by Jimi Hunt
Doctors are at medical school for six years, and so you should be if you want to have the responsibility for curing all the people in your vicinity. You had better learn as much as you can. Problem is, there is a lot to learn, even in six years. You’ve got bones and blood and limbs and eyes and nose and skin and organs and stuff. Oh, and you also have the brain. Sometimes that brain stops working perfectly and people start behaving a little strangely. How long should we study that section for? About six weeks, if you’re lucky.
What happens when you finish medical school? Do you want to learn more about mental health? Not really? I don’t blame you. It’s not an exact science like mending a broken bone. It’s a bit messy. Let’s just forget about it and work on the other 99 per cent of sicknesses. What happens if a case comes up in the mental-health realm we need to deal with? Well, the pharmaceutical companies reckon people will be better if we prescribe their antidepressant drugs so, hey, let’s just do that.
Here is an illustration of my argument. Let’s make it a really graphic example and say that you get a new sexual partner. A good-looking, sexy, perfect, highly sexual partner. We can do that because this is just hypothetical. Awesome, aye? There’s a problem, though: your new partner’s been around a bit and you end up with a lovely case of gonorrhoea. Nice. So you go off to the doctor, you get prescribed some pills to fix that right up and you take them. It cures all the symptoms and that nasty gonorrhoea goes away. You keep sleeping with this person—remember they’re really hot—and you get gonorrhoea again. You go back to the doctor, and get cured again, and you sleep with this person again, and get gonorrhoea again, and . . . so . . . on . . .
Now here’s the question you need to ask: should the doctor keep prescribing you drugs to treat your symptoms? Or should they start treating your cause? Here’s what I would prescribe: ‘Stop sleeping with that person who won’t fix their damn STD. If you can’t do that, bring him or her in here for treatment!’ That should do the trick and it seems like pretty simple logic to me.
JIMI’S LESSON #4: You need to treat the symptoms and the cause.
This is what I believe—common depression is a symptom of your lifestyle. It’s not a disease or a cause.
We need to start treating the cause of depression. However, the cause is likely to be different for everyone. How can a doctor figure out the cause in just 15 minutes? It’s tough. That’s why I don’t blame them for simply trying to throw a blanket over a forest fire—it’s the way the system is set up. Drugs are not always the solution. They were definitely not a solution for me and I knew that.
I didn’t understand until much later why I was so certain about that, but at the time I just knew that I didn’t want them. I have a strange aversion to putting things in my body:
I don’t drink, smoke or do drugs, and that includes the legal kind. Up until recently I didn’t even get anaesthetic injections when I got fillings in my teeth.
So I declined my doctor’s offer of drugs. He already knew what I was like so he offered to refer me to a programme set up on Auckland’s North Shore that offered five free sessions with a psychiatrist. Brilliant. I’ll take them—maybe a professional who specialises in this sort of thing might be able to help me.
I got my referral approved, which took a couple of weeks, booked my appointment and waited. When the day of my appointment came I left work in the city and drove up to Albany, to a strip mall that included a dairy, a drycleaner, a shoe-repair store and an office with no name. That’s where I was going. I walked into a narrow office space with terrible department-store art on the walls and a rice-paper screen separating the reception desk from the rest. There were two chairs ready for our session. A smell of clover incense filled the air. My psychiatrist was completely typical. A man in his late fifties, bearded, wearing seventies-style dress shirt and slacks. I sat back in the big soft chair and was surprised at how comfortable it was. Nice.
We started talking. I like telling stories, if you haven’t already noticed, so when this man asked me questions I entertained him with amusing anecdotes. I actually come alive when telling stories and my signs of depression disappear. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t honest: I’m not scared of telling the truth, so I answered all the questions honestly and fully. He laughed at the stories. Time was almost up. He gave me a sheet of paper with some breathing exercises on it. I left.
As I was driving down the motorway towards home I was reflecting on what had just happened. Nothing. He had asked me questions about my life, said that I was taking on a lot and maybe I should take on less. Nice advice, but those three major life events weren’t changing—they were still on the schedule racing towards me.
Could I really lessen the stress with these breathing exercises? Really? Breathing exercises? Oh, that has been my problem all along, I don’t know how to breathe properly! It felt like a complete waste of time. I got home and talked to Jo about what had happened. She’d had a wide-eyed sense of optimism that because I was finally actively seeking help I might get better. I told her that this man wasn’t going to do it for me.
Sensing my dejection, she made me promise to go to all the sessions that I had been offered, not for my own sake but as a good husband-to-be wanting to please his wife-to-be. Of course I agreed and booked in another session. Session Two started the same way. We had a jovial chat about comings and goings, and then he started asking more questions about my earlier life.
Did I have a good upbringing? I explained to him that it was excellent.
Are my parents together? Yip. Which is fantastic in this day and age.
Do I get on with them? Yes, yes I do.
Was I sexually assaulted as a child? Ummm, no. No I wasn’t.
Was I sure? Yes! Damn sure!
