my best life 06.022.17.558P

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my best life

the discovery of a success formula in one of
the darkest places on earth

ANDREW THOMPSON

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2017 Andrew Thompson
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in any
form or by any means whatsoever without the expressed written permission in advance
from the author, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.
For more information on bulk orders, contact:
[email protected]
DiscoverPeakPerformance.com
Published by PEAK Performance Publishing
Printed in the USA
International Standard Book Number: 978-0-9887523-3-7

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For my mother, Dolores.
You were always me best supporter

I love you.

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contents

05 the fall
10 part of a growing trend
13 a frozen exile
16 the storm
19 the discovery
28 the watershed moment
34 an age old lesson

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introduction

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the fall

The day I had been dreading was here, I was leaving southern
California. I’ll always remember the sunrise that morning, it was
warm and comforting as though it was an old friend who was
sharing my sadness. Time, on the other hand, moved very slowly
and it seemed to taunt me with recent memories. My eight-year
relationship and marriage was ending and my marketing
business, which had never gotten a solid footing since our move
from Chicago, failed. The result was a financial collapse that took
nearly everything I owned.
How the hell did I get here?
Fifteen months earlier, my wife and I had made the decision to
move to California in the hopes of a better life for our family. My
wife was a Chicago native and it was her lifelong dream to move to

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sunny, southern California. We also liked the idea of better
educational opportunities through the state’s top-rated schools
for her two young sons.

Our closest friends, who had recently moved to California from
Chicago, invited us to come out for a visit the year before. It was
a chilly fall day when we left for a week-long family vacation.

The cool greys of suburban south Chicago were quickly forgotten
when I stepped off the plane and into the bright sunshine, green
grass, palm trees and the stunning blues of the Pacific.

We rented a Mercedes during our stay, no longer driving around
in our older model SUV. Our friends were living in a gorgeous
home with a pool in a gated, up-scale community. They were
experiencing great success and encouraged us to make the big
move. It would be great to be neighbors again and rekindle that
friendship we all enjoyed back in Chicago.

The more we talked about it, the more it just felt right.

I had created successful marketing business in Chicago and felt
that I could duplicate that same success anywhere.

That was my first mistake.

It took about a year to get all the details worked out and bring
closure to our life in Chicago while laying all the groundwork for
our new life waiting for us on the west coast.

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Almost a year to the day from when we took our vacation we finally
arrived in California leaving our old lives behind us. Moving into
our new home felt surreal, it was so beautiful and was three times
the size of what we were used to. We were decorating it in our
minds as we walked through it. There were so many rooms, some
remained empty because we didn’t have enough furniture to fill
them all. I can remember fantasizing about all the antique pieces
mixed with modern ones to create the eclectic theme we both
wanted. The plan was to begin filling the house room by room over
the course of the next year.

Three months later my business began to struggle and all the
emotionally based reasons to move to California began to sour.
My business suffered one set-back after another and without the
financial capital to wade through the small storms time was
becoming my enemy. The money was flying out the window faster
than I could make those critical business connections to grow the
company in this new environment.

I began to realize that I had bitten off more than I could chew.

As the final months played out, I made poor choices out of panic,
trying almost anything to keep my head above water. I resorted to
creative deal making for the sake of just getting some cash flow
coming in.

At one point, I would offer my services for a third of my customary
rate and in doing so two things happened. First, not all the bills
were getting paid. In addition to that, my customer’s expectations

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remained high based on time/effort and quality and I became
resentful because I was working three times as hard for the money
I was making. I felt as if they were taking advantage of me, not
waking up to the fact that I had brought this upon myself by
lowering my fees and not my standards. I thought if I could hang
on long enough, the tide would turn… but, it never did and as a
result my reputation suffered, my integrity was gone and
friendships were lost.

Our dream had turned into a nightmare.

The wolf was at the door. The banks, utility companies and
multiple creditors wanted their money and clients whose jobs
were unfinished were screaming for refunds. There was no way I
was going to be able to give them all what they wanted with the
time that I had left.

