind-numbing sensation that alcohol provided; it contributed to my goal of forgetting an unhappy childhood. Of course, it only made my situation worse.
I knew drinking was wrong, and even illegal, but that was part of the thrill, and I loved the way it made me feel. It was a proven escape from unhappy thoughts and feelings from a rough upbringing. Besides, the neighborhood kids who were my friends did it for the same reasonsâof that I was certain. Plus, I enjoyed the camaraderie and excitement after drinking alcohol.
I started experiencing bouts of severe depression beginning at nineteen. After returning home from the military, I began to experiment with other drugs offered invariably by those belonging to the misery-loves-company crowd. These people reminded me of my old neighborhood friends. With all my insecurities, gravitating toward these types of people was inevitable.
The countless alcohol binges, abuse of drugs, and eventually prescription drugs, during my lifetime up until now provided a few hours of escape from the prison that was my mind, but only served to worsen my symptoms of depression and self-loathing. I climbed out of that black hole, at least for short periods of time, but the next day after sobering up I felt the same or worse. The feelings of emptiness, loneliness, and worthlessness would return again and again.
Itâs no surprise that anyone who drinks to feel better or to forget knows it well. Those feelings always come back, and sometimes with a new set of problems created from the most recent nightâs outing. I knew I couldnât survive what I was doing to myself much longer.
I was becoming aware that those I loved most (my wife and kids) also suffered from my drinking and depressive moods. At this point, a moment of clarity came to me as I recalled my first rehab and Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meeting ten years earlier. I had learned that emotional growth stops when you begin drinking. It was apparent I needed help again. It would be my fourth return to AA; maybe this time I would stick with it, I thought.
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The details are foggy, but when I was thirty-seven years old, my life and inner world was bottoming out once more. Above all, I was in a long and tormenting career as a corrections officer with the New York State Department of Corrections. The job had put me in my own prison psychologically for well over a decade. I was burned out.
I had a family now; it wasnât just about me, and the stakes were higher. Unfortunately, I was unable to make the choice to get help on my own. Pride, fear of the unknown, and a peculiar mental obsession with my past were my biggest obstacles to recovery.
My wife and I had two daughters, Alessandra and McKenna, and they were the only meaningful light in my dispirited life. My marriage and the emotional connection between my wife and me was deteriorating by this time. I felt helpless to do anything about it. With these factors at play I was in no shape to fully participate in or enjoy watching my daughters grow up. Many years have passed since then, and thinking about my absence from my daughtersâ lives during those days still causes my heart to ache.
The final trigger for my increased alcohol consumption, apathy toward life, and my emotional collapse came in the winter of 1993 when my older brother, Mike, died from AIDS. We had received the news of his contracting HIV two years earlier and knew it was a death sentence back then, but it didnât lessen the blow when the final moment came.
His last days were of course hard on everyone, but I believe Mike accepted his fate after he understandably gave up hope on that âmiracle drugâ that came months too late for him.
As for myself, I felt many emotions during the days and months following his death: confusion, emptiness, regret, and plenty of anger. His time had come to an end at such a young age, and it came at a time when we were just getting to know each other on another level. As far back as I could remember, I wanted to be closer to my brothers considering all we had been through while growing up. The last two years before Mike got really sick, we started having meaningful conversations. I believe we became closer as brothers, more than at any time before. It felt like we were finally becoming good friends. Then, he was gone.
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Insomnia was a common problem for me, but my sleep issues could go either way; sleeping too much or barely sleeping at all. Unfortunately, it was the latter that affected me most. Nightly, my eyes would pop open two hours into my sleep. My mind raced with events that happened at work, a confrontation with an inmate, issues with a coworker or supervisor. This created symptoms of dread before I went to work, giving me constant anxiety and paranoia.
Other times, I ruminated about the failing relationship with my wife or a long history of incidents that occurred in my life years earlier that I seemed to be incapable of letting go.
