I went through a very sticky patch about six years ago, and for those who have never had it (and hope you never do!), depression is gawdawful! It's not just "having the blues" or feeling a bit down—it's debilitating. If you've never been there, it's impossible to understand just how low you can feel. Don't try to handle it by yourself. Get help.

I had polio when I was two years old and walked with aluminum forearm crutches all my life. Nevertheless, I've led a rich and active life. During the late Fifties and on into the Sixties I sang almost every weekend in one coffeehouse or another, I did a batch of concerts and some TV, and made a thoroughly enjoyable if somewhat marginal living by singing. I used to clomp out onto the stage and sit down exactly like Itzak Perlman does, with someone caring my guitar for me. I continued performing from time to time on into the Seventies and Eighties, not quite as much as before, but still performing. In spite of having to walk with crutches, there wasn't much I wanted to do that I couldn't.

Then on February 5th, 1990, I fell and broke my "good" leg. That put me in a wheelchair, no longer able to walk with crutches. Suddenly there were a lot of things I wanted to do that I couldn't. And ADA notwithstanding, there are many places you just cannot go if you're stuck in a wheelchair. Because of the disability, my life had been slightly restricted before (climbing Mt. Everest or Olympic track and field was pretty well out). Now, I was really restricted. Among other things, have you ever tried playing a guitar while sitting in a wheelchair? The right wheel is where you want the lower bout of the guitar to be, and it throws the guitar way out of position. Really screws things up!

It took about five years for this change to sink in. I read a lot, wrote a lot, watched a lot of TV, still played the guitar while sitting on the bed, went out some, but it's a real struggle transferring from wheelchair to car and back again. My universe had contracted drastically.

Then, suddenly, I started having panic attacks. Shortly after that, all enthusiasm for existence sank into the deepest pit imaginable. Without dwelling on that, suffice it to say that it was, by far, the worst period in my life.

My wife Barbara had been through something like this before and she knew what to do. She took me to a counselor. The counselor sent me to a psychiatrist for evaluation. The psychiatrist diagnosed it as clinical depression, and put me on Xanex for the panic attacks, and prescribed an anti-depressant. We tried Zoloft first, and it made it worse! Then we tried Effexor, and that was no better. The damned anti-depressant made me feel downright suicidal! I decided that somehow I would have to deal with this without the anti-depressant. But how?

It was my sister who gave me the clue. "Clinical depression?" she said. "I don't think so. Clinical depression is physiological—a matter of brain chemistry. But take a look at the drastic way your life has changed recently. I think what you have is situational depression. Anti-depressants won't help that, and they might just make it worse. Stick with the counselor" (Without going into my sister's qualifications, she does know what she's talking about.)

I followed my sister's advice. It took a couple of months with the counselor and my mood began to lift—actually, it began to lift within a couple of weeks, because I was doing something about it. I stuck with the counselor for a couple of years. We talked a lot, and with her help I managed to clean out a bunch of mental closets. She helped me immensely in learning how to cope with my situation—and to find ways to expand my universe as much as possible.

Now? I'm okay. I acknowledge my situation and face it squarely. It's damned frustrating and I don't try to deny it. But—no more depression and no more panic attacks. All in all, I feel pretty good. I still don't get around very much, but I write a lot, I read a lot, I watch a fair amount of TV, and I cruise the internet a lot (spending an inordinate amount of time on Mudcat). I also developed a pretty fair solution to the problem of playing a guitar while sitting in the wheelchair. I bought a small travel guitar, a Go guitar made by Sam Radding in San Diego, which actually sounds like a real guitar (!), and with a strap, I can hold it securely in a good position without the wheel interfering. It's still a hassle getting in and out of a car, but every now and then Bob and Judy Nelson have a songfest at their place in Everett, and Barbara and I go up. Bob tips the wheelchair back like a hand-truck and lifts my up his two front steps and into the house, then a batch of us sing up a storm for the next few hours. What's my current major project? I'm "writing my memoirs," which is a thoroughly enjoyable nostalgia-trip, and trying get all the songs I know, tunes, annotations and all, into some kind of a songbook.

Get counseling. But try to keep on top of things. Don't necessarily accept everything you're told. Many psychiatrists tend to take the easy way and reach for the prescription pad when what is really needed is counseling. Sometimes pharmaceuticals don't solve the problem; they just cover it up and it's still there waiting to pop out again. As much as you can, try to be the judge of your own condition.

Winston Churchill suffered from bouts of depression. He called it "the black dog." I'm in pretty good shape right now, but if my "black dog" ever returns, I know what to do.

I hope this helps.

Don Firth