On the verge of losing our home, one of my wife’s real estate
friends offered a safe haven for the family to recover. They knew
of an unused bed and breakfast just outside of town. It was in the
middle of bankruptcy which left it available for the next 6 months.
My wife immediately accepted the offer and told me about it when
I got home later that evening. She told me that the offer was
conditional. Her friend insisted that my wife and the boys move
in alone. I was not invited.

“…and you accepted?” I asked.

“Yes.” She replied.

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Right then I knew that our personal struggles had made me a
social outcast in the community, a man who couldn’t take care of
his family and I had even lost the trust of my wife and her boys.
Everything that I had cared about, everything that I had worked
so hard for was slipping through my fingers. I knew I had made
some mistakes, everybody does, but I felt as if my crimes did not
fit the punishments I suffered and I was becoming very angry.

I reached out to my friend, Joseph in Ohio, who had been
following this story as it unfolded. He realized how desperate my
situation had become and offered a storeroom he had in the back
of his condominium as a place to stay and recover. The decision
was clear and I accepted. My refuge was two thousand miles away
and I just needed some cash to get there. With time running out,
I began to sell my personal possessions.

Left in the house was some furniture, clothes and my office
equipment. A moment that sticks out in my mind most is when I
only had one day left and the last item was my 27 inch iMac
computer.

I had originally purchased it and the business software for nearly
$5,000 only a few years before. It was in excellent condition and
I was hoping to make a good deal. With my wife and the boys
secured in their new home and time running out this fourty-year
Hispanic man walks in and offers me $350 for the computer filled
with top of the line software. At that moment, I was knocked off
my pedestal of power and was at the mercy of this stranger. I took
his cash and watched him leave with the computer. The house was

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now empty with only a few extension cords on the floor, half empty
boxes and sand blowing in through the open patio door.

I slowly walked among the empty ruins of what was once a dream
come true and a promising life. Except for the cash I had in my
pocket, all my money was gone, my credit was ruined and having
lived five decades, I was able to pack my entire life’s possessions
into only two suitcases.

It was time to leave.

part of a growing trend

As unique as I thought my situation was, I had become part of a
growing trend of failure in America.

Take my failed marriage as an example. According to the
Office for National Statistics, divorce rates saw a slight
increase in 2016. As of this writing 42% of marriages end in
divorce. Almost half of those divorces happen in the first 10
years of marriage, and the rate is especially high between
the fourth and eighth anniversary. The average age at
divorce is 45 for men and 42 for women.

If you compare that to the divorce rate in 1960, which was
22%, it has more than doubled in the last 55 years. Divorce
rates reached their peak in America in 1985 at 50% partly
due to changes in the law that allowed a spouse to use
irreconcilable differences as a reason to divorce making it
much easier to get one. Prior to that, anyone wanting to end

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their marriage had to prove the presence of adultery or
cruelty in the marriage. See Figure 1 -15

Figure 1 - 15
Though, I didn’t realize it at the time and what my research
later revealed, was that some people who survive divorce go
through what is sometimes called starter marriages. They
often learn things they could not have learned in any other
way – not even by cohabiting. And that these things might
help them go on to make far stronger unions than they
might otherwise have made.

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Despite all of the statistics, my divorce still seemed very personal
to me and my emotions concentrated on the pain. I may have
become the latest member of a growing trend in America, but on
this day I still felt very much alone.
One thing I couldn’t get out of my mind was the question of
whether my troubled marriage contributed to my business
failure OR did my business failure contribute to my troubled
marriage?
It’s easy to jump to the conclusion that it was probably a little bit
of both. But, is that really the answer?
In the past when my marketing business was slow, I would often
provide an excuse that my clients and prospects were going
through an economic downturn. Once the economy picks up for
them, business will pick up for me and that was a philosophy I
lived by. The truth is, I had no idea if that was true or not.
Figure 1 - 16

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According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics’ here’s what
small business survival rate looks like in America.

See Figure 1 - 16:

 About 80% of small businesses in America
will survive their first year in business. This is largely
against the myth that 95% of all small businesses fail
in the first year with its longevity yet to tested.

