If you could only sense how important you are to the lives of those you meet; how important you can be to the people you may never even dream of. There is something of yourself that you leave at every meeting with another person.
—Fred Rogers, creator of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood
My life had become unbearable. There was guilt, but I think the real culprit was shame. Guilt and shame are very different and controlled my thoughts and behaviors in distinct ways. Guilt was about what I had done, or, in my case, what I hadn’t done. Shame was about who I was, or at least who I thought I was. I felt like a prisoner being brainwashed every day. My mind seemed to be stuck on a one-track narrative that became darker with each episode. Every minute of every day, there was this weird repeating internal monologue that opened with guilt, which created a feeling of shame. I would fixate on things that supported this monologue like bailing out on the Ironman, which I was sure disappointed the donors, the treatment facility, my clients, and my family. My anemic efforts at work reinforced my shame. That’s when all the “what ifs” began chiming in. What if I get fired from my job? Will we lose the new house and all my money? What if the people who donated to my fund-raiser think I’m a fraud because I didn’t do the full Ironman? These thoughts would lead to embarrassment, which deepened my feelings of shame. I was trapped in this desperate repeating irrational monologue that all sounded rational to me. I personally knew people like Dan, Mark, Holly, and Tyler, who all had far worse injuries than me—and far more stressful lives—and who were all managing themselves well, but for some reason I just couldn’t put things in perspective. I was locked in an irrational, disproportionate, escalating mental prison.
I sat in my truck. I had researched how to do it, exactly where to place the barrel and how to angle the gun. I had practiced it with a cleared weapon and pulled the trigger. I didn’t want to leave a mess for someone else to clean up. I would not do it in my truck, so someone else could use it. The bullet would go through my heart; there would be an instant of pain, and then I would be gone. I would do to myself with one bullet what four enemy fighters failed to accomplish with twenty-seven. I stared at the black gun in my hand. I had used one like it to kill before. I was numb and sad, confused and tired. I had cried alone so many times.
My downward spiral had come to its final resting place, and at the bottom was hopelessness. The built-up stress, the lingering effects of trauma, and my physiological deficits all colluded to create a condition of hopelessness. My mind worked trying to come up with an explanation to justify my final act to my two beautiful daughters. Years ago, in that room at the compound, the thought of not being able to see their faces again terrified me. Images flashed in my mind—holding my daughter’s little hand in my own as we sat together. The way the girls would wrap their arms around my neck and hug me. Their soft little voices called out me: “Ohhh, Dad!” Their smiling faces flashed repeatedly in my mind.
There was the disproportionate feeling of guilt and shame that relentlessly stalked me. I still felt trapped in a life layered with overwhelming stress, endless responsibilities, meaningless tasks, and toxic people, of whom I felt I was the most toxic. It was all my fault. I felt I was my own worst enemy. This time there was a bullet in the chamber. I was beyond contemplation; my mind was made up. I mentally paced back and forth, working up the courage, the same way I had when I hit my father with the bat. I was getting out of my truck when my phone rang. I looked down at the number. It was Scott Heintz, my boss. I picked up my phone in one hand and held my gun in the other. I let it ring again, not wanting to answer. I couldn’t do it with Scott calling, so I put down my gun. I answered: “Hey, Scott, what’s up?”
“Mike, I want you to take the next three months to chill out. I’m going to pay you. Relax, take your time, and find a new job. I’ll help you however I can. You’re beyond burned out. You did amazing work. There is a time limit for how long you can do this job, and you maxed it out.” My boss and good friend had just given me the hope I needed to climb out of the very deep hole I had found myself in. In that instant, I would not have answered my phone for anyone other than Scott. Scott had seen it all before. He knew that I was surrounded by wounded, sick, and injured people all day. Scott also knew that many of the people who I’d been meeting with every day for years, including patients, their family members, veterans, service members, and hospital staff, were struggling with depression. “It’s like an alcoholic tending bar—you can only hold out for so long. If you are around depressed people all the time, you’ll become depressed too.”