Weeks after Mikeâs passing, the sense of my own mortality was ever present, and I was suddenly hit with the revelation that I was wasting my life. I knew I wasnât going to last in corrections; I had to get out. I was becoming something that wasnât me, and I believed there would be a point of no return if I stayed much longer. I would eventually die in this job being someone I never intended to be as a prison guard.
What followed this realization were fears about how I would do it; I tried it once before and failed. How would I support my family? I knew I would lose a good portion of my pension if I left early. I felt trapped. Painting myself into a corner with decisions I made throughout my life was becoming a habitual pattern, but why?
Months after my brotherâs death I knew on some level I was suffering from a mental breakdown. I fought accepting the obvious (that I needed help) and remained in denial of needing help until, finally, I was confronted by my supervisor, a white-haired lieutenant who called me to his office one afternoon.
âMoffe, your sick time is almost gone, and Iâm required to put you on time abuse,â he said.
He had heard through the grapevine that I had recently assaulted another officer, which would be considered grounds for being terminated. He was also aware that my brother had passed away a few months earlier. It was obvious to him that I had serious anger issues. He said if I would seek professional help and promise to make an appointment with a counselor, he would hold off placing me on time abuse. This was the third time in my career I was given an ultimatum to get help or face the prospect of losing my job.
I sought out our Employee Assistance Program (EAP) coordinator at work who recommended a psychiatrist, Dr. Goudias, who diagnosed me with bipolar disorder (the new term at the time for manic-depressive disorder). I was experiencing periods of elation followed by crashing depression. Dr. Goudias prescribed Prozac. Because of my situationâs urgency, he agreed to see me for this one visit, and then referred me to a colleague, Dr. Risoda.
Over the next few years, I saw Dr. Risoda at least twice each month, unless I was in crisis and needed to see him more often. He occasionally adjusted my meds, or, as I liked to say, âtweaked my moodâ to something that made me feel more normal.
Experimentation seemed to be the rule rather than the exception in the psychiatric world. He prescribed many drugs, including Depakote, Vistaril, Lamictal, Geodon, Zoloft, Paxil, Wellbutrin, Seroquel, and Risperdal. Over the years, there were numerous other drugs, the worst of which was Lithium, a mood stabilizer my doctor replaced the Prozac with, which seemed to have stopped working for me. The Lithium caused excessive weight gain. I ballooned from 185 to 240 pounds. The side effects of the other drugs were debilitating, too, such as hair loss, suicidal thoughts, and tardive dyskinesia, a condition that causes facial tics and involuntary muscle movement. More disturbing were the strange dreams I had. I felt depressed over the side effects of the medications.
It was obvious to me that drinking while taking the medications was more harmful than helpful, but I didnât care. I couldnât stand the thought of having to go to work every day, or thinking about how my relationship with Helena was deteriorating. So I drank anything and everything from beer to wine and then shots of vodka at the bar. After drowning out the obsessive thoughts, I drove myself home to a very angry and resentful wife. Helena, who was born in Poland to an alcoholic father, was in no mood to deal with an alcoholic husband, and I didnât blame her.
There were good days while I was on my medication minus the alcohol, but I still became despondent around Helena and the kids. I let her do most of the childcare and household chores, while I did outdoor work.
A new computer became another avenue of escape. I began logging on after returning from work, which was close to midnight. My mind would race constantly after work because of something that had happened and I needed the distraction. Using the computer helped relax my mind, but it began to annoy Helena that I got on the computer instead of going to bed.
One night after returning from work, I discovered she had disconnected my modem and hid it. This led to a big argument the next morning. She eventually returned the modem, but the distance between us grew. I never made friends easily, and I rarely hung out with anyone. I dutifully turned over my paycheck twice a month. It was one less thing I had to stress over. Finally, during one of my biweekly appointments, I had a heart-to-heart with Dr. Risoda. With my continuing depression, the meds not getting the job done, and getting little sleep, I was desperate.