 About 66% of small businesses in America
will survive their second year in business.

 About 50% of small businesses in America
will survive their fifth year in business.

 About 30% of small businesses in America
will survive their 10th year in business.

Notice that the success rate begins to drop as the years
progress… this is to be expected.

However, here is the most important part. These
rates are consistent over time, suggesting that year-
over-year economic factors—surprisingly—don’t have
much of an impact on how U.S. small business have
survived over the last 75 years.

The takeaway here is that the odds are stacked against a
small business surviving over a ten year period, regardless
of the economy.

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Wait a minute.

The number one conflict in marriage that eventually leads
to divorce among small business owners is the lack of
money. Yet, if money comes from your business and your
business outcome is not tied to the economy then lack of
money is not really the issue. Lack of money is a symptom
masking the real conflict that inevitably causes divorce. It’s
not money, it never has been.

As much as I wanted to believe that the lack of money and my
failed business had caused to my downfall, that wasn’t the truth.

The real answer was months away.

In the meantime, I swallowed the false notions of what caused my
failures and I incubated a manifestation of what was to become
my ultimate downfall.

Severe depression.

a frozen exile

Arriving in Ohio was a sharp contrast to my arrival in California.
It was the second week of December and while much of southern
California was basking in 70 degree temperatures, my destination
had icy roads, 20–25 mph crosswinds and wind chills of 7–10
degrees.

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Joseph was gracious upon my arrival, but much went unsaid. This
was a new situation for both of us and we communicated mostly
in a very manly manner of tough exteriors hiding uncertainty. He
took me to the back of his condo and showed me the storeroom.

It was about 125 sq. ft. with one-third of the room filled with boxes.
He handed me a spare key and said ‘goodnight’ because it was
getting late. Closing the door to this small room pierced my ear
with a strange silence. I spread a towel from my suitcase onto the
floor and used it as a thin matt and I tried to get some rest.

I began crying as the reality of what felt like an exile began to sink
in. I was cold, alone and terrified.

My mother had died just 11 months before and for the first time I
was looking up at the ceiling and calling out to her. In what I
thought was an ironic twist, I was unable to be at her side when
she passed away spending her final months in a nursing home in
upstate New York drugged, catatonic and alone. For months I
carried the guilt that I wasn’t by her side when she died and now
when I needed her most she wasn’t there for me.

It was a very long night.

Over the course of the next several weeks, the goal was to rebuild.
I didn’t have much cash and it wouldn’t last long so my focus was
to find work. I found myself in a small rural Ohio town and
employment opportunities were scarce. Still, I traveled around

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and applied where I could. I quickly found a stigma attached to
my efforts.

I had not been “employed” for years, mostly because I ran my own
marketing business and made a living on my own. Over the course
of the last ten years my work was published in the Harvard
Business Review, I was featured in an article published by the San
Francisco Examiner and my resume had an impressive list of
accomplishments that I felt any employer would love to integrate
into their business.

I soon learned the opposite and for the first time in my life I felt
the taste of discrimination.

With virtually no executive jobs available in the area I began
applying for the local blue collar work. Ready to roll up my sleeves
and begin a new life, I sat for about a dozen job interviews.

Almost every employer who looked at my resume asked me the
same question… what are you doing here?

I remember wearing a suit at one of my interviews across from a
manager of a local auto supply company who wore torn jeans, a
wrinkled shirt and had blood-shot eyes from the previous night’s
drinking binge. He was 22 years old. I could tell he felt
intimidated by me and excused himself to look for the owner of
the store.
After about three minutes the owner came back with my resume
in his hand and gave it back to me. “You have no work history

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and to be honest I have no idea what you’d be like if you were
managed.” said the owner. “This job pays $9 an hour and the
minute an executive opportunity opens up you’ll be gone, so I’m
not wasting my time, money or energy investing in you.”
Pinning his sobering manager with his elbow to keep him from
falling, I took my resume and left.

Other job interviews were similar and included additional
comments such as

“over-qualified…”

“poor credit…”

“too old….”

