A Small Town Saga
Guest Blog Post by Todd Henderson
Part I
My Home Town
Since college I’ve moved around a lot, from small towns to big cities and back. Most of the time it was for a career move. Other times it was out of desperation to get better health care for my son or myself.
It all started in my home town during the sixties and seventies. (It was a town of around 9,000.) A lot has been said about the innocence of this time and place, but, believe me, darkness could be found just around the corner.
That said, my home town was the kind of place where we hopped on our bikes and went down to granddaddy’s for a Coke. Or, we chased fire engines to the edge of town.
The entertainment epicenter was the high school. The mood of the town waxed and waned with the final numbers on the scoreboard. Of course, musicals were also a big draw. Those of us who could sing got lead roles. So, I painted sets.
Schools were made up of bus kids and city kids. Bus kids came from the country and were mostly farmers of corn, soybeans, hogs, and cattle. Bus kids were the hardest workers. They were usually a bit more practical, more mature, and much stronger. They were especially well made for the offensive and defensive lines.
City folks mostly kept the town running. They owned and operated the grocery stores, gas stations, auto repair shops, a record shop, and more. City kids bagged groceries, stocked shelves, tore your ticket at the movies, tossed newspapers, and punched cash register keys.
Dark and Secretive
On the farms and in the city there was much joy and fun fueled by hard work and dedication.
But underneath all the good, there was something dark and secretive. Sometimes accidents would happen that were never fully explained. Someone died, perhaps a bus kid or a city kid or a parent. There was always shock and grief. Casseroles were brought to the mourning home. Questions by the community were left unanswered but suspicions of suicide were strong.
The survivors had questions that would never be answered. “Did I do something wrong?” “Did I say something wrong?” “Why didn’t I see it coming?” Or, simply, “Why?”
And so lives would go on with unanswered questions and regrets sowing depression and anger. Some would also hold onto the shame of having a loved one who died by suicide.
These unexplained deaths were the acts of lost souls who only knew darkness, or were conflicted by sexual orientation, or self-medicated, or hid a life of abuse, or just tragically lost all hope.
In most cases what was lacking was a therapist or psychiatrist to talk with and process their issues. My home town did not offer these essential mental health services.
But there’s also the stigma of mental illness to consider. For some, even if there had been help available, they might be concerned that his/her car would be spotted in front of the therapist’s office by his brother at the feed store.
The Punch, a Straightjacket, and the Big City
My parents divorced when I was about three. On Sundays Dad would pick me and my brothers for a short drive and a dinner. My mother always wanted to “protect me” from dad and his verbal abuse.
One particular Sunday Mom grasped my five-year-old hand and dad grasped my other. A tug of war ensued. Dad used his free hand to punch Mom in the eye. He then jumped into his shiny silver convertible with the wire wheels and sped off. I was left behind trying to console my sobbing mother. All this I remember vividly.
When I was about nine or ten I saw something I should never have seen. I was watching from the back seat of our yellow Pontiac station wagon as Granddaddy was put into the sheriff’s car. With no mental healthcare in our little town, he was in a straightjacket on his way to electroshock therapy in the “big city.” Another memory from which I can not escape.
Over time the damage to my psyche built and built. By the time I was 10 I had failed a grade. I was extremely introverted, anxious, isolated, insecure, and overly sensitive to criticism. At that time Mom decided something had to be done.
She found group therapy for me in the “big city.” It was a 60 minute drive one way, which was an inconvenience but our only option. At the time I wasn’t told why but I figured it was because I was “shy.” I only recently figured out (at 66 years old) that it was for far more concerning reasons. But that’s a story for another time.
The Fire and Confidence
A few short years later, tragedy struck when Granddaddy died in a house fire. Although his home was a mile away, we could see the flames reaching for heaven. He had been the keystone of our family. He was respected. He was loved. He was a listener and advice giver. For many in town and in the country, he was their family doctor. He took care of us. We were devastated.
The fire happened just as I was entering high school where – with perseverance and dedication – I excelled. I learned the best way to study and to retain information, which for me was repetition. I was rewarded with the best grades I had ever gotten – A’s and B’s. I began to love writing and painting. I built confidence. Eventually I was obsessed with the success.
I was somewhat of a “functioning bipolar.” I used the mania to fuel my building obsession to succeed. Even the anxiety helped me focus.
In another three decades the mania, anxiety, and depression would form the perfect storm. Life would never be the same only for me and my young family.
Part II
From Home Town to College Town to Cities
My transition from my small town/home town to college town was, let’s say, bumpy.
First off the school was triple the size of my home town. Unknown faces. Unknown places. The campus was vast and I spent a good deal of time walking around in circles. It was definitely not like jumping on my bike and riding to Granddaddy’s for a Coke.
By graduation, I was a functioning bipolar (although the bipolar diagnosis was not bestowed for another two decades). Mania fueled me through endless hours of study. Anxiety and obsessive compulsiveness helped me concentrate and plan. My determination and success hid my mental issues.
As I was extremely shy, I self-isolated and poured all my bipolar energy into courses, especially French and creative writing where I excelled.
