What is it really like to have depression? What your loved one wants you to know.

John’s Story - his chapter from our family's book.

My wife woke up and saw me standing above her, next

to the bed. I was dressed, but not in work clothes.

“Trish, there’s something wrong with me. . . . I tried

to kill my-self. I was driving around. I was going to drown.”

Trish got me to lie down; she covered me with a blanket.

Then, she called my office and left a message for my boss, telling

her that I would not be in for the rest of the week—that things

were seriously wrong. She got Katelyn, age14, Kristen, age 12,

and Ryan, age 9, off to school, then called my doctor. Robin, age

16, was al-ready on the school bus.

“This is Patricia Gallagher,” she said. “I’m John Gallagher’s

wife. He’s been in to see you a few times. Doctor, he needs to go

somewhere to have a rest.” She continued: “He’s been driving

around for an hour this morning. I didn’t even know he was out of

the house. Doctor, something is wrong. Where can I take him?”

On the doctor’s recommendation, Trish made arrangements to

take me to a hospital where there was a psychiatric unit. It was a

beautiful day but, as usual, my mood was totally flat.

“John, do you want to go to Denny’s and have breakfast?” “I

don’t care,” I replied.

“Do you want to take a ride?” “I don’t care.”

M

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The I don’t cares were my only response.

As we drove on, I said plainly—almost matter-of-factly—“I’m

going to die.”

“No, John, you’re just stressed,” Trish insisted. “You need a

vacation.” She strained to speak calmly.

As we pulled into the Emergency parking lot, I blurted out:

“Take me to the ER. I’m going to die. I took carbon monoxide.”

I confessed that, when I went out driving around, at

approximately 6 a.m., I had pulled the car over and breathed the

exhaust from the back of my car.

She asked how long. I said, “I guess about nine or ten

minutes.” I didn’t want to say anything more than that. I knew she

would just try to placate me and tell me everything was going to

be okay. For me, I didn’t think that things would ever be okay

again. So we went into the hospital, hoping upon hope that we

would somehow find relief.

As a man in this world of ours, I am expected to hold a job,

make enough money to pay my bills, provide for my four

children, and be there for my wife. But sometimes, in the hustle

and bustle of daily life, all the tasks and responsibilities cascade

into over-whelming stress. That’s what happened to me nine years

ago.

On the outside, everything looked great. I had an MBA, a job

as a financial analyst, and a wife and four children. But, on the

inside, everything had begun to fall apart. My company was

cutting back, and I feared being laid off and rendered incapable of

providing for my family. I also feared telling my father and my

father-in-law about the possibility of losing my job.

I had a perfectly good job in the Advertising Administration

department of a major pharmaceutical company. But, even be-fore

the announcement of future lay-offs, I didn’t think that was good

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enough. Recently, I’d started thinking that I should be-come a

pharmaceutical sales representative. The people in that department

seemed to be the “beautiful people” in the company and, I figured

that, if I made it into that elite group, I’d have success.

Come to think of it, I had always felt that I wasn’t good

enough. I would get good jobs with Fortune 500 companies, but,

once on the job, I’d start to think that I wasn’t up to par. I would

try to follow the adage, “Fake it ‘til you make it,” but doing so

was very stressful for me. I also tried to go with the saying,

“Don’t let them see you sweat,” but, since I was always worried

about being fired, I wasn’t very good at that either.

Following popular wisdom didn’t do me much good.

Life began to overwhelm me. What I didn’t know then is that

my high degree of worry and anxiety, coupled with the sense of

not being good enough, were classic signs of depression.

About two years after my accident, my family and I went to

visit my aunt at the New Jersey shore. I asked her about my

mother, who had died when I was only nine years old. I really

didn’t have many memories. I did wonder why God did that to

me, have a little boy lose his mother so young. I knew that she

was very beautiful. I had seen so many pictures, wonderful

pictures, but I really didn’t know much about her. I knew that

there were many gifts my mother had given me, in my genetic

makeup, and I treasure all of them. I know that she had strength in

the face of setbacks and that she was very creative. All of the

photos showed me that she was very particular about the way her

children were dressed and cared for. When she did a job, and

when I do, I do it right. I guess we were both perfectionists. My

grandparents were Polish and very loving to me. I remember that

after my mother died, my grand-mother always stroked my cheek

very tenderly. We always had a houseful of relatives there and

laughed with our grandfather until our sides hurt. I remember

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people being very nice to me after my mother died and giving me

candy.

During the conversation, my aunt said, in passing,

“Oh, your mother was so good at flower arranging! See that

wall hanging over there, Johnny? She made that for me, and I’ve

saved it for forty-five years.”

My mother, my beautiful mother had so many talents and

gifts. How I wish somebody had told me more about her over the

years. I never knew how my mother died. I don’t remember her

complaining and I don’t remember her being sick. No doubt about

it now, she must have been terrified about leaving her family. I

guess a lot of other relatives knew and never talked about it. I can

almost imagine my mother saying, “Johnny, I am proud of you

and I love you so much!” How I long to hear those words. I feel

connected to my mother in a special way now.

A few hours later, as Trish and I were walking along the

board-walk, I started to cry. I cried another time, uncontrollable

sobs. I was looking at our wedding picture and so many relatives

had passed away. A sadness hit me that would not go away. That

could have been me, another Gallagher missing from the family, I

thought. The thought of how I had almost left my family terrified

me now.

“I wish my mother was here,” I said. “She’s the only one that

would know that it’s not my fault, that I’m not a wimp.”

That’s what it had seemed to me—that being depressed was

like being a wimp because it meant I was too weak to take charge.

As we walked, moments of depression came flashing back.