âI donât know what to do anymore, Dr. Risoda. You mentioned electroconvulsive therapy awhile back; Iâm feeling desperate and want to try something different. Something that might help me,â I said.
My worst fear was that I had exhausted all treatment possibilities with medication and talk therapy. Fortunately, that wasnât the case.
Dr. Risoda was a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, a dark complexion, and a lean build; he was a reserved and soft-spoken man.
He hesitated. âI believe this may be of help with your condition, as we discussed a few months back. I will refer you to a colleague of mine, Dr. Krishnai. I will speak to him and then call you. Because of your present emotional condition, Iâm going to suggest that he admit you. Would that be agreeable to you?â
âOf course,â I said.
I recalled the first time Dr. Risoda discussed electroconvulsive therapy (ECT) with me. He said that if the medication failed to give positive results, that ECT, or shock therapy, was an alternative that helped many people.
I remember listening intently as he explained the procedure.
âYouâre given general anesthesia, a muscle relaxant, and youâre monitored closely during the procedure,â he said.
I could see why he was tentative about approaching the subject. All I knew about shock treatments was what I had seen in the movie One Flew Over the Cuckooâs Nest. In it, actor Jack Nicholson gets shock treatments in a disturbing scene. I can only equate it with what I envisioned someone going through when they get electrocuted or executed. Admittedly, I felt scared, with nervousness and anxiety increasing deep within the pit of my stomach.
The next day, I was given the go-ahead from Dr. Risoda and voluntarily drove myself to UHS Binghamton General Hospital. I was admitted to the mental hygiene unit on the fifth floor. I was allowed to keep my clothes, but all my money, identification, and car keys were taken.
The rules of my stay were thoroughly explained, and I received an informational booklet and schedule of the daily groups and educational classes I was required to attend. It turned out to be a two-week stay.
That afternoon is when I first met Dr. Krishnai, and I was told that he was a recognized ECT expert. He had jet black hair, appeared confident, and was smiling. He was diminutive in stature, about five-foot-six, and I suppose he would be considered a handsome fellow, as he was flirtatious with the female staff.
He introduced himself and called me âMr. Stephen.â He said I would have a course of about three or four treatments during my stay, and depending on how I responded, there could be more treatments. The procedure would involve placing electrodes on my scalp and then passing roughly 800 MA of current; about 120 volts through the frontal lobes of my brain. This sounded frightening, yet if successful, the shock treatment should eliminate depressive, illogical, and obsessive thinking. However, there were no guarantees on how long those effects would last.
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I lived in the village of Greene, New York, about a forty-minute drive to Camp Georgetown Correctional Facility, a minimum-security work camp where I worked as a corrections officer (CO). I was also working part-time cutting firewood and in the county sheriffâs correctional annex. The extra money was needed, but thinking back, another reason for having these additional jobs was because they kept me busy.
Greene was a typical upstate bedroom community with a population of around 6,000. Our home was about six miles outside of town among the woods, rolling hills, and farms. For all its calming attributes and beauty, the town didnât do much for my increasing agitation and depression.
Gradually, thoughts of suicide became more frequent, and scared me. Gun availability is the biggest factor in law enforcement officer suicides. I consciously chose not to own a weapon because, frankly, I didnât trust myself. Thankfully, I could never get past the thought of hurting and traumatizing my family. I was aware of the high rates of suicide in the department and had personally known one corrections officer who did it.
TK was a fellow instructor at the corrections academy in Albany where I taught for one summer, and he and I became friends. He was handsome, kind, down to earth, and funny. It was a huge shock and heartbreaking to hear that he had shot himself. He never seemed unhappy around me, however, I suppose I didnât know him for that long or know him that well, either. Iâll never know how close I was to that solution, but I finally went for help out of fear.