The last comment was a landmark moment in my life, I had never
been too old for anything before. Now, I knew the federal Age
Discrimination in Employment Act (ADEA) protects individuals
who are 40 years of age or older from employment discrimination
based on age. As much as I felt the sting of such discrimination I
didn’t have the fighting spirit or the resources to pursue it legally.
I was running out of time, my money was almost gone.

Meanwhile, back in California, my wife was settling into her new
life. Her father had wired nearly $30,000 to help her get back on
her feet, her friends and the local community church were
excellent resources and she soon began to flourish. Finding a new
job and house within 8 months.

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We were still legally married and our relationship was ambiguous
at best. But, she then took to social media and began to boast of
her newly found independence to all of our network of friends.
Some of her posts included comments that said:

“If a man expects a woman to be an angel in his life, he must first
create heaven for her. Angels don’t live in hell.”

“A real man never hurts a woman. Be careful when you make a
woman cry because God counts her tears.”

Though my name was never attached to any of these posts,
everyone knew who she was referring to. Her passive aggressive
behavior made it clear that she wanted the world to know I fell
short of her expectations.

Desperate, and wanting to hang on to any connection of
familiarity, I endured her posts, and repeatedly apologized and
expressed my regret. I was trying to reconcile despite the fact that
California and our ideal lifestyle didn’t work out. But the posts
continued for months and I felt emasculated.

Eventually, I simply let go.

the storm

It was late one night and I could hear the rumbling of thunder in
the distance as I sat on the floor of my room back in Ohio. Spring
was coming. The sign of a new season and new opportunities.

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However, what filled my room was an atmosphere of weakness,
shame, instability and desperation.

It had become overwhelming.

It was 3:30 in the morning as I sat in the dark. My chest had
become very tight and the months of sadness seemed to manifest
into physical pain. I felt as though I had reached the end, that my
life had no more significance or influence.

The world I knew continued on with the daily tasks of life…
working, paying bills, social interactions were now foreign to me.
I felt as though I had lost the ability to function in society, to hold
a job, to make any contribution… to feel normal.

My money had been gone for weeks. I was unable to find work
and I had lost all direction and hope. With my back against the
wall and hugging my knees my thoughts turned to the seminars I
attended, the programs I bought and the tapes I had listened to
decades before on the glory of becoming an entrepreneur. Set
your own hours, make lots of money doing what you love to do.

Now, what I really needed was a guide on how to recover because
I’ve lost my way. Someone tell me how to free myself from this
self-imposed tangle of loss, pain and financial ruin. The darkness
of the room seemed to be a reflection of how I felt inside and I
began to feel an impulsiveness as my mind became numb.

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My mother had always been my biggest fan eagerly waiting to hear
about my victories and was always there as a comfort for my
defeats. Now, she was gone and in my mind she had moved on to
a place of peace and forgiveness. A place where I could find
comfort, a place where I could ask for forgiveness, a place where I
wouldn’t be a ruin, burden or a failure.

I was ready to die.

I reached into one of my unpacked suitcases next to me on the
floor and found my pocket knife. I held it in my hand as the blade
gleamed with light from a street lamp outside my window.

My instinct for self-preservation began to choke my breathe as I
held the knife in front of me. I could hear the rumbling of thunder
getting louder as the storm outside was approaching.

I felt as though I was on a threshold and with one swift action my
emotional pain would be gone. My hands were shaking as I
thought about God, my mother, my life… I just wanted the pain
to stop.

Suddenly there was a white flash that shook the condo.

I fell to my side dropping the knife, my body shaking violently as
though I had just avoided falling off a cliff.
Lightning from the storm had struck less than a quarter mile away
and had filled my room with a blinding light. Time suddenly

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seemed to slow and as strange as it may sound, for a few seconds
I couldn’t hear anything.

Then I felt it, someone else was in the room with me. My senses
became intensely sharp as I could feel that I was no longer alone.
I lay frozen, afraid and trying to comprehend what my senses were
telling me. There was a smell I picked up that was familiar to me
and in a weakened whisper I called out, “Mom…?” I waited, and
after a few seconds the feeling was gone.