The first was when I was about 18. I woke up and felt like a

massive freight train was running through my head. I never told

anybody about it.

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The next time I had this frightening experience was when I

was 24 years old and out at a club with my friends, dancing and

partying. Suddenly, I started feeling strange—not intoxicated, not

drunk, but strange. I was sure that somebody had put something in

my drink. I went home, feeling dizzy; my head was spinning.

When I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep. My heart was racing. I felt

as if a massive freight train was running through my head again, at

a hundred miles per hour.

That lasted for a couple of days. Again, I didn’t tell anyone.

For many years, I believed that it was all a matter of some

prankster putting a drug in an unsuspecting guy’s drink. Over the

years, though, the same feeling would come back sporadically,

when there were no drinks and no possibility of pranksters. And

there was no possibility of me being at a club called Uncle Sam’s

American Flag.

When it came back in 1990, the circumstances were entirely

different. I was happily married, with three children and one on

the way. But just before my son Ryan was born, I started getting

anxious. The symptoms were more intense than the first time, and

the time frame was slightly longer—four days.

The first night that this was going on, I asked Trish to call the

doctor. It was the middle of the night. He told her that it sounded

like anxiety, and said that it wasn’t necessary for me to go to the

hospital. I kept insisting to Trisha that she had to take me to the

ER. The doctor did not give me the required referral to go to the

ER. He said, “Just tell him to relax.”

The next morning, Trish asked me not to go to work, to just

stay home and rest but I insisted on going. I hated to miss work

but it was tough going there that day. Once I got there, I found

myself completely unable to handle things, and ended up leaving

work before noon.

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While I was at work for that short time, Trish had invited

some of the neighbors over for tea and a playgroup. She told her

friends what had happened during the night. Diana, an ER nurse,

told her that it was anxiety. The word “depression” had not yet

come up.

I was able to take some time off from work and stay home;

this seemed to do the trick. But I just wasn’t myself. I know now

that doctors would describe me as having “no affect.” Trisha tried

to lift my spirits by involving me in her projects, and then taking a

ride to Core Creek Park. I felt like I was just going through the

motions. I wasn’t able to even have a conversation with her.

After four days off, I returned to work and started functioning

normally. Whatever the case, my symptoms went away as quickly

as they had come. They did not return until 1998.

In March of 1998, I was working at the same pharmaceutical

company as in 1990, but in a different capacity. Now I was a

financial analyst. I had been doing a lot of overtime at work, and

was starting to feel that my job was over my head. I was stressed

out from a long commute and the strain of trying to learn new

computer programs.

It was about a year before I jumped. Little by little, month by

month, day by day, I was starting to feel different. I was scared,

sweaty, anxious, irritated, angry, and so confused.

My symptoms had returned with a vengeance. My condition

was worse than ever, and I couldn’t seem to shake it.

Many evenings, when I was helping the kids with their homework,

the headache, the racing heart, and the feeling of

helplessness would come back. I couldn’t focus on helping them.

I remember coaching my daughter’s basketball team, and

feeling and looking like the living dead. My wife now recalls

watching me as I coached, and seeing how timid and uncertain I

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looked. To both of us, I seemed like the shadow of my former

self. Yet, it wasn’t constant. I remember being elated when

Kristen’s basket-ball team won the championship and by all

accounts, the home videos look like I was one happy dad cheering

from the sidelines.

One night, I was at the mall with the kids, when Kristen asked,

“Dad, are you all right?” I felt as if I was having a heart attack,

and had to leave the mall. I was afraid I would embarrass my

family. I hated the thought of embarrassing them.

Something else started happening. My worrying started to

invade my sleep. Sleep became frightening and stressful, then,

ultimately, impossible. My initial episode of frenzied sleep paved

the way for three solid months of insomnia—something which

further incapacitated me.

During that first night of troubled sleep, I experienced a sense

of obscuring darkness, followed by a different, more palpable

darkness that stirred inside me. I awoke and felt my brain racing

in a way that I had never experienced before. It was worse than

the time when I was in my twenties, and worse than the time

before Ryan was born. I thought to myself, What is going on? Did

I eat something? What is this? I prayed to God for this foreign and

scary feeling to leave me, but it did not. I got up, walked

downstairs and turned on the television. My head throbbed and

my heart raced. Could this be a stroke? I wondered. Or a heart

attack? I began pacing up and down the house, focusing on the

agonizing pain in my head and wondering what it could be.

The noise of my footsteps awoke Trish. “What are you

doing?” she asked, sleepily.

“I don’t know,” I responded. My head writhed with pain as I

spoke. “I think I have a brain tumor. My head is killing me. It’s

excruciating.”

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After a restless night, I still had the throbbing headache from

the night before. Though I didn’t feel like I could do anything, I

went to work.

At work, I felt unable to function. I couldn’t concentrate.

Everything faded into nothingness and seemed unreal and

insignificant, compared to the ever-present, searing pain that was

splitting my head in two. My coworkers noticed that I was not

my-self. They had no idea just how disoriented I felt.

This time, the symptoms alarmed me. I knew enough to know,

by now, that it was something serious that was not likely to just go

away. I had been seeing a family doctor for months. I prayed

earnestly, “God, please help me with this headache. Please help

me go to sleep. Please help me to get to the right doctor. Please

help me beat this thing.”

My family doctor prescribed several medications as he tried to

help me find relief. He also listened patiently, as doctors do, and

prescribed yet another drug for anxiety. The drug did not seem to

help. I took it for a few weeks and I didn’t like the side effects. I

went back to the doctor. He reminded me that it takes time for

medicine to work. “Give it time,” he said.

