A year ago this week I tested that theory.
I’ve always been depressed. I must have emerged from my mother’s womb with an overactive amygdala and a deficient prefrontal cortex–creative brain wiring that generates panic and sadness. I was almost hospitalized in the fourth grade because I simply could not stop crying. However, since December of 2008, when the market crashed, I hadn’t been able to surface into the land of the living and do things like pick up the kids from school and be at places like swim practice without hearing constant death thoughts (“I wish I were dead”).
They were persistent, loud, and maddening.
For five years I tried countless medication combinations, saw my psychiatrist every few weeks, worked with a therapist, and swam two and a half miles every day.
Still, I was doing death math—the type of arithmetic where you add up the ages of all your ancestors who have died and divide that number by the number of forebears to get the median age of death—the number that determines how long you have to hang on for.
So I tried the holistic route.