I began to hear faint sounds around me. Raindrops pelting my
window, the low humming noise of a ceiling fan and the faint bark
of a dog in the distance.

I had the urge to get up and run. I opened the door and stumbled
down the hallway pressing the palms of my hands along the walls
to keep my balance. When I reached the sink in the kitchen I
threw-up. I slowly turned and sat down on the floor. I could still
taste the stomach acid in my mouth as I was trying to catch my
breathe. For the first time a got a real sense of my own mortality
and felt it was time to handle my problem a different way.

Joseph returned home later that morning after spending the
weekend with his family. I met him at the door……

“I need help.”

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the discovery

When I arrived in the emergency room my intent was to find a
someone talk to. I felt that if I could speak with someone even just
for a few minutes, I could get some direction and feel better.
Joseph asked “Do you want me to stay with you?” I told him that
I was fine. “Well, call me when you’re finished and I’ll pick you
up.” As he drove away, I was thankful to have him in my life.
As I entered the building, the sliding doors opened and the
reception desk was just a few feet away. I timidly walked up to the
desk and asked the receptionist if there was anyone that I could
speak with. I told her I was feeling depressed.

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She gave me a clipboard and asked me to fill out the attached
questionnaire. I took a pen from a jar filled with coffee beans and
sat in the waiting room.

The form was a standard registration document requesting my
contact information and listing a variety of potential medical
conditions. I marked the box that said depression and answered
the follow up question, Have you had thoughts of suicide?… by
marking yes.

I returned the completed form at the registration desk and headed
back to the waiting room. I was very tired and found an empty
chair in the corner. I figured this would be a good time to catch a
short nap, I’m sure I’ll be waiting here for a while.

Wrong again.

After about 5 minutes with my hands clasped on my stomach in a
resting position and my eyes closed, I suddenly heard a soft voice
call my name right in front of me. “Mr. Thompson?” I opened my
eyes and there was a middle-aged woman holding a clipboard with
a laminated ID hanging from her shirt pocket. Behind her were
two large men with bad haircuts all dressed in white.

“Come with me, please.” she said.

Nervously, I stood up and was escorted down the hall into an office
and was told to wait. After about 10 minutes, a man entered the

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room wearing a medical lanyard, a pocket protector and a pair of
thick glasses.

He introduced himself as a social worker and asked, “How can I
help you Mr. Thompson?”

What a relief. Someone to talk to. For the next hour, I told him
the story of how my wife and I left Chicago, the struggles with my
business, the loss of our home, my wife’s social media rants and
my suicide attempt with what appeared to be a spiritual
experience.

He took meticulous notes and barely spoke. It felt good to have
someone to just listen as I bared my soul. I became emotional at
times, but overall felt much better and was anxious to hear
feedback and get some direction.

What I didn’t realize, and would later find out, was the social
worker was writing observation phrases about me like
“paranoia…” referring to my wife’s social media rants and
“hallucinations…” when I spoke about the presence of my mother
after dropping the pocket knife.

Finishing his notes, he put the pen back in his pocket protector,
leaned forward and asked me if I would like to speak with the head
psychiatrist.

I smiled and replied, “Yes… very much so.”

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Smiling back, he informed me that the doctor’s office was on the
7th floor in a secured area of the hospital and would require my
signature to enter. He passed me a pen and clipboard with a form
attached.

I signed the document not realizing at the time that it was a
voluntary commitment form.

“Wait right here Mr. Thompson while I arrange for an escort to
take you up.”

Sitting there in his office I felt a sense of relief, the heavy weight I
had been carrying was lifting and I knew the psychiatrist was
going to help me get my life back on track.

Things were not as they appeared.

He had returned with an armed security guard, two orderlies and
a wheelchair. He told me to remove everything from my pockets
and handed me a hospital gown to change into.

Reality sat in very quickly. I suddenly felt a rush and realized that
my signature on that form had erased any power I may have had
to change the situation that was unfolding.