In my depressed state of mind, I probably was not hearing

what the doctor, or anyone else, had to say. My brain was often

racing, and I was distracted and impatient. I stopped taking the

medicine, not realizing that this could make things even worse.

But honestly, the word depression had no meaning to me at the

time. I just felt physically sick with headaches being my chief

complaint.

What I know now, but did not know then, was that a family

doctor may not be equipped to deal with the sort of chemical

imbalance that was going on inside of me. At this point, my

anxiety had progressed to a serious level. I needed to see a

psychiatrist, but did not realize it at the time.

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As time dragged on, the unbearable feeling in my head

persisted. On one occasion, I went with my wife to a healing

Mass, where I pleaded, “Please, God, let this Mass work. Let it

take my headache away.” But I returned home, still unable to

sleep and without relief from the headache.

As time went on, my situation only worsened. In addition to

the pain, anxiety surged, and, increasingly, heart palpitations took

my breath away. Sleepless nights became the norm, and eating

became an undesirable chore. I simply had no appetite. I had lost

close to 60 pounds and had gotten into the habit of wearing two

sets of clothing to try to hide how thin I had become. Feelings

were absent. I could not concentrate, and felt powerless. My wife

and kids were supportive and loving, but I was growing frustrated,

and so were they.

I tried everything I could think of to deal with the darkness

that had descended upon my life. I even went to a neurologist to

check for a brain tumor. There was none. Then I went to a

cardiologist, who told me it was high blood pressure. From a

multitude of doctors, to healing Masses and prayers, nothing

seemed to help. I felt betrayed by God, and completely abandoned

in my suffering.

I was beginning to have crazy thoughts inside my head, but I

didn’t share them with anyone. I thought of running in front of a

car near my workplace in Princeton, and of trying to drown

myself in our bathtub when my wife and kids went on an outing. I

even held a knife to my chest at one point, but the blade was dull.

I thought of jumping from the roof of the building where I

worked.

These thoughts terrified me. I had always been very sensible

and logical. After all, my background was in accounting, where

everything had to line up evenly. Thoughts like this were torturing

me, and nobody knew but me. Where were they coming from?

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They were absolutely crazy, illogical thoughts. What was

happening to me? My thoughts were fractured, frazzled, and

clearly not mine. But I still had to do my work and take care of

my family, even though I was falling apart, with irrational

thoughts echoing through my head. It seemed like life was going

on for everybody else. They were laughing, smiling and all was

well, but for me, I thought that I was dying and I didn’t know

what to do about it.

I was the kind of dad that worried about my kids getting hurt,

probably known as a “worrywart.” I worried about the kids falling

from their bikes, running in a parking lot, going out too far in the

ocean or falling off the second floor of a railing at a hotel balcony.

Suffering was one thing, but the feeling of isolation and

loneliness was another. I felt that no one understood and that no

one could help me. I felt hopeless and helpless.

Finally, something inside of me snapped as I drove to work

one day. I started to think about going to the bridge. I planned to

jump but I couldn’t do it. The thought of inhaling gas fumes gave

me a sense of peace. I pulled my car to the side of the road, got

out of the car, and put my mouth to the exhaust pipe of my car.

After a few minutes, I lifted my mouth from the pipe and got back

in my car. Somehow in the midst of this decision, I was aware that

my link with God, though thin and worn, was still intact. He still

had a hold on me. I knew—at least theoretically—that my life was

to live, not to take. I didn’t want to die. I just wanted this pain to

end. I drove home and told my wife what I had done.

I let my wife drive me to the hospital, to continue our

desperate search for help. They kept me for one night and

discharged me in the morning. A day later, I was admitted again.

When I arrived at the hospital that day, my blood pressure was

still very high. After several hours being treated in the ER, they

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decided to admit me for the blood pressure issue and they took me

to the cardiology wing.

Soon after I was settled into my hospital room, Trish came in.

She stood patiently by the chair where I was sitting, and started

showing me a photo album filled with pictures of my kids—kids

that I love with all my heart. Interspersed with the pictures were

hand scrawled red heart-shaped Valentine cards with paper lace,

stickers highlighting birthdays, words in the margins, tickets from

concerts, grade school report cards, reminders of involvements

with our church’s service projects, and little reminders of all of

the love I had in my life. A life of former happy memories.

Katelyn and Kristen singing the Ave Maria on the altar at church.

A baby cradled in my arms. Pictures on the beach. Class trips.

Christmas lights. Birthday parties. Photos with the Easter Bunny

at the mall. My son with his baseball cap and wiffle ball playing

in the Youth Baseball program. Small cherubic faces giving me

homemade gifts. How would I ever recapture those moments that

had brightened my life? All of the wonderful memories of my

“old life” were there. I never thought I would hear “Batter up!”

again. I wrestled with so much doubt and believed they were gone

forever.

Trish told me that she and the kids loved me and that

everything was going to be okay. I had lost faith in myself. I

thought,

What is wrong with me? I had tried talking to God and

listening to God.

Now, all help seemed remote and I felt so afraid. The life I had

seemed to have dissolved, no interest in hobbies, reading mystery

novels, driving to look at beautiful houses, or going to flea

markets with the family. My mind could not penetrate the heavy

fog that blocked all rational thinking. I felt trapped, raw, broken

and mentally exhausted in this hospital room. I needed a break.

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The pictures were meant to cultivate some feelings of

happiness in me. The summer before, my girls had gone to repair

a house for a mission trip. A photo of them beaming, with

hammers and paint cans in hand, looked up at me. Instead, the

photos began hammering away at me and made me feel all the

more desperate, convinced that the best was all behind me now.

The sadness I felt eclipsed everything in that album.