I suspect that some of you reading this may now think that I’m crazy and write me off. Thank you for coming this far with me. For the rest of you who have ever been depressed or suicidal, I can tell you that while I fully believed at the time that I was thinking rationally, I know now that I was not. My irrational thoughts had started repeating themselves: the world will be better off without me. I don’t care anymore, I just want out of here. I’m a horrible person. My future will just be filled with more of the same stress.
These thoughts all seemed totally rational and true in my compromised state, but I had no clue that my thinking was compromised.
What scared me the most about these thoughts and the entire experience is what happened to me just a few months later. Brenda, in her desperation to help, convinced me to visit a physician who had a protocol to treat depression and other conditions. I resisted at first, of course, but finally agreed to work with the guy if only to get Brenda—and everyone else—off my back. It was either this new doctor or I was headed for an inpatient treatment facility.
I had been a skeptical participant in every treatment program I’d ever visited. I was an unruly patient during my time at Bethesda Naval Hospital; I did things my way in the hospital and while recovering at home. I was already suicidal without drugs and I wasn’t interested in taking any medications based on what I saw at the Care Coalition and what the other doctor had told me after my DNA test. I would check the boxes again with this new guy to get everyone off my back. I was in a low, nasty place and had no real interest in following anyone’s magic treatment program.
My first visit with Dr. Anthony G. Beck, the new guy, was over Skype. I gave short answers to all his questions. He ended the call by saying that my test kit would come in a few days. The kit arrived on schedule and was simple enough. I provided samples of everything, including saliva, urine, stool, and blood. (I’ll admit, collecting three of my own stool samples, then packaging them up and sending them in the mail was a little weird.) A week or so later, I had another Skype call with Dr. Beck to review my test results. He believed that I was dealing with a serious bout of depression brought on by a number of physical and environmental factors.
Dr. Beck explained how he viewed the world and his methods and philosophy. He described the modern world we live in like an asymmetrical war. There are insurgents lurking everywhere—in the food we eat, the water we drink, and the air we breathe. Blue light emitted from LED lights on our computer and phone screen can cause sleeplessness. The nonstop barrage of Wi-Fi and cellular and radio emissions interfere with our brain waves and can trigger memory issues and other health problems. These insurgents infiltrate our bodies and disrupt every system and process. “Most people have become totally desensitized to our environment, especially the foods we eat, and the daily medications taken to manage the diseases created by the foods we eat. It’s an insidious cycle. When you add genetics, trauma, and stress to all this, our bodies, brains, and minds can become completely altered. Why do you think there has been a sharp increase in illnesses like depression and diabetes over the past few decades?”
I knew what he was saying about human nature was true. In Iraq I’d seen people become quickly desensitized to sounds of barking dogs, helicopters flying overhead, and gunfire, all of which could have been hazardous, if not lethal, to their health. At home, I saw people practically washing down their diabetes meds with sugary sodas. Their soda consumption was likely the main reason why they had diabetes in the first place.
There was a time when I would rate restaurants by how much food I got for the price. I started to think differently about it. Now I consider food as a kind of drug, and Dr. Beck’s education reinforced this idea. He put the onus on me by telling me that I was in control of my health and well-being, and that I was the only one who could get myself back into a normal, healthy condition. I liked this—it was almost as if the guy already knew I was an unruly patient who wanted control, so he gave it to me.
Dr. Beck emphasized that my biochemical makeup and unique genetics set me apart from every other human being on the planet, and that I needed to be treated differently than everyone else. The DNA test I did at the Texas treatment facility the year before had confirmed this. Beck’s words rang true to me because they reinforced things that I already felt. I think this is how I know the truth—I feel it in my gut. Unknowingly, I had been on a decade-long search-and-rescue mission to find a way to not only regain what I had lost to trauma, but also to understand who I really was and what I wanted in my life. Every doctor and treatment facility that I had visited over the years added a different piece to the puzzle. Even the bad experiences turned out to be good ones as they clearly showed me what didn’t work.