My drive to Binghamton General for my first treatment was a one-hour journey on a cold, somber morning. I donât recall much about my wifeâs thoughts, but by that time, our relationship was at a lower point than ever before. Between the bickering, we had occasional discussions about divorce, usually brought up by me. I felt nagged, hassled, and misunderstood. I was never sure how she felt because she rarely expressed her feelings, except for her anger toward me when I did or said something that would annoy her.
I was going to be at the treatment center in a safe and structured environment to receive the ECT treatments. I made it clear I wanted no visits from my family. I didnât want my wife, daughters, parents, or siblings to see me in a mental health environment. I felt I was a burden to everyone close to me, and I would do whatever was necessary to help myself get better. I thought maybe they would forget about my mental issues over time, and that I would become stable.
I was very nervous not knowing what to expect, although the procedure had been explained to me in detail. There would be no painâthe general anesthesia would see to thatâand the treatment itself would take only a few seconds. Altogether, the procedure would last roughly twenty minutes, including sleeping off the drugs. I would wake naturally with no memory of what had happened days, weeks and possibly months before, with no unpleasant residual effects beyond a few hours of grogginess and confusion afterward. My first treatment came the following day.
There were several patients ahead of me who were getting the same procedure, and the wait gave me some anxiety. I suppose this would be expected considering the circumstances, so I wasnât too alarmed.
An aide escorted me to the treatment room. Dr. Krishnai and a nurse were already there. As I entered, I noticed the slight smell of rubbing alcohol, a gurney with a thin black mattress, and a shear white sheet draped over it. Next to it was an IV pole with a clear bottle of fluid hanging from it. There was a large pushcart supporting a rectangular-shaped device with dials, meters, switches, and wire cords, plus what appeared to be a heart monitor on a smaller cart. The last item I noticed was a small metal bowl of water with an odd-looking black object in it.
Suddenly, I realized the object was a rubber mouthpiece that looked just like the type that was placed in Jack Nicholsonâs mouth in the movie. I became nervous. The gravity of my decision to go ahead with this procedure felt very real for the first time. This ominous-looking mouthpiece had an extended tube on the front to expel air. It would be used to prevent me from biting my tongue or breaking teeth since I was about to be induced into a grand mal seizure.
I had researched ECT on my own, including how it was administered. Treatment depended on the specific condition of each patient, such as age, length of depression, severity, whether it was chronic, and a host of other factors. The patient either received pulse treatments (intermittent current) or a steady current (continuous flow). I remember through my research that pulse treatments caused less memory loss than continuous flow. I cannot remember which type of treatment I received, but Iâm fairly certain it was continuous flow.
I was instructed to lie on the gurney and relax. The nurse rubbed induction gel on specific points on my chest for connecting the heart monitor pads underneath my shirt. She then dabbed induction gel on my left and right temple, where the electrode contact points would be placed. She then asked me to open my mouth wide to insert the rubber guard. While she was doing that, I noticed Dr. Krishnai began to gently stroke my hair. It all felt very scary. I canât recall if I received an antianxiety pill earlier, but if I had, it wasnât working.
After the IV was inserted into my forearm, the nurse instructed me to begin counting backward from 100. I think I got to ninety-two before I was out for the count. I donât remember anything about the procedure.
I recall coming out of the anesthesia not knowing what had happened to me or where I was. The ECT left me exceptionally confused, with little or no memory of anything that took place before the treatment. I felt as if my entire memory was obliterated. Two unpleasant side effects that came immediately after the procedure were a sore throat, and the god-awful taste of the rubber mouthpiece. Beyond this it wasnât all that bad of an experience.
At first, I was unable to remember my name; I recall that I kept asking Dr. Krishnai what my name was, which only caused me to giggle. It was so weird being unable to remember the simplest things. It felt like my mind was going back and forth running into dead ends; thinking was impossible.
Once Dr. Krishnai was convinced that I could steady myself, I was allowed to return to my floor in a wheelchair pushed by an aide. The attendants were very attentive to patients in the hours after receiving ECT until the confusion cleared. I believe I was also given meds that helped with the anxiety from the memory loss and confusion, which usually lasted about two to three hours.