Then, Trish left the room to phone her mother. She wanted to

tell her that I was doing fine and ask her to bring me a pair of

shoes. Robin and Katelyn were out with their friends and the two

younger ones were at Trish’s mother’s house.

Alone in my hospital room, I reflected on my loving family,

thinking that the best of life was now in the past and could only

haunt me. My twisted thinking led me to imagine that they would

commit me to an insane asylum, a place I had heard about in

movies. The thought terrified me. I wasn’t thinking clearly and

even said to Trish, “They’re not going to kill me, are they?”

Where were these absolutely torturous thoughts coming from?

This wasn’t me. I had a world-class wonderful family and a great

life, but it all seemed to be crumbling beneath me. At that point,

nothing was able to shine through the darkness in my mind. I was

stunned about all of this, more like numb, gripped with a doubt

that offered no hope.

I looked at the window, which seemed to be calling me,

challenging me. I saw the same thing I had seen in the exhaust

pipe of my car—a way to end my suffering. I arose from the chair,

and approached the window. The raw throbbing in my head had

dulled my thought process; I acted without much thought beyond

the drive to escape. Numb from everything but pain, I looked

down. I can do it, I thought. I will do it.

I jumped, relieved that the pain would finally go away.

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It did not. The descent was frightful; the impact was heavy,

obliterating.

When I jumped, I had no idea how high up I was. I didn’t

know whether I was 1000 feet above the ground or 50. I have

been told since then that I fell 40-45 feet, and landed in a cement

window well, or—as the ambulance attendant called it—a

“viaduct.” I think I may have hit the side of the building on the

way down.

I heard that there was one eyewitness in the parking lot. I wish

that I could talk to that person and find out what really happened.

But it took me nine years to want to know—and nine years to go

back and stand in front of the window from which I had

frantically pitched my body.

I returned to that spot with my wife and my daughter Katelyn

in July, 2008. When we got there, Katelyn and I stood in front of

the building and stared up at the window together. After my first

startled glimpse, I shifted my eyes to the tangible details of the

scene—the window well, the cement walkway, the trees—and

contemplated the enormity of what had happened.

It struck me then, as now, that I am amazingly lucky to have

survived—that it is only by the grace of God that I am not a

quadriplegic—or dead. As I stood with Katelyn in front of that

window, I pondered the fact that my remarkable family was with

me once again in the same place—still with me, despite the

intervening an-guish. I prayed to God with gratitude for their

presence and my safe-keeping.

I started walking away from the window, then went back—

ready to remember and reconstruct the deadly moment.

I flipped in the air and then landed on my legs; they crumbled

under me. Rage exploded inside me. I’m still alive, I cried. I could

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not even kill myself. I lay on the asphalt, bleeding and cursing my

survival.

Before I slipped into unconsciousness, I saw Trish’s terrified

face staring out from the window above me.

Landing on my legs had saved my life, but they were now

crushed and broken. The police and ambulance arrived in minutes.

“Cut his jeans off!” one of the paramedics yelled as they slid

me onto a stretcher. Voices shouting commands seemed far away,

until they faded into nothingness. I fell into unconsciousness.

Shortly afterwards, a doctor awakened me. “Turn your neck,”

he was saying. “Turn your neck,” he repeated, evidently worried

that it might be broken. My neck was not broken, I heard him

saying, but I had completely crushed both of my legs and

sustained head and arm abrasions.

I screamed in agony as he tried to straighten my mangled legs.

Several years afterwards, I found out that a nurse had told my wife

then that I was not out of the woods—that I still had injuries that

were potentially life-threatening. There were bone chips in my

blood stream that had caused doctors to worry about infection—an

infection that could have done what I had failed to do—end my

life.

The next day, my wife and children came to visit in the

Intensive Care Unit. They didn’t recognize me. When the nurse

directed them to my room, they all glanced in and said to the

nurse, “That’s not our dad.” She assured them that it was indeed

their father, and that they were in the right room. My head was

swollen—like a beach ball, one of the kids later told me. I had a

tube in my nose. The kids said that my hair had turned gray. I

have heard that sometimes that happens after a shock. I couldn’t

really talk, but I know that I mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”

Trish’s patience through it all has been disarming.

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“I want you to know that I love you, the kids love you, we just

want you to get better,” she said, consolingly. “Whatever you

need us to do, we will do for you.”

Every day she came in to reassure me, “Don’t worry about

work, don’t worry about money, and don’t worry about getting

better. As soon as you start getting better, you’ll go home and we

will all take care of you.”

The jump landed me in the mental ward of the hospital, with

24-hour security to keep me from trying to kill myself again. I was

there for five weeks, doing rehab for my physical injuries and

beginning the process of trying to put my life back together. I

needed both physical and mental healing. A psychiatrist was

assigned to me. He and I began working on helping my mind,

while an orthopedic surgeon began putting my legs back together.

I remember having some strange thoughts while I was in the

psychiatric ward. They had aides in the room with me at all times.

I was still despondent, and would spend my time thinking of ways

to harm myself. I would hold my breath, hoping that would work,

or try making myself anxious, in the hopes that I could induce a

heart attack.

On one occasion, I had a very strange experience. During this

experience, I actually believed that I had died. Perhaps it was a

matter of the medication playing tricks on my mind, or perhaps it

was my guilt surfacing.

Whatever the case, this is what happened. A nurse was tending

to me. As I looked at her, I saw that she had the face of Jesus—the

face I had seen in many depictions in books.

Jesus said to me, “Why did you do that? You shouldn’t have

jumped.”

I thought I had died, and that this was Judgment Day.