I’m a practical guy and need to see objective evidence, not listen to guesses or theories and be convinced of things, especially when they’re about me. The blood, urine, saliva, and stool tests were objective, and they definitely came from me. My results weren’t good, though: he said that the major issues were that I was lacking some essential “gut flora” and that my hormones were completely out of whack. I learned that what I thought was “me” was not me. That voice in my head, the desperate monologue that sounded like me was not me. The real me had been kidnapped by billions of insurgents. We are all a combination of our own human cells and trillions of other microorganisms. Our own human cells are outnumbered by at least ten to one by foreign invaders, microorganisms living in us. All our foreign microbes are unique to each of us—we pick them up from places we visit, foods we eat, and other people. We can’t live without these foreign microbes; some help to break down foods we eat into nutrients that are absorbed as beneficial compounds, like vitamins and anti-inflammatory substances that can’t be produced by our own human cells. What I didn’t know was that gut microbiota irregularities can directly induce depression and can influence our behavior and thoughts by way of a connection called the microbiota–gut–brain axis. My gut flora was out of whack from a combination of a poor diet, stress, and all the antibiotics I took before and after being wounded. Dr. Beck said that this imbalance had a name: microbiota–gut–brain axis dysfunction.
I had been working for nearly six years with dozens of different doctors, investigating all manner of treatment programs for depression, PTSD, and anxiety, and I never came across a link between gut bacteria and brain function. Then again, I never had my stool tested either. Dr. Beck said depression is inseparable from brain neurotransmitter imbalance and that research showed that gut flora influences this imbalance. This was back in 2015, and as of this writing, the microbiota–gut–brain axis has been linked to Parkinson’s disease and several other conditions. Dr. Beck said that the idea that abnormal gut flora is at the root of mental disorders, including depression and anxiety, was not new. The idea had been around since 1908, when it earned the Nobel Prize for Physiology.
Based on my test results, Dr. Beck believed that my depression was induced slowly over the years, as by the snowballing effect of stress, poor diet, genetics, antibiotics, and chronic inflammation. He said that while it’s true that my genes might predispose me to depression and that other stressful events like adverse childhood experiences (ACE) can trigger depression, the ever-increasing incidents of worldwide depression deviates way too far from statistical estimates. Major depressive disorder is now one of the leading causes of disability, morbidity, and mortality worldwide; one in five people probably suffers from it at some point in their life. Dr. Beck explained that we now know major depression is not just a mental disorder, but is also a physiological disease, and that gut microbiota probably plays a crucial part in the onset of depression. Most people, including me at the time, believed that depression was purely a mental disorder. Unfortunately, there are also some who still believe that depression and PTSD are indications of mental weakness. I have experienced both and have withstood some of the most ruthless physical, mental, and emotional conditions without breaking. These long-held beliefs, that depression is solely a mental disorder or one reserved for the emotionally weak, are both totally false. They have created a deeply entrenched stigma around the condition, a stigma that I am determined to erase.
I was stunned. I didn’t really know what a neurotransmitter was or did, but I did know many of my fellow veterans and others were struggling like I was. Many of these people were either self-medicating or were on all types of meds, desperate for relief. Some had reached hopelessness like I had and lost the fight to the voice in their head. I’m in no way whatsoever suggesting that anyone should stop taking any of their medications. As it turns out, some antidepressants do actually inhibit the proliferation of certain gut bacteria. However, I am strongly suggesting that people investigate the physiological factors that may be contributing to their conditions, be it depression, PTSD, or any other neurological or brain-related disorder. I suggest finding a holistic doctor to help guide you.
Dr. Beck’s explanation and my treatment plan included bits and pieces of things that I had heard from other doctors and the new concept of gut health. He prescribed a regiment of probiotics, hormone therapy, and exercise. He said it was important that I continued to get off the couch and move. Even walking would be enough. I also needed to chill out and change my eating habits, eliminating certain types of foods and adding others. He said that there may be several other contributing factors, such as exposure to radio waves like Wi-Fi, Bluetooth, and blue light from computer and phone screens. I was playing video games for hours on a sixty-inch screen. I realized that I only played video games when I was depressed. These factors were likely messing up my brain function. He recommended that I shut down my home Wi-Fi at night and avoid blue light.
I had my mission.