I looked at the counselor and said, “I think there’s been a
mistake…” The orderlies, sensing some resistance, moved closer
with the counselor replying, “Mr. Thompson, put on this gown
and remove your personal items.”

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I put my personal belongings into the clear plastic bag, changed
into the gown and sat down in the wheelchair. The security guard
then pulled out these large, wide zip-ties and restrained my
forearms tightly to the arms of the wheelchair.

“Is all this really necessary?”

No one responded to my question. The dynamics had changed
drastically in those few moments.

The gang of us made our way down to the elevator at the end of
the hallway. Once inside, the orderly turned me around to face the
doors as they closed. There, staring back at me from the chrome
plated reflection, was a man I no longer recognized. It was ugly to
look at.

Panic set in.

Ding…the elevator doors opened and I was wheeled down another
hallway to a set of double doors.

NO ADMITTANCE
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY

BEYOND THIS POINT

The counselor waved his badge in front of an electronic locking
mechanism on the wall and the double doors slowly began to open.
We crossed over the threshold and into the inpatient psychiatry
unit. I could hear the hydraulics of the automatic doors slowly
closing behind me. A creeping shadow towered over all of us as

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the doors slowly blocked the light from the outside hall. The
sound of the automatic lock engaging was sobering.

Joseph was not going to be getting that call to come pick me up
anytime soon.

Like stepping in hidden quicksand, I was almost
effortlessly admitted into a mental institution.
Historically, millions of Americans have fallen through
institutional cracks much easier and by today’s
standards, for benign reasons. In her 2001
book Parental Kidnapping in America: An Historical
and Cultural Analysis, author Maureen Dabbagh
compiled a list of how easy it was for anyone in the latter
half of the 19th century to be admitted to an insane
asylum.

imaginary female trouble
jealousy and religion
laziness

masturbation for 30 years
medicine to prevent conception

novel reading
parents were cousins

political excitement
asthma

death of sons in war
superstition
egotism

false confinement

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Of course, we’ve come a long way in the last 150 years.
However, mental illness is still a very serious problem and
has not gotten the attention it deserves. It has a direct
negative impact on millions of lives, education, the
economy and how we’re projected as a nation on a
worldwide stage.

According to NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness)
in 2015 the statistics on mental illness in America are
staggering:

 Approximately 1 in 5 adults in the U.S.—43.8 million, or
18.5%—experiences mental illness in a given year

 Approximately 1 in 25 adults in the U.S.—9.8 million, or
4.0%—experiences a serious mental illness in a given year
that substantially interferes with or limits one or more
major life activities

 1.1% of adults in the U.S. live with schizophrenia
 2.6% of adults in the U.S. live with bipolar disorder

CONSEQUENCES OF LACK OF TREATMENT:

 Serious mental illness costs America $193.2 billion in lost
earnings per year

 Mood disorders, including major depression, dysthymic
disorder and bipolar disorder, are the third most common
cause of hospitalization in the U.S. for both youth and
adults aged 18–44 costing billions of dollars every year

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According to a study done by Emory University in 2015
Figure 1-32, illustrates the most common reasons that
adults ages 18 – 55 in the U.S. did not receive mental
health treatment. The top two reasons lack the
understanding and seriousness of the problem both from
the patient’s and insurance perspective.

1. COULD NOT AFFORD THE COST 38%
2. COULD HANDLE PROBLEM WITHOUT TREATMENT 15%
3. DID NOT KNOW WHERE TO GO FOR SERVICES 7%
4. DID NOT HAVE TIME 6%
5. TREATMENT WOULD NOT HELP 5%
6. DID NOT FEEL NEED FOR TREATMENT 4%
7. HEALTH INSURANCE DID NOT COVER TREATMENT 3%
8. NEIGHBORS WOULD HAVE A NEGATIVE OPNION 2%
9. DID NOT WANT OTHERS TO FIND OUT 2%
10. MIGHT HAVE NEGATIVE JOB EFFECT 2%
11. FEAR OF BEING COMMITTED 1%
12. 1%
CONCERNED ABOUT CONFIDENTIALITY
Figure