Afterwards, my sister came to visit, bringing magazines and

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candy. She was being so nice and so compassionate. I felt and

thought that I was dead, observing all of this from another vantage

point. What a waste! So I played the game. I knew that I had died,

but I wanted her to feel that I was still alive.

Then, after my sister left, Trish came in with Ryan. At that

point, I was stunned. “You brought my son!” I exclaimed. I had

thought I would never see them again. In a state of absolute

euphoria, I thought to myself, Maybe I am alive!

Trish has since told me that it was at this moment that she left

the ward, in despair, to call her mother and say, “Mom, John’s

never coming back. Something is really wrong with him.” But I

did. And that moment may have been part of the reason why—for

it increased my appreciation of what it is to be alive. It was an

epiphany.

I had a few nightmares. I recollected waking up and feeling

that I was in a swimming pool and somebody was pouring cement

on me. The other was that I was running down a street and

somebody was chasing me and I couldn’t get away from him.

Everyone visited me faithfully. They sent cards of

encouragement and decorated my hospital room with things that

they thought would cheer me up—a poster of a horse, stuffed

animals and my favorite snacks.

After being discharged, I had to continue doing physical

therapy to help repair my battered body. I also had to see a

therapist and go to therapy sessions to help repair my psyche. The

antidepressants began to kick in, and I started to be able to sleep

again at night. My headaches soon faded into memory.

The support of friends and family contributed further to my

recovery.

My neighbor rearranged his work schedule so that he could

drive me to therapy every day. He lifted my wheelchair into his

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car, and helped me to get settled into a day program facility. His

wife brought meals to my family. They took my son on many

outings with them, to baseball games, snowboarding, and

amusement parks. They were our lifeline; they knew what had

happened, and they gave us tremendous support.

My sister and her family, too, were there for us every step of

the way, preparing meals, driving me to appointments, and

offering us money to help sustain us. One of her children helped

my children with homework while another prepared a delicious

chicken casserole.

My wife’s family, too, was ever present to help—taking care

of the kids, doing odd jobs around the house, and supporting

Trisha. My father-in-law was a man of action and he was always

coming over, toolbox in hand, grouting the tile, building a bunny

hutch or carpeting the patio. My mother-in-law bought new sheets

for our bed, left candy on the pillow, and in general was “on the

spot” to help wherever needed…anticipating things before she

was asked.

All of our neighbors reached out to help, throughout our ordeal,

but they did not know what really happened. Several tried to

call and visit me in the hospital but I was not where Trisha told

them I was. I was in a different hospital, having my mental and

physical needs taken care of and could not have visitors other than

the family. Someone later told me that it was in the newspaper but

nobody let on that they had seen it. Neighbors invited us to picnics

and graduation parties that summer but we declined. Trisha just

didn’t know what to say when neighbors asked questions.

My boss felt really bad about what had happened to me. She

wrapped beautiful gifts of books, get-well cards, and a bird feeder

and sent them to us. She did many sweet, thoughtful things to tell

me she cared. The kids were excited to receive the presents but at

that point, I couldn’t even manage a thank-you. They expectantly

18

tore away the wrappings, knowing that treasures were inside. The

sad truth is that only one person other than my boss contacted me

from work. You would think that after more than 11 years, people

would reach out. But, I guess because of the nature of the

situation, people didn’t know what to say or do.

A volunteer visited me in the hospital on a Tuesday morning.

She asked me what my favorite dessert was. I told her apple pie.

The next day she came back with a little red and white Igloo

cooler, with, you guessed it! An apple pie. Not only for me, she

brought special desserts for all of the patients. Another volunteer

brought a dog. The dog jumped up on my lap. My bones were

broken but it was such little acts of kindness that helped me to

heal.

I now knew how much everyone loved me and cared.

Everyone in our immediate family and our two closest friends did

everything they could to help.

I didn’t tell my father what had happened, for two reasons.

First, he was at the beginning stages of Alzheimer’s disease and

secondly, I felt a deep sense of shame. It didn’t feel manly to have

done what I did.

I missed a lot during that time. My daughter Katelyn sang a

solo at the junior high, and Robin went to a prom. Kristen had her

elementary school graduation, and Ryan was pitching for his baseball

team. Trish told me later how sad she felt to be at the

elementary school, being alone at all of the special events,

watching the recital, the graduation ceremony and the game—and

thinking of me lying in a hospital bed.

There were positive things that came out of all of this, though.

When working full-time, I had spent a lot of time at work and

very little at home. The kids now had two stay-at-home parents.

When I began to feel better, I was able to help Trisha with

carpooling and the whirlwind of our kids’ activities.

19

The downside was that my out-of-work status depleted our

savings. Disability did not cover our mortgage, insurance and

house-hold expenses.

Now, as I was home recuperating, I spent time with the kids,

watching movies and plowing through pizza, chocolate creamfilled

Tastykakes, ice cream and lots of microwavable popcorn—

many nights into the late evening, when they should have been in

bed. I really got to know them and their friends, and enjoyed

being with them. As I became able to walk and drive, I would take

them to school and walk them up to the door. We often came

together and gave each other our traditional bear hug which we

affectionately called “The Family Squeeze.”

I helped Trisha with her “Team of Angels” project, and spent

many afternoons with my sister, watching movies and enjoying

home-cooked meals. I even took a cooking class at the adult

evening school.

However, even though I was on the road to recovery, I was

still very irritable and weak from losing nearly sixty pounds and

being confined for a time to the wheelchair. I was very worried

about where I would work and how I would provide for the family

again. Though my family was supportive, it became a lot for me

to handle.

After about a year and a half, my wife said we needed to have

a serious talk. “I can’t do this anymore, John,” she said. “We need

space. We are going to have to work on all of this apart for

awhile.” There was a moment of stunned silence and then I

responded.

