How a Hospital in New Hampshire, Drawing, and Steven Tyler Saved My Life

In 2018, I walked into my New York City office of nine years and discovered all my belongings had been packed away without my consent – officially signaling the TV job I loved most (and only life I really knew) was over. Then overnight, my father went from showing moderate signs of Alzheimer’s to noticeable signs of Alzheimer’s. Then, my marriage fell apart.

All of that happened in one year. Wait, I’m sorry – one week. In just one week that April, I’d gone from coming home each day like Rob Petrie in The Dick Van Dyke Show to being trapped underneath a giant metaphorical ottoman.

The only thing that kept my mind off that stuff while I gave my grandmother’s eulogy at the end of said week was the odd, throbbing pain I’d had in my arm for over a month.

Fast forward to November, and I was officially a wreck. The anxiety of a new teaching position, a return to dark and gloomy New England, and the trauma from the aforementioned April had teamed up against me. I couldn’t listen to music. I couldn’t watch TV. As cliche as it sounds, I was no longer myself.

So, I made the then-frightening decision to check myself into Portsmouth Regional Hospital. In 2018, mental health wasn’t as widely accepted or discussed, so I did so knowing there’d be a “black mark” against me to some. But it was the right decision.

Because when they took my vital signs, my heart rate was quite high for someone who hadn’t just completed a marathon. Which brought to mind the arm pain. EMDR therapy and examinations over the next year revealed that I had likely suffered a TIA ministroke in January. In the moment that November, though, what was known was that my body was betraying me.

“How can we fix it?” I asked.

“Well,” said the head of admissions, “we need to work on your mind.”

What was meant to be a two-or-three day stay became eight – enough to lower my anxiety so I could speak coherently enough with counselors to get the help I needed.

This is why it’s important to take your mental health seriously. Everything is connected. And if you aren’t mindful of your mindset – particularly in often-gloomy New England – problems that are mental can become physical and potentially tragic. You are not seeking help because you are “crazy”; you’re doing so because you are aware. You care about your health.

I did a lot of walking in the halls. My mom (who visited every day) brought me a book to read. And, as childish as it sounds, I drew a lot of cartoons and pictures.

I also thought a lot about, of all people, Steven Tyler. I found it remarkable how he kept himself going so that one day, he was able to be a father to his daughters. How if I somehow hung on, maybe I’d be able to walk my daughter down the aisle the way he’d done for Liv.

I kept being told that things would get “better.” And for a long time, I thought that was a lie. Life did not just go back to "normal" after my stay at Portsmouth Regional Hospital. My marriage ended. A deal to return to the TV job fell apart at the last minute. I also got COVID and watched the Red Sox trade Mookie Betts.

But I also taught for six semesters at my alma mater, Emerson College, with numerous students going on to do remarkable things and making me proud. I got to know callers like Patrick from Newmarket and Johnny C. from Exeter, and interview Jay Leno, Ben & Jerry, a Beach Boy, and two Barenaked Ladies.

I even shared one last, surprisingly pleasant moment with the guy from the old TV job (and you can listen to these interviews HERE).

Most importantly, the daughter I thought would never know me is now my best friend.

I usually drive past Portsmouth Regional Hospital on my way home from work. I used to think, “Man, I hope I don’t end up there again.” But the framing has since shifted. Now, I think of all the brave people being treated, who will one day reflect on their own stay once they've left.

It isn’t as easy as just getting help for a week. From weekly talk therapy to four-seven-eight breathing, it’s an ongoing process just to stay in business, so to speak.

Though currently a longshot, there technically exists the possibility of going back to the “old life” in New York. But that – and the positives of the past five years – aren’t possible if I’d just given in. And more importantly, I didn’t put those who care about me through pain they don’t deserve by giving up, namely my now-six-year-old daughter, with whom I have a wonderful relationship. She was going through boxes recently when she came across a drawing. “Is this the driveway at Grammy's??” she asked.

Sure was. The last cartoon I drew on my last day at Portsmouth Regional Hospital. A place I went to get help when life became too much. Something that shows bravery, not shame.

If you need help:

CLICK HERE IF YOU ARE IN NEW HAMPSHIRE

CLICK HERE IF YOU ARE IN MAINE

CLICK HERE IF YOU ARE IN MASSACHUSETTS

CLICK HERE IF YOU ARE IN VERMONT

CLICK HERE IF YOU ARE IN CONNECTICUT

CLICK HERE IF YOU ARE IN RHODE ISLAND

CLICK HERE IF YOU ARE IN NEW YORK