Half-Time

Half Time

Half Time

Introduction

I call this text Half-Time because I managed to recover from a difficult depression last winter, but I know I must do everything possible to fend off this illness in the coming winter—and hopefully for the rest of my life. To break the cycle of mental illness permanently, I’m willing to go to great lengths. Writing and sharing this text is a crucial part of my recovery. I hope to learn from my past mistakes and receive feedback from others in a similar situation. It’s also essential to dismantle the stigma surrounding mental illness.

In this piece, I aim to briefly describe my journey and explore the different tools I’ve been using, as well as the people I’ve met along the way. Some parts of my story are very dark, but the power of love, resilience, and compassion always shines through as a stronger force.

Background

I had my first experience with depression when I was 19 and traveling alone in Australia. At the time, I didn’t recognize it as depression, but I understood it later. I was in a very dark place for a while, but I received a lot of support and help from kind people along the way. After that first year, I experienced ups and downs, with the lows always appearing in winter. Despite this, I managed without medical help and remained unaware of the underlying condition. I began to realize that some things were harder for me than for most of my friends. I was very active in various political groups and organizations, often filling my schedule with those activities while neglecting chores at home. Quite frequently, I would wake up completely exhausted in the mornings.

In 2010, a few friends and I relaunched a festival that had been active for many years in Krokstrand, a village in the north of Bohuslän, right on the Norwegian border, where my ex grew up. I threw myself into it headfirst. It was a lot of fun, but it also took time and energy away from my studies as a teacher. I partly used volunteer work and activism as a substitute when I found working for a wage to be repressive and exhausting. In these projects, I found purpose, meaning, and a sense of community. When it came time to choose, the decision was easy. Krokstrand and the festival demanded many hours of work, but it also brought a lot of encouragement and a boost to my self-confidence. However, during the festival, I experienced my first manic episodes. I would work nonstop and then stay up partying all night. I loved being the center of attention. After our first festival, I remember leaving our house in Krokstrand because I couldn’t wind down when everyone else was tired. It took me at least three days to come down.

I didn’t drop out of my teacher studies, but I tried to step up and focus on what I had at hand. I even saw a counselor who gave me many helpful tools. Still, my studies and internship caused me a lot of stress. I experienced high levels of anxiety and could barely sleep when the pressure built up. It took a lot of effort to stay focused. I was completely absorbed by the pressure—leading groups and making sure I knew enough English and Spanish to teach effectively. I set high expectations for myself and viewed wage labor and schools as burdens to endure, though I also recognized their positive aspects. This perspective was shaped by both my political views at the time and my personal struggles. In general, I had a constant feeling of lack, as though something was missing, and I believed I had to make up for it by working harder. "Uneven" is a word that keeps coming to mind. All these factors eventually led to the Great Depression.

I managed to stay healthy for many years thanks to antidepressant medication, therapy, behavioral changes, and a supportive, accepting workplace with a boss who focused on my strengths rather than my weaknesses. I also developed a solid running routine and practiced Buddhist mindfulness meditation with a group from the U.S. called Dharma Punks. After a few years without symptoms, I stopped taking my medication because I felt fairly well.

My family and I moved to Uddevalla, where I started a challenging job at a school that was chaotic at the time. Fights were breaking out regularly, and many students who needed support weren’t getting it. To make matters worse, I was struggling with managing my anger. When I got worked up with my students, it felt like pouring gasoline on a fire. Soon, I was experiencing all my old symptoms of burnout and depression. I had two kids in daycare and an intense schedule, with too many lessons crammed into my workday. I’ve reflected on those experiences here. 

A downward slippery slope

In 2022, I found myself back in the same place—exhausted and struggling with stomach pain. I had been busy with full-time work, two children who needed my attention, volunteer work at Folkets Hus in Krokstrand, and a project called Krokfest, a smaller version of Krokstrandsfestivalen that we used to run. I also had a friend who was slipping into depression and facing potential homelessness. I tried to rest and ride it out. I ran and took cold water baths to regain my energy, but nothing seemed to help. When I tried to return to work, I wasn’t ready. I was exhausted and had to bide my time. I worried about the economy, but I didn’t fall into depression. Instead, I worked hard to push through the burnout, which, in hindsight, is a common but ineffective strategy.

Fortunately, I had a strict doctor who insisted I stay home until my symptoms improved. I also met an online therapist who helped me through the initial steps. I had to cut back on everything—postponing or canceling commitments—and I started seeing a psychologist who recognized that something deeper was behind my burnout. She began screening me for ADHD and referred me to a psychiatric clinic for further assessment. I soon realized that getting an appointment there would take a long time—probably over two years. At Christmas, I performed a pagan ceremony called Blot with my son. I made an offering to Eir, the Norse goddess of healing, and slowly began to improve, though with the usual setbacks.