Trish had been going to the monastery of the Poor Clares

every day to pray during this overwhelming time. She often sat

there in tears, but I did not know this. She had also been going to a

family therapist who said,

20

“Trisha, by the look in your eyes, and from all that you have

told me over the past year, I am worried about you. I think you are

sinking now, too. Your children need at least one healthy parent.

You are going to have to make a very tough decision. I think that

you and John need to separate so that you can both work on things

and heal separately. You can continue to see each other and plan a

date once a week but, for now, it is too much.”

Trish asked God to give her the words to say this to our

children. She wrote them down in a notebook:

Daddy and I love you all very much but we can’t live together

right now. We need some ‘space’ for a while. Daddy will still

come over, but we can’t all live in the same house right now.

I knew that I had been miserable to live with, and that Trish

and I had been struggling to get along with one another. But I did

not want to leave them, or to be alone.

I agreed, adding, “It will be better if you go your way. I’ll try

to heal and get better. You go to therapy and we’ll heal

separately.”

I first went to my sister’s house, then I went to live in my

father’s apartment in Philadelphia. Trish and I maintained our

relationship, but it became more of a friendship than a marriage. I

was still there often, to remain a father to my kids. We all got

together every Sunday and holidays. I never stopped loving my

family.

Everything got buried under the rug, all of our emotions,

problems and my depression. All of our “sorry-looking baggage”

was just packed up and put away. It became a family secret that

we hid with all sorts of explanations and excuses. There’s that

word “embarrassment” again. I didn’t want anyone to know. This,

in retrospect, was somewhat selfish. I didn’t realize the burden

this placed on my family.

21

It probably would have been better if we had just told the truth

from the beginning—if we had simply said that I had been

suffering with depression after the fear of the downsizing, and that

depression had led to a suicide attempt.

If I had acknowledged, earlier, that it was a health problem

rather than just an impulsive act of despair, I might have been able

to be more forthright. Now I have more of an understanding of

what was happening to me. My body’s reaction to fearful events

had led to a chemical imbalance. The chemical imbalance was

related to the stress, and the impaired thinking that resulted from it

led to feelings of hopelessness and despair.

I am sure that other people can relate to that. Depression, after

all, isn’t a new disease in the medical journals!

I believe that we should all be able to talk about depression as

we would talk about any other illness. If people were able to do

this, the shame of a guilty family secret could be eliminated.

While I was struggling with depression, for the 13 months,

before I actually jumped, Trish began writing poems—devotional

poems. It was her way of coping, day after day, as she prayed. She

called upon a team of angels to help. The first poem was entitled a

“Team of Angels for the Overwhelmed.” She had never really

given a hoot about angels prior to this so my only thought was that

it must have been divinely inspired.

She began pairing each poem with a little trio-of-angels pin—

something she had started making when the “Team of Angels”

concept came to her. She created these pins from materials she

purchased at a craft store. Then, after she made pins to go along

with her poems, she began making pins by the hundreds, and

passing them out to friends, neighbors, and others.

The three angels on the pins were meant to represent peace in

our hearts, peace in our homes and peace in the world. And they

22

did, in fact, bring peace to us as a family. The Team of Angels

became Trish’s lifeline after the tragedy—and something that

bridged our family during the ensuing separation—enabling us to

heal as a family, and to bond again after we were reunited.

Little by little, almost without even noticing, we did heal. For

me, the negativity and irritability began to fade as a more positive

me emerged. Medication and therapy sessions slowly gave me

back my life. I also took a less stressful job selling clothing. At

one point, I worked at a sporting goods store and then sold luxury

cars.

I was actually shocked when Trish asked me to come home

after a five-year separation. One of our children was going

through a tough time, and she needed my help. I, too, wanted this

opportunity to be at the center of my family again. The life I had

thought was only a memory was beginning to return. Healing is a

long process but, little by little, I began to heal, and so did the

family.

On February 2, 2006, the day that I returned to live with my

family, a new chapter began for us. Trish scheduled a Retrouvaille

weekend, something designed to help couples in troubled

relationships to heal. At this retreat, we found the tools to bring

about healing, knowing that we still had to continue with

counseling and to work hard on our marriage.

At around this time, I became actively involved in the Team of

Angels project, working with Trish to broaden its reach. During

the summer of 2006, Trish and I, together with Ryan and a few of

his friends, traveled several thousand miles in a gold van,

distributing the pins to those in need. And we began to transform

the project into a family business as well as a ministry—one based

on the principle of providing encouragement.

The experience of working together on this kind of enterprise

brought us closer together spiritually, and gave us the satisfaction

23

of sharing in the creation of something meaningful and sound.

Indeed, it seemed that a team of angels had directed our journey

from pain to contentment; it had given us a purpose.

On January 20, 2008, yet another chapter began. I read a

newspaper story about a high school student who had survived a

nine-story jump. What struck me was that he was willing to speak

out about his experience. It was then that I began to ask, Why did I

survive? Why did God give me that second chance?

For some reason, reading that story made me feel not so alone.

You mean somebody else had actually done what I had done. I

am a stable guy, level-headed, responsible, and love my family so

very much.

What happened to me that night was truly the result of a

buildup of stress that so altered my body chemistry, that so

literally took me out of my mind, that so made me do something

that is literally not comprehensible. I will never forget the feeling

of utter despair that I felt at that time. My heart breaks for those

who are suffering now. I truly would not wish that on my worst

enemy.

How did the idea for writing the book come about? I am not a

writer and I never even thought about getting a book published,

until the Sunday that I read the four page article in the

Philadelphia Inquirer about a handsome, popular, 17 year old

athlete, who had done what I had done.