During this recovery period, staff was assigned to me. Periodically, they would ask me what day it was, or who the current president of the United States was. Initially, I couldnât answer even the simplest questions. A nurseâs aide would help me to remember these things.
After about two hours, however, my long-term and day-to-day functional memories slowly began to return. Memories of family, my wife, my kids, my job, where I was and why, but without negativity attached; my state of mind felt more secure.
My ride on the disorient express gradually subsided, and feelings of calm and peace unfolded. It felt good. I hadnât experienced anything like this in a very long time. My inner world, a jumble of ruminations and severe bouts of depression accompanied with paranoia, was apparently wiped from my consciousness. The sense of peace and calm would remain this way for weeks.
This state was temporary, and my manic-depressive thoughts would reappear eventually. My doctors cautioned me that sometimes patients may need more treatments, and I fell into that category.
An odd thing I remember doing days after the treatments was trying to recall the reasons I was depressed before I came to the hospital. How crazy was this, I thought. I did my best to remind myself of how nonsensical it was and tried my best to stop doing it. It was a very weird temptation that I still canât explain or understand, other than perhaps my brain attempted to fill in the blank gaps the treatments had created.
I was told I would need more treatments before any lasting improvement would be felt. My memory is a bit vague as to how many treatments I received, somewhere around twelve, roughly over a two-year period and on an as-needed basis. Now that I knew what to expect, I was less nervous about the procedure and welcomed the relief from the ruminations, obsessive thoughts, and depression. As time went on, I experienced less depression, and that was all that mattered.
After two weeks I was discharged and able to drive myself home. I felt like a new man, and life felt good again. During my hour-long drive home, I had an overwhelming feeling of gratitude and was excited about seeing Helena and the kids again. I hadnât felt this way for what seemed like years.
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My last ECT treatment was a nightmare due to an incident that occurredâor rather, didnât occur. It traumatized me to the point that I was ready to run out of the hospital in my gown and slippers.
It was a cold winter evening when I left my house after calling the suicide hotline. The woman on the other end directed me to go to the hospital, so I drove to Binghamton General Hospital again, alone. During the drive, I was in a panic; I couldnât articulate what was happening in my brain, but I was not thinking normally. It was hard on Helena and the girls.
In the weeks leading up to this evening, I suffered several panic attacks, which made me believe I was having a heart attack. I begged Helena to take me to the hospital in nearby Norwich. Our next-door neighbors babysat the girls, and Helena did her best to calm me down. By the time we reached the emergency room, my panic attack subsided. Before this night came, I was drinking while on medication for months. I knew the combination could be dangerous.
When I arrived at the hospital alone, I was met by an admissions staffer. He made a phone call after I explained that I was feeling suicidal and was told to get here right away by the suicide hotline. He said there were no beds available and added that I could either drive home and call back in the morning to check if a bed was available or wait and see if they could find a bed for me elsewhere.
I became furious with him and began verbally attacking him to the point where he felt threatened. But when he backed away from me, I only got angrier.
In my mental state it felt as though I was being abandoned. Suddenly, a female security guard came down the hallway and stood toe-to-toe with me, ordering me to either lower my voice and calm down or leave. I stared her down for a moment, and somehow, the better part of me took over. I took a deep breath and apologized to both of them.
I had to use the restroom. As I stood at the urinal I began to cry out of frustration. Suddenly and violently, I jerked my head downward, slamming it into the plumbing on top of the urinal. It was a âJezuzz, what the fuck am I doingâ moment. It was irrational and mindless and of course painful, but I suppose a reaction to the limits of my patience, and may have knocked some sense into me.
I looked in the mirror and saw a small half-circle gash on the upper part of my forehead, trickling blood, but fortunately, it was not bad enough to receive stitches. I became resigned and calm; I just wanted to sleep. I waited for the bleeding to stop as I dabbed at the cut with a paper towel and returned to the registration desk. They had better news when I returned.