The same energy propelled me to success when I entered the real world and worked in the advertising industry. It was an exciting and rewarding career, but it was also very chaotic and stressful. Rather than managing the stress and anxiety, I moved on to the next best job. Over the next 25 years I lived in five big cities and continued to work in marketing for six different companies.
I was married during these years and had a young family to protect, cherish, love, and inspire. They were my purpose and, honestly, my diversion from stress. On the weekends and vacations, we camped in the Smokies, the Outer Banks, and a nearby lake.
Bipolar, Loss of Hope, and ECT
Depression and anxiety became my world around 2003. We were living in a large urban area at the time and had access to good healthcare. My primary care provider diagnosed me as having situational depression and treated me with anti-depressants which did little to relieve my symptoms. Eventually the doctor hospitalized me twice as an outpatient. Yet my symptoms quadrupled. The pain was marrow deep.
From there I saw a psychologist who diagnosed me with bipolar disorder. The pursuit for the right mix of medications began – antidepressants, mood stabilizers, anxiety meds, etc. All the while, my depression worsened. I lost hope. Suicidality flourished. I attempted suicide four times and was hospitalized four times. But my deep, deep issues and triggers were never identified.
Within three years, I was forced out of my job. My career came to an abrupt halt. This was the end of the me that I worked so hard to develop as a kid and young adult.
I was headed into another deep, dark pit. No therapy session helped. No trips to Walgreen’s helped. It appeared to be my final battle with bipolar. The one doctor stepped in and said we must try something entirely new. He prescribed electroconvulsive therapy (ECT). After several courses of ECT, the depression significantly reduced. Hope returned and my life was saved, as well as the lives of my family.
But ECT and meds and therapy couldn’t save our marriage. We divorced a couple of years later. Of course, my children would remain the center point of my life.
ECT was possible because of where I lived – the unfair reality of my coordinates on a map. If your coordinates landed on a rural area, you were at a disadvantage. Eventually my dot on the map would land back in rural America and that’s where this story leads.
Reinventing Myself and Back to Small Town America
In order to live with bipolar disorder, I had to reinvent myself. I had to find a quieter, kinder world. I decided to return to rural America. I put my customer service skills to work in the tourism industry. I moved five times in 11 years, including to some small southeastern towns with populations of 200 to 6,000. Life became a journey in search of healthy environs.
My first stop on the journey took me on a drive past hundreds of miles of cotton and more cotton. The last half the trip changed from pine plantations, to citrus groves, and then to tall sugar cane planted to the edge of the road.
Then I was at the epicenter of my new town – Park and Gulf. The downtown looked just like my hometown, but with palm trees. Brick buildings lined the main street. At the McDonald’s down the street, a smiling older lady weaved through the dining area offering to refill patrons’ coffee cups. Cowboys in spurs waited for their Egg McMuffins.
Small Town Culture and Isolation
Small town friendly is a universal truth. I’ve discovered it in every small town in which I’ve lived or visited in the North America, Europe, and Australia. There’s always a “hello” when walking a downtown sidewalk. Workers at local shops greet you and offer their assistance.
However, beyond the niceties, an outsider is slow to be accepted as part of the community. Small town residents – and those in big cities for that matter (where there’s rarely a “hello”) – have their closed clusters of friends and families. That’s a nut hard to crack.
But, I normally do make friendships with co-workers who are outsiders like me. We gather weekly for adult beverages at the local sports bar. We help each other with dog sitting and picking up packages. We become family for the long term and even work together in another town down the road.
I don’t bring this up for others to feel sorry for me. I bring it up because there are many single men who live a solitary life in rural America. I believe they struggle daily with this life and can plunge into depression fairly quickly. To escape they pour themselves into their work or they self-medicate, or, like me, write and journal.
The Long Drive for Mental Health Care
So, here I am with bipolar disorder and small town coordinates. My care at this time had evolved to medication management and therapy. In other words, I was pretty stable and didn’t require any major reassessment of my mental health therapy. But I still required a psychiatrist and a therapist. Neither were readily available – with my medical insurance – in my new town. Instead I drove an hour and a half to the east (one way).
Side Note on Journalling
We all have different means to process our situations. For me no matter what my address, there has been one constant in my care – journalling. If you haven’t tried this, you may want to see if it works for you. I’ve plowed through fifty journals so far. I start by ranking from one to ten: Anxiety, Hope, Depression, Energy, Sleep, Appetite, etc. Your doctors may find this information useful. Then I spend some time writing about each. I jot down notes during medication management appointments and therapy sessions.
About the author
Todd Henderson grew up in a small town in Indiana and believes he is the third generation in his family to be affected by mental illness. Generation after generation, Todd’s family struggled to access mental healthcare, traveling 60 miles to find therapists, psychologists and hospitals. Often, help came too little and too late. Todd shares his family's history in hopes of helping other individuals and families.
Todd is also the author of a novella – Shifting Sands: His Hell. Her Prison. – which is a fictional account of a young family struggling with the father's bipolar disorder, severe depression and substance abuse.