I said to Trish, “I am not going to let this happen to one more

family! This boy is telling my story.” I asked her to call our three

daughters over for a Sunday dinner. I told them that I was going to

write a book and call it “Don’t Jump!” I asked them if they would

each write a chapter. They were shocked. My son lived at home

with us, so all four kids were there for dinner.

24

Trisha passed around the Philadelphia Inquirer article and

they all read it, or least they started to. They scanned it and laid it

down. Perhaps, it was too sad or just too much to absorb. I noticed

that none of them read it like my wife did, sobbing throughout.

Trish cried as she read each page and said, “John, I never knew

you felt all of these feelings.” When we each wrote our chapters,

it was the first time that we had insight about how this event

affected each family member. Many of my notes were on scraps

of paper, handwritten on lined notepads. I told my ideas to Trisha

and she encouraged me. Then while on my breaks at work, I tried

to flesh them out and make sense of all of my ideas. When I told

my customers that I was thinking of writing a book, they all said

they would want to read it.

Some people warned me that it would be really hard for me to

relive all of this and perhaps, I should just forget all about the past

and move forward. I certainly never really wanted to be in the

limelight, especially for this topic. But if it raises awareness, I am

up for the challenge, and committed to doing something about it.

At times, I was nervous about doing this. I was reluctant to

share the details. What would people think of me? How will I ever

get another job if I go public with this? But then I remembered

what I had felt like. I told one person and then another. Once I did

that, it be-came easier and I found that people were interested in

my story.

I wanted to make a difference. My depression taught me that. I

remembered my shattered spirit in 1999, the shock of the tragedy

on my own family. I knew that this project was more than about

me. It was God guiding me, to look at my life through a spiritual

lens, and find a lesson of faith and trust through the event. It was

as if God was saying to me, “John, you are not weak because of

what you went through. You are strong.” We started our own nonprofit

corporation, The Team of Angels Program, which is all

25

about helping families. God saved me and I believe that there are

thousands of families that need to know that they are not alone.

The work is both satisfying and challenging.

Every time that Trisha and I speak to a group, we learn more

about each other. People ask questions and as I answer them,

Trish gets a little glimmer of how painful life really was for me at

that time. I hear her innermost feelings as she shares with the

audience. This is not what I would have planned for my life but

hopefully, I can be a voice of hope for someone else.

My four children, now ages 18, 21, 24 and 26 have been

guests on radio and television interviews. I am so proud of them.

They are all studying psychology in college and I know that they

will use their life experiences and compassion to make a

difference in the world. I now fully understand that depression

brings pain and disruption, not only to the person who has it, but

to the whole family. I also know that bringing all of this out in the

open may feel uncomfortable for them. So as much or as little as

they want to be involved is fine with me. I am so grateful for their

love and support. I have a grateful heart that God saved my life

and I am able to enjoy life with my family. I want to make the

most of the second chance I have been given.

When I decided to speak about my experience, the same

Philadelphia Inquirer reporter that covered the story about the

young man who brought me out of the shadows to tell mine,

called for an interview. He asked when I was planning to speak

next and by chance, it was that weekend. He came with a

photographer and our story was featured on Good Friday, 2008,

on the front page of the Philadelphia Inquirer. The headline read,

From truth, a way back…..Speaking of suicide restores a man and

his family. It included three photos and a good size news story.

Something very curious happened and I still don’t quite understand

it. The Philadelphia Inquirer is a major newspaper, with a

26

very wide circulation. The article was on the front page……but

nobody that we knew contacted us. Nobody called from our old

neighborhood. Our relatives didn’t call, nor did our friends from

past associations, nor from our former church congregation and

clubs. We were puzzled. I think the subject of suicide and

depression carries such stigma and talking about it makes people

uncomfortable. I can understand that completely. I probably

would not have reached out to another family. You just don’t

know what to say, so you say nothing.

But something very amazing happened. Strangers called.

People we didn’t know looked us up and emailed us or called on

the phone. We received many letters, all encouraging us and

thanking us for putting a face on the families suffering with

depression. They told me I was brave or that I had guts.

They told me about their experiences with depression. They

shared that they too felt empty, sad, like nobody cared about them,

or worthless.

I work in a clothing store on the Philadelphia Main Line. My

employer, Joseph A. Bank, is a pricy retail clothier whose

clientele live in affluent neighborhoods, drive expensive cars and

seem to be on top of the world without any problems. The day

following the Philadelphia Inquirer article, several men came into

the store to speak to me. They were not all customers but people

who wanted to acknowledge that they were personally touched by

the newspaper article. They took me aside and thanked me. They

thanked me for telling “their” story. They asked me questions and

whispered their secret fears, with candor. “John, I don’t even feel

like watching football any more. I just don’t have any energy,”

one well-dressed man said. “Do you think I should go on

medicine?”

Men of diverse backgrounds including a bank president, rabbi,

police officer, college student, a few well-respected community

27

leaders, and even two young returning Iraqi war veterans confided

their concerns about themselves or their loved ones. They shared

about a child with an eating disorder, panic attack or obsessive

compulsive issue. One shared about his son serving time in jail for

a crime committed when he stopped taking his medication for bipolar

and robbed a mini-mart.

When Sean Andrews, a football player for the Philadelphia

Eagles, spoke out to the media about his bout with depression this

past season, I was contacted by a public radio station to offer a

commentary. Men may be consoled to know that statistics indicate

that an estimated 6 million men in the United States have a

depressive disorder, but most don’t even know it and don’t reach

out for help. (National Institute of Mental Health)

Unexpectedly, and quite by accident, I became a “support

person” for family, friends and even strangers who ask me about

medication and talk therapy. I tell them that it takes courage to ask

for help, and that it is a strong man, not a weak one, that admits

that he wants to get to the root of his feelings of anger, irritability,

pessimism and agitation.

