In November of 2013 I left school early. I got home, petted the dogs, went in the house, changed clothes, put on my pack and started walking south down the rural country road where I live. There is an old church and cemetery, dating from the early 19th century, about 4 miles from my house. This church was my destination. When I got there. I took my phone and a bottle of water from my pack. I dialed 911 and told the dispatcher that they needed to send a deputy to my location. I gave them very explicit directions. When the nice lady with the syrupy drawl asked why, I hung up.

I reached into my pack again and took out my Smith and Wesson 686, a gift from my sister who died in 2002. I placed one 158 grain Remington semi-jacked hollow point in the cylinder, spun it hard and closed it. I placed the barrel in my mouth and pulled the trigger. When it went click, I started sweating and shaking. Until that click I had felt nothing. I wanted for at least a minute, and by this time I was drooling all over the stainless- steel barrel. I pulled again, another click. For some reason I couldn’t do it again. I took the cartridge out of the cylinder. It would have been next. I put the revolver back in the bag, called 911 again, and told the syrup lady to call the deputy back. I walked back home. When Mandi got home I told her the story. I began treatment the next day. It was almost 2 years before I started to feel like myself again, and I’ve had to work on it every day since.

I fully expect to be called a blue-pill faggot at this point by some readers here. I expect to be told that Psychology is bullshit, which is mostly true. I expect to be told that pharmacological drugs for the treatment of mental illness are bullshit, which is partly true. Mostly I expect to be told that this has nothing to do with the Redpill. It has everything to do with the Redpill.

I have been a part of numerous debates on nature v. nurture, both as a student and as a teacher. I once wrote a long paper on Lev Vygotsky in a graduate level education course. I am sure that my particular case resulted from a pretty balanced dialectic My maternal grandfather and two uncles committed suicide. My father’s mercurial moods were legendary and were only ended by cancer.

I have also had my share of losses. I have walked past the coffins of almost a dozen students or former students. My favorite student ever, smart, athletic, beautiful, stuck his heads in my door the year after he graduated and said, “Love you Mr. G, thanks for everything.”

He went home and blew the top of his head off. I always felt I should have presaged his death.

Another of my top ten, a most gifted musician, died in his sleep of an undetected heart valve dysfunction.

I almost collapsed when my sister who was only 36 passed away unexpectedly. We survived years of abuse together, but she couldn’t survive her Lupus which left her immune system so compromised that she couldn’t fight off a common infection. She drowned in her own fluid. She was my only real friend growing up. I carried all these things pretty well, more or less, for decades. I think the fact that I lifted, exercised and fucked daily helped me cope, but when I blew my knee up during wrestling practice, I started to let my health go. I’ve also suffered from insomnia since I first wrote my age in two digits.

I could evince more losses in greater detail, but there is only so much time.

I will abridge the early stages of my treatment, a parade of therapists and baskets of various selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors. Some helped; some did nothing and some actually made shit worse.

I have always had a great family support system with my wife and son, and I love them for all their support, but it simply wasn’t enough.

Jesus and I parted ways in the late 80s so there was no help there. I phoned him so many times and he didn’t answer that I assumed he was screening his calls.

I didn’t start to recover till I started to work out again. Slowly at first. I remember when I dusted off my bench press, and lifted the 225lbs that had been resting on it for 4 years. I did 2 reps. I couldn’t do a third. I once did 43 and won the competition at my gym. I discovered that meditation and regulated breathing techniques did more to assuage my overwhelming anxiety that any Benzo ever did. Soon I started to get better … stronger. I went to a new General practitioner 2015. When he did blood work, he discovered that my Testosterone was 350, the low end of normal. He prescribed regular testosterone injections anyway. He said they really helped him. My strength exploded and my layer of fat melted away. I did 6 reps with 405lbs on the bench Sunday afternoon, not bad for a 50yo with shoulder issues.

When you suffer depression it’s like doing perpetual farmer’s walks with all the weight you can carry. You can chose to let some the weight go, or get stronger. Meditation and lifting will help you do both.