I came across a quote by the author Giorgi Grossi about recovering from burnout: “It goes up and down and slowly forwards.” I slowly made my way back to work. My boss gave me a laid-back schedule, providing good conditions for my return. Unfortunately, I continued the same behavior that had made me sick in the first place. I dove headfirst into Krokfest. I applied for grants, booked a band from Norway through a British booking agency, and built a deck in my garden with the help of friends. I also assisted a guy with community service at our Folkets Hus in Krokstrand and did my best to meet my children's needs. I ran into the summer holidays with a load of plans. I worked a few weeks at my old summer job, and we had many Krokfest meetings. It was rewarding in many ways, but it became overwhelming. The festival constantly absorbed me. As we neared the event, I worked and partied for several nights in a row. When it started, it was wonderful, but I became manic and barely slept the first night. As challenging and worrisome as these moments were, they were also some of the best of my life—except for when I met my wife and had my children. Unfortunately, they triggered something in me that I couldn’t control. When it was time to return to work, I was still in an intense mood. I tried to start an organization for people with mental illness and got involved in the pagan group Forn Sed.

I remember meeting with a counselor we had seen for family support. She often told me I was involved in too many projects and needed to focus on my family. That autumn, when we went to talk to her, I felt guilty for not being able to change my behavior and feared I might have harmed my family. In retrospect, she was too judgmental and left me with a constant sense of guilt instead of empowerment. To her credit, she had a “children first” perspective, but parents who feel inadequate don’t become better parents. Strangely, I managed to work through the entire term without crashing, even though it was close. When we finally reached the Christmas holidays, I felt okay, but instead of relaxing, I kept pushing myself at a high speed.

The depression to end all depressions

On New Year's Eve, I went for a run in the morning, but I soon realized something was wrong. After just 3 kilometers, I had to stop and rush into the forest. I felt sick and initially thought I had eaten something bad, but the feeling didn’t pass. I stayed home that night, watching series to distract myself. For the rest of the vacation, I struggled with anxiety. Just before I was supposed to start work, I made a sacrifice and felt better. I sacrificed to my closest patron deity, asking for the strength to work and function. But on the first day back, I realized it wouldn’t work. I had nausea and went home.

I had some intense days, hoping things would improve, but the damage to my immune system was already done. Guilt-ridden thoughts plagued me: “I’ve put myself in this situation again.” “I’m never going to work again.” “The statistics are against me.” “Every time, it will be harder to return to work.” “Three strikes, and you're out.” “I’ll be at the mercy of Försäkringskassan (The Swedish Social Security Agency).” My healthier side confronted these negative voices, and it felt like a war was raging inside me. I formed an alliance with my guides and goddess to drive out the darkness, but my anxiety only worsened. Eventually, it overcame me, and despite my stiff resistance, my old suicidal thoughts returned. I was caught between a rock and a hard place and realized I couldn’t cope alone. I could barely keep it together when the kids were home, and it reached a point where I was constantly crying. I was still on a high dose of antidepressants, but they no longer helped. It felt as though the protective wall they had built around me had been stormed by enemy forces.

After several calls to the emergency ward, I went to the hospital to be assessed by a doctor. By then, I was weak, and my negative emotions were overwhelming. I was admitted to a ward I had been to before, and somehow, I felt safe there. Many people dislike mental institutions, but my experiences have been mostly positive. The staff was kind, and there were several nice patients. Most of the people I met inside were warm individuals who sought help due to their conditions and the challenges of society. The doctor who assessed me recommended I start taking a medication called Anafranil. I had never used it before, but apparently, it was an older antidepressant that was more common decades ago. She suggested I could return to work in a couple of weeks, which made me laugh with relief. I began the medication intravenously, and I felt better relatively quickly. After a while, I was allowed to come and go from the hospital, which was nice because it meant I could spend more time with my family. But not long after I started feeling better, my condition worsened significantly. Everything suddenly turned black, and I had to go back to the hospital for 24/7 care.

Deep down

One day, I fell into a deep hole. I saw the brutal suffering of those around me: a mother too sick to care for her children, a man reliving traumatic experiences, and the grey, colorless walls of the ward—all of it painted a bleak picture. I descended into a pit where all hope was gone, replaced by psychosis, madness, and suicide. Then, suddenly, my guides and my patron deity appeared. They fiercely attacked the parasitic entity with everything they had. They formed a protective wall around me, and the dark forces retreated quickly. My guides held a defensive line, and I was safe, though completely shattered. I called two of my closest friends and cried, but by then, the worst of it seemed to be over.

I spoke with a nurse who had crossed the world to escape repression in his country. He looked me deeply in my eyes and said, “I’ve been depressed too, and I know you’ll get better.” His dark eyes were full of sincerity, and I felt comforted. Finally, I found some peace within myself and accepted my condition. My nervous system had broken down, and I needed rest. I began to relax, taking walks and watching the bleak January sun rise and set from a window in the ward. I met a doctor who considered me well enough to go home. Unfortunately, I was still on the same medication I had been on before I was hospitalized. The intravenous treatment was meant to be a temporary fix to help me get back on track.