I was told I was going to be transported by van to a small hospital in Hornell, New York, two hours away, where I could spend the night. I would be driven back the next morning. I was extremely tired, and it was late. In my state of mind, driving home was out of the question on the icy, winding roads of upstate New York. I had little choice but to take the transportation provided and go to Hornell. When the driver dropped me off he said heâd be back in the morning to pick me up.
I was led to a twelve-bed ward on the first floor. It turned out to be the psych ward. At least now I could get some sleep, that is, during what was left of the night.
The patients were all sleeping. I figured I was in a for a short night and vowed to keep to myself. I collapsed into my assigned bed, craving sleep, but it wasnât to be. Some guy kept me up most of the night, snoring loudly. I wanted to kill him.
Almost ready to cry out of frustration again, I managed to stay calm and focus on sleeping. My plan was to rise early and wait for the van to get me back to Binghamton General.
When I awoke the next morning, a staff member asked how I slept, and I told her about the snoring man. She said that he was a pedophile whoâd been severely beaten at the county jail and brought to the hospital to be bandaged up. I had a glimpse of the man that morning and understood why he had difficulty breathing. All I could see of his face was his severely bruised and swollen nose, and eyes. The rest of his head was wrapped in gauze and surgical tape. The past twenty-four hours had been a literal nightmare.
I got little if any sleep but was dressed and waiting for my ride back to the hospital at the crack of dawn. At 7:00 a.m., I was told that there was a problem: a driver couldnât be found and my ride had been delayed.
âHow long?â I asked.
The receptionist said, âNot long, maybe three hours.â
If there was a lesson here for me, I just couldnât recognize it. Then a sense of resignation and helplessness returned. I still had a long way to go on learning acceptance. I sat on that bed for three more hours until I was notified that the van had arrived.
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Back at Binghamton, I was put on the mental hygiene admissions floor while I waited for them to prepare my bed. Finally, after another two hours, I was escorted to my room and was told I would be brought upstairs shortly for my ECT. I was placed on the gurney and given a general anesthesia. I was off to dreamland. The next thing I remember was Dr. Krishnai shaking me gently.
âStephen, wake up, youâre done.â
I had my standard reaction to the treatment: disorientation, foggy brain, and memory loss. I knew that Iâd be okay in a few hours and settled in for some downtime. Apparently, that wasnât to be. While still on the gurney groggy and confused from the anesthesia Dr. Krishnai said to me, âStephen, the police want to talk to you.â
I wasnât sure I heard him right.
âWhat did you say? The police want to talk to me?â I asked.
âYes Stephen, they would like to talk with you,â he said.
âAbout what?â
Suddenly, I was confused and scared, and it felt like I had just gotten hit by a sledgehammer in the center of my chest.
âYou were on the admissions floor, yes?â
I had to think for a moment.
âYes, I guess so,â I said.
âA woman there claims that you sexually assaulted her,â he said.
I was shocked and dumbfounded, and in my confused state, I felt panic. God help me! No way was I capable of what I was being accused of⌠Why me? I had a hazy recollection of being on a different floor other than my usual floor but couldnât remember anything else.
Back in my room a few hours later, my mind went over again and again what Dr. Krishnai had told me. All I could think about was the horror of it all; I thought I was losing my mind. He patted me on the shoulder.
âOkay Mr. Stephen, get some rest,â he said, which was his standard response after every ECT. Then he was gone.
I strained to recall being on the admissions floor. All I could remember was seeing an elderly woman with long, stringy gray hair, walking alone through the hallway. Was I being accused of assaulting her? I may have had some mental issues, but being a sexual predator wasnât one of them. But how could I defend myself? My memory was gone due to the ECT. It might never come back. I envisioned myself as a prisoner like one of the inmates I supervised for a living.
