Chosen To Live by Jerry Schemmel
Excerpts
The symptoms of my declining days with the CBA would have given any trained counselor a road map to my psychological diagnosis. My demeanor around the office probably reflected all the textbook signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, on which all of us who survived United 232 had been briefed immediately after the crash. Of course, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.
Anger and guilt came and went, while physical energy deteriorated until I assumed a near zombie-like state. Sleeplessness dogged me and, on those rare occasions when I did slip into slumber, nightmares followed. They remained only two constants in my emotional life – depression, which I refused to recognize in its clinical form, and Diane, who had no more idea how to deal with these symptoms than I did. The difference was that she, at least, made an effort.
Diane would propose that we do things to help me out of the doldrums – a movie, dinner, anything - but I would usually decline. She would suggest a vacation and I would find an excuse not to go. She knew that exercise usually helped clear my mind and she would encourage me to go for long distance runs. But I seldom found the energy to do even that.
Diane never pushed me hard, she simply let her suggestions float in the air until I’d shoot them down and then we would move on to another topic. Being around me, I’m sure, was like walking on eggshells for her, an experience frightening for her on two levels. She saw me slipping into some dark world and feared losing the man she’d married, yet she avoided pressing the issue for fear of making things worse. The worst part about what was happening to me was seeing the effects in her eyes and had already pushed her love and patience beyond any reasonable human limits. Although still in a prolonged period of denial, I was not totally blind to the effects of my emotional upheaval. While on the one hand I tried to make myself ignore it, on the other I simply felt powerless to reverse it.