I went home and did my best to manage chores, rest, and medication. But soon, the same symptoms resurfaced, and I had to return to the hospital. This time, I met a new doctor who comforted me and tried a different medication. I shared my fears about possibly having bipolar disorder, and she put me on a milder bipolar medication along with a new form of antidepressant. This ward was slightly better than the last one. There was a drawing on the wall of a tree, where everyone was encouraged to write an encouraging message on a leaf. I met a couple of guys I connected with, and many had similar experiences. I also returned to my meditation practice with a new friend. We sat in the hospital chapel, and I rediscovered the profound freedom of simply observing my breath. During meditation, I paused and began to observe my condition, traveling backward through layers of memories.

During this stay, I spent more time thinking about alternative treatments, new medications, and potential diagnoses. One field gaining momentum is psychedelic treatments, and I researched various studies, seeing a possibility for change, though it felt distant. Sweden is a conservative country on these matters, but there are already clinical trials taking place and growing interest among clinicians and in the scientific community.

Separation

I felt better when I left the ward this time. I was stronger, but still fragile. I started visiting friends, and my sick leave was about to end. I was in Gothenburg with friends when my wife called and told me I needed to come home. She reassured me that nothing bad had happened and that the kids were away. She wanted to talk about our relationship and told me she wanted to separate. My fragile mind swung between emotions, and we both cried a lot. We had spent seventeen years together and had been friends for eight years before becoming a couple. Now, she wanted some kind of change but said she still wanted me to be part of her life as a friend.It was very difficult to handle, but her warmth and reassurances made it easier

I returned to work, but I wasn’t ready. I forced myself to wear a poker face until I eventually crashed again. Nothing seemed to work I was completely stiff and the dark parasite told me to hang myself in the laundry room. I called my dad and he came to get me. My former wife and best friend hugged me and told me she loved me and that she didn’t want to harm me. I told her my worsening condition was not because of her decision. It was the disease or the shadow if one prefers that term. At the ward, I repeated the procedure and waited for a doctor. I got admitted again.

Unfortunately, there was a lack of space in the ward, so several of us had to be moved to another one. It was very modern but felt a bit like a prison. At first, I was tense, but I soon relaxed and started going for runs. I thought to myself that, with a strict structure, I could slowly overcome the illness. I met kind and compassionate people in the ward, both among the staff and the patients. We played board games and had conversations. The staff were caring and made us feel at ease. They were concerned about us and their own working conditions. Their bosses had told them there was no need for emergency wards, as regular psychiatric clinics were supposed to handle such cases. What a joke—it's almost impossible to even get an appointment. No wonder so many people end up seeking emergency help. I also spoke to my wife again. It was painful, but it felt good, too. My son and parents came to visit; everyone was shaken and sad, but it was comforting to see them. After that, I returned to my original ward and spoke with my favorite doctor. She put me on a new medication and gave me a long sick leave certificate. This time, I hoped it would be my last visit to the ward. And, for now, it was.

Something like a conclusion

I’m currently involved in several interesting processes, but I need closure on this chapter. Before we finish, there are two important things I need to address. I survived all my episodes thanks to two key factors: my willingness to change and the support network around me. Throughout these episodes, I reached out for help in three directions: my friends and family, professionals, and my inner guides and patron deity.

From day one, my friends and family have been there for me. They've witnessed me go through these states before, and each has helped in their own way—some offering practical support, others providing emotional care. I reached out early, and the support I received was invaluable. I always had someone to cry with, and for me, that’s crucial.

My family stepped up in so many ways, and you all remain my biggest motivation to rid myself of this disease for good. Unfortunately, the Swedish healthcare system is underfunded and overburdened, making accessing the right professional help difficult. While the need is vast, resources are limited, and the organization needs major improvements. However, I was fortunate to meet many caring and competent professionals who helped me along the way. Despite this, I had to organize much of my care myself.

With the guidance of a psychiatrist, I found a physiotherapist who led me to an occupational therapist specializing in neurodivergent patients. This therapist has been with me the longest and remains a constant source of support. She also helped me connect with a psychologist who worked both at the emergency ward and my local mental health clinic, accelerating my treatment. I also arranged for a personal ombudsman to assist with issues related to my employer, the social security system, and the dysfunctional teachers' union. Additionally, I had short-term contact with an online psychologist since my mental health clinic only provides assessments—not counseling! The system is bizarre, and one has to be incredibly proactive to mobilize a professional support network.

As a practicing pagan, I also drew strength from my patron deity, Edda, whom I reconstructed myself. She symbolizes resistance, solidarity, and love. Along with her, I have a group of invisible guides who support me in various areas of my life. Though I understand they are products of my imagination, they have been an essential part of my survival. Ultimately, though, the responsibility for my health rests with me. While I need support, my determination is crucial if I want to heal—without it, progress is nearly impossible.