Worse, would I be locked up in jail or a psych ward? I was angry at the way the doctor broke the news to me at the time. I was so disoriented as I awoke from the ECT, which contributed to my panic and fear; another nightmare. The way he delivered the news was like he was giving me a weather report. No advice, no compassion, nothing. I felt like he didnât know me anymore.
I was a basket case of worry and dread. After nearly eight hours had passed, I couldnât stand it any longer and requested to go to the Admissions Unit, where I was initially brought the day before. I requested to speak with someone about this interview I was supposed to have with the Binghamton police. The nurse on my floor made a call to this unit, and I was allowed to pass through the security doors. I approached the sliding-glass opening, where a male aide sat at a desk surrounded by thick security glass. He asked me what I needed.
Mouth dry and difficult to talk, I told him my name and then explained to him that Dr. Krishnai had said that the police wanted to talk with me about a sexual assault accusation made against me. I told him I had been waiting for hours to be interviewed.
He waved a hand.
âOh, yeah, donât worry about it. She recanted hours ago. She admitted she made the whole thing up,â he said. He looked at his watch. âSorry no one told you sooner.â
I was angry as hell, and I couldnât wait to get back into my car and go home. I was told I couldnât drive for at least twenty-four hours. Fuck that. On my way out, I was required to stop and get my discharge papers downstairs. In order to get my wallet and keys, I had to sign a release that waived the hospitalâs responsibility for my safety if I refused to wait until tomorrow to leave. I was on the road within minutes and never remembered driving home to Elmira other than it being a few days before Christmas.
No more ECT for me. That last experience stayed with me for years. Iâm grateful that I no longer feel the anger and helplessness those two nightmarish days brought, especially when I think about the way the doctor had broken the news of my potential arrest.
At times, I wondered if the ECT worked. Who knows what my life wouldâve been like had I not received them. I did feel better and more or less stable, not as manic or depressed, minus that last treatment.
Stephen Moffe's memoir, It's an Inside Job, Kid, chronicles his journey of overcoming substance addiction, psychological disorders, and childhood mistreatment. Utilizing unfiltered honesty and persistence, the audience is taken on a profound journey of personal growth and redemption.
The book follows the author's struggle with dependency and the destructive behavior that ensued. Readers are transported into a world of pain and despair, where the devastation of abuse is laid bare. Stephen experienced brutal physical and psychological abuse by family members, friends, and teaching staff. His siblings and peers were also victims of mistreatment. The author's vulnerability and the enduring impact of his traumatic experiences are artfully depicted.
Stephen found alcohol to be effective in managing his emotions, leading to drug addiction. He witnessed the impact of substance abuse on his family, which motivated him to seek help through rehabilitation programs and support groups. The author's portrayal of the addict's struggle between the lure of temptation and longing for a better life is poignant and insightful.
Stephen faced a range of mental health challenges, including dyslexia, depression, and PTSD, leading to isolation and low self-esteem. These challenges started in his childhood and were further exacerbated when he was targeted by educators. In the Navy, his depression worsened, and he struggled with suicidal ideation.
The writer explores the emotional impact of working as a correctional officer, addressing the complexities that develop within the system. Readers gain an appreciation of the difficulties law enforcement personnel confront. The author transitions from law enforcement to agriculture and then to the entertainment industry. These phases demonstrate his flexibility and willingness to embrace new opportunities.
Stephen adeptly navigates the phases of rehabilitation, from seeking help through the challenging process of recovery and self-actualization. The reader is taken on an emotional journey through obstacles, setbacks, and triumphs. The book is remarkable for its genuine feeling that permeates the pages and vivid descriptions of his descent into addiction, highlighting the devastating effects of dependency and the tremendous resilience of overcoming it. The harrowing descriptions of his despair highlight his most challenging moments.
Stephen's frank and unwavering honesty about overcoming daunting obstacles is truly impressive. The book provides a compelling exploration of human nature, emphasizing the detrimental effects of addiction and trauma. It emphasizes that life can be shaped by unforeseeable circumstances and our capacity to adapt can lead us to extraordinary destinations.