Over the years, Trisha brought up the topic of what had

happened to me on that beautiful April evening, and I would say,

“I don’t want to think about that. It’s too painful.” Sometimes, I

would be in such denial that I would say, “I was never depressed.

I just had a chemical imbalance.” That’s true, I did have a

chemical imbalance but I also had depression, which is hard for

most men to admit. And prior to the depression onset, I had

anxiety.

I have now committed my life to helping other “real families

with real depression” and specifically “real men with real

depression.” I feel like a sack of bricks has been lifted from my

back, now that I am being open about what happened to me.

28

My message is that depression is a treatable disease and it can

happen to anyone, whether you are a CEO, a Brigadier General, a

firefighter, or a priest. I am certainly no expert but after living

through this, I want to dedicate my life to educating people about

the causes, symptoms and treatments. I want to raise awareness

and share my personal story openly. If it happened to me, it can

happen to anyone!

I came to the conclusion that God spared me for two reasons:

so that I could heal and be a father for my kids, and so that I could

help other families deal with comparable experiences. My family

and I learned the hard way that hiding this kind of truth is

unhealthy and unnecessary. Once I came to this insight, I began

thinking that sharing our story might help others break out of this

pattern of self-imposed suffering. And that is just what is

happening: we are reaching out to others, and giving them the

comfort that comes from openness and acceptance.

Recently, a journalist who was working on a national

magazine story contacted me. She asked if I thought I had found

my vocation. She asked me to explain how this event was life

changing. I had to be honest and tell her that the decision to talk

about all of this was a tough one to make. I know my book is not a

“masterpiece” but it is an honest account about a family man, a

“normal kind of guy”, John Gallagher, who grew up in

Philadelphia, and just planned to be an accountant, certainly not a

writer or spokesperson for mental health issues. A person who

wondered over the years about the reason his life was spared on

that fateful April evening. She even sent a photographer out to our

house to take pictures to accompany the proposed article.

Although, that particular article never made it into the national

magazine, it confirmed that our story is mainstream enough for

publication.

29

Imagine my surprise when I got a call from Esquire magazine

for an interview!

I guess the biggest shock was when a Producer from the Dr.

Phil Show called Trisha and asked us to share our story. To be

considered as guests, they wanted to include the whole family.

Two of our children said they were not ready for that. I certainly

respect their feelings and appreciate so much, whatever our

children are comfortable doing.

I recently spoke at an in-service meeting for the staff at a

psychiatric hospital. Also in attendance were a group of patients

from their outpatient day program. Many folks came up to me and

said how nice it was to hear from someone who had once “walked

in their shoes.” They told me that it gave them hope that they too

could feel better. They felt frustrated because many people

thought that they should just “snap out of it” or “pull themselves

together.”

Now that I have begun speaking out, I find people coming

forward to thank me, with a gratitude that is sincere. (I must admit

that I have never had so many ladies hug me.) Most are dealing

with depression in their own families. Most express the sense of

relief that honest dialogue brings.

Reaching out to others has helped our own family to heal.

Instead of hiding, Trish and I are reaching out to others by sharing

the truth about the pain we went through. Our children, too, have

spoken their stories.

I never would have chosen the path of pain I have walked. But

now, I can see how that path served to strengthen our family bond

and to deepen our appreciation of the spiritual side of life. I am

living proof that, no matter how bad things get, there is always a

road towards healing, and a plan for our lives. God indeed, works

in mysterious ways! Our family’s journey is proof of that.

30

Editor’s Notes

I came to know the Gallaghers by an interesting fluke: I had

taken a job in the men’s clothing store in which John worked. The

article about John’s attempted suicide, it turns out, had appeared

in the Philadelphia Inquirer three months before I arrived on the

scene. I became intrigued with John’s story, and impressed not

only with his courage but his incredibly optimistic outlook. What

struck me most clearly about John was his sense of relief in being

freed of the burden of secrecy.

I became captivated by the story of the Gallagher family. I

saw how they had come together at this important juncture, and

how they were finding a way to heal as a family unit. It wasn’t

long before I met Trisha. We had an immediate affinity, and she

soon invited me to take on the role of editor. I was thrilled.

I must say that it has been a pleasure to be involved in this

project. I have gotten a full sense of what this amazing family has

gone through and what they have learned. Their story illustrates

the importance of families being open about depression. It shows

how unnecessary it is to hide the truth, and how healthy it is to

break the silence. Theirs is a compelling story about a family’s

courage, awakening, and ultimate triumph; it is truly a love story.

Ellen Bluestone, Editor

[email protected]

31

Patricia’s Story

bout 13 months before the tragedy, my husband had

come home from work with tears in his eyes. He sat next

to me on our bed. With his head bent down, he sadly

said, “I have three to six months to find another job.”

“In the company or outside,” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter. I just have to get another job,” he said

resolutely.

At this time our house was on the market. We were planning

to move to a house that we had seen that was a little bigger, a little

nicer, and a step up from where we lived. It had five bedrooms, a

pool and an in-law suite. We were excited because with the way

John had figured out the mortgage refinancing, it would only be a

slight increase over what we were currently paying. We could

handle it and felt it would be a better investment for resale in the

future. So even though at times our family resources were

somewhat strained, we weren’t concerned.

This was the day that he got the news—your days are

numbered here. There had been lots of talk about a corporate

reorganization and the possible dissolution of his department.

That morning, he had been called into a meeting with a

representative of