His fishing expedition continued for the rest of the hour. Except at the end. At the very end we practised the breathing exercises. The hour was up. I got in my car and headed home. ‘I’m sorry, Jo, but I’m not going back to that guy. I’m not sure there are many things in this life that he could help me with.’ I was over it, but again Jo convinced me to go back.
A few weeks went by. Even though the guy I saw was not helpful for me, I think it made me happier just talking about things a little. He had talked about stress, not depression, but I had to go back to my hectic schedule trying to get those three major life events planned for and completed.
The design work was painful and the approvals process was excruciating but it was getting done. The bar work was massive; it included components of building and dealing with contractors, and it’s always stressful trying to get these things done on time. Planning for the wedding was coming along too, but I still wasn’t well.
The old symptoms came back, like not wanting to go out and, more importantly, arguing with Jo. The annoying thing was, I didn’t even know what we were arguing about most of the time. I just wasn’t happy, and I was taking it out on Jo.
Eventually I cracked. I had another mini breakdown. I cried. I yelled. I cried again. It was horrible. Jo told me I needed to get some help. She didn’t ask me, she told me. Categorically. And she was right. I needed help. Was I going to get it myself ? Nope. So Jo did some research to find a great psychologist who could help with depression. She checked reviews, she asked for and got people’s opinions, she did everything she could and came back with the name of a woman who was, by all accounts, excellent. We booked an appointment, and a week later I was sitting in my car out the front of her home office ready to go in. I was ready to get better. I wanted to get better. I just needed some help.
As I sat down in her office I felt a slight tingle of excitement. Hopefully this would be it, this would be the thing that fixed everything. We started talking, she asked general questions and I answered them. She asked more background questions and I told some amusing stories. Time was up. The 60 minutes had disappeared fast. I didn’t really have any answers though. I had just answered her questions. We stood in her foyer, me handing over my bank card. I put in my PIN number a
nd I didn’t want to push that green button to complete the payment but I knew I had to, so I did—$180 disappeared out of my account. I will repeat that—$180. That is how much it just cost me to tell a woman some stories. She should pay me $180 for the entertainment! She booked me in again for the next Tuesday morning and off I went to work. Jo called me, wanting to know how it had gone. Like I said, I was ready for results, but this session had given me none, and I told her that. She was still encouraging. I am sure she figured that she would have to be all of that in order to get me to go back the following week. She was right, I was going to go back the next week. Although my confidence had been dented I still wanted to be fixed and I still held out hope that this was the woman who would be able to do it for me.
The following Tuesday morning I was there again. When the session started, she asked questions, I gave answers.
‘Hmmm, why did I feel like this?’ ‘Ummm, I don’t know.
That’s why I’m here!’
‘How does this make you feel?’ ‘It makes me feel sad, angry and depressed. I know exactly how it makes me feel and I want to stop feeling this way!
‘I’m sorry? What? Oh breathing exercises you say?’ I said, but I thought, ‘Fan-fuckin-tastic.’
Then I said, ‘Am I stressed? Yes, I told you all about that, and guess what, my stress levels aren’t exactly decreasing from this encounter!’
Session over. We walked to the foyer. I paid her another $180. I had just enough money in my account to pay, no more. My dad had said that he would pay for these sessions. This epitomises my dad. I never want to take anything from him but he always offers and, quite simply, I cannot afford this woman’s fees. I am fortunate and thankful that he can. Even though I know that the money will be reimbursed into my account it still hurts me to pay. I feel like it’s a gigantic waste of money.
‘Next Tuesday at 9 am?’ she asked.
‘Sure. Thanks,’ I replied, but thought, ‘Fantastic. Just what I need.’
The following Tuesday the scenario was the same again—exactly the same. Do I get any answers? No. Am I feeling any better? No. Do we keep talking? Yes. It was depressing. It was then that I figured something out. Here’s where I have another massive problem.
It seems to me that psychologists and psychiatrists are the opposite of doctors. As discussed, doctors try to get you in and out as quickly as possible and would really love not to see you again for another year or so. Psychologists and psychiatrists in private practice, on the other hand, make more money by spending longer with you. I’m sure if you talked to them they’d say that they are there to help, which I’m sure they are, but they charge their own rates and have business interests to protect. I know they help a lot of people but I couldn’t help wondering about an important question—where is their motivation to help me? If they fix me in one session and send me on my way then they only get one payment and they have to find another client to take my place the following week. If they don’t completely help me, and get me coming back each week, they only need four clients a day paying $180 per session to make $170,000 a year. That’s a pretty tidy pay packet. My problem is not that they might get paid a lot of money—hell, I’d give someone my life savings to fix me if they could. It’s more the question of motivation. Why should they fix me? If they fix me they just lose a client.
So there I was with doctors at one end with not enough time to help but plenty of motivation, and psychologists at the other end with all the time in the world but no motivation to help me. So what’s the answer? I still didn’t know. I’d been to both and I had no answers. More importantly, I had no results. I felt the same as I had before.
I was still depressed. I still had all these things on my plate. With just six weeks to go to the first deadline, I had to get the Rugby World Cup work done, I had to get the bar open and I had to get our wedding sorted. I felt alone, like it was all on my shoulders, like I was the only one responsible.
The doctors had told me that my problem was all stress-related. Sure, I was stressed but it was nothing I couldn’t normally handle. I’d spent my entire life loading myself up with things to do and I’d been fine before. Mentally, I thought I could cope with it all. Physically, I need very little sleep and I was in reasonable shape so I felt I should be able to cope with everything I’d taken on. Shouldn’t I? ‘Yes, I can. I will be fine. It will all get done,’ or so I told myself.
The bar development was coming along but we had the smallest budget imaginable and we were trying to do everything on the cheap. For example, I had the lighting put in by a friend of a friend who got paid with beer. The wedding was coming along, I guess. Jo was wonderful, the opposite of a bridezilla. She understood our budget constraints as well as our time constraints. Things were getting done.
The World Cup design that was due to be delivered on 1 February 2010 went live with 30 minutes to spare. Completed, sorted and looking great, it made me happy—really happy. A week later the bar was due to open. All thoughts and efforts moved to this: the floors needed to be finished, we needed to sort out more staff, we needed to organise the stock, we needed to get people to turn up to the opening . . . There was so much to do. Jo had done a lot but there was still more. We worked and worked and worked. There were disagreements, as well as happy moments and joyous agreements. Come opening night, everything went smoothly.
Life was good again and we were happy.
This left the last of the three major events—the best one of all. It was time to get married. Both Jo and I are nontraditional. Not in the sense that we have to get married dressed in scuba gear on a boat presided over by a goat. It’s just that neither of us believes in religion or a lot of the traditions associated with marriage. We were planning to get married on the beach just up the road from my parents’ holiday house on Waiheke.
When the day came, everything went smoothly until about 40 minutes before the ceremony when massive winds made our chosen location unusable. I made a quick decision to move the ceremony to the other coast, called the cab company and told them to take all our guests to the new location. Then I had to make the call to let Jo know I had moved our venue without consulting her. ‘All good,’ she said in a calm, happy tone. ‘It’s not a bother. If that’s what needs to be done then that’s what needs to be done.’ Awesome.
The other side of the island was peaceful and idyllic. The ceremony was performed by my old primary school teacher. It was full of all the things that Jo and I valued. The only thing Jo was worried about was my vows. We had both written our own vows. She had hers ready weeks before and had instructed me to do the same. As you know, I had been quite busy, so I hadn’t really had time to do it. I wrote them the night before the ceremony.
She was scared, not because she thought I wouldn’t have them written in time but because she knew that I have a penchant for inappropriate jokes and not caring what other people think. She was right, I am prone to those types of things, but what she forgot is that I have the utmost respect for her. I wouldn’t do that on our wedding day and it was just as special a moment for me as it was for her. My parents are still married after almost 40 years and I was only going to get married once, to the woman of my dreams, Jo.
I won’t write down verbatim what I said, but my vows are summed up best by two quotes from people who were there:
‘I have never laughed so much or cried so much at the same time.’—Mike Shaw
‘I never thought that the best wedding vows I have ever heard would contain two fucks and a shit.’—Steve Corbett
With the ceremony completed, it was time to walk with the congregation the 700 metres to my parents’ house for the reception. This could have been done in any number of ways and more than likely with some sort of decorum. Instead, I took my pink Chuck Taylors off my feet, tied them around my head and led my new wife and a parade of guests up the beach to the house. All, of course, accompanied by the stilt walker, the bagpiper and the congregation who had been provided with pots, pans and banging devices
from my mother’s kitchen to make as much goddamn noise as possible along the way. That was our wedding and it was perfectly us.
JIMI’S LESSON #5: If you have a parade with pots and pans, don’t use your mother’s.
The pots and pans get pretty smashed up and your mother is probably going to be quite annoyed with you. Hopefully she will be nice and wait until after your wedding day to tell you off, like mine did. Hi, Mum. Love you.
The reception was in the grounds of the beach house. We kept it really simple. We had a barbecue, Mum made all the desserts, we got the alcohol from the liquor supplier for our newly opened bar and we had a party. We also had a bouncy castle. We told the people we were hiring it from that it was for my little cousin’s birthday. I’ll tell you one thing, 30-year-old people still love bouncy castles. It went fantastically with the fairy bread and lolly cake I’d commanded Mum to make. Oh, and we also had live performances from Nesian Mystik and PNC, two of New Zealand’s premier hip-hop acts and the newlyweds’ favourites. I echo the sentiments of most of the people there—best wedding ever!
I was really happy. I had married the woman I loved, the day had been perfect and life was good. I hadn’t had a holiday in as long as I could remember and we were about to take two weeks off and go on our honeymoon. We still didn’t have much money so we decided that since Jo was from Australia and hadn’t really seen much of New Zealand we should go on a driving adventure around the country. There were a few slight problems though, including the fact that we didn’t have a car, but thanks to our wonderful friend Tiff who lent us hers for two weeks we were on our way. The biggest problem was that we had to leave the bar and we didn’t really have anyone to run it for us, or even someone with a duty manager’s licence. We didn’t really have much choice though, so we left it with Will, a man who had only been working in hospitality for about a year. At least he was someone we trusted to do his best not to burn the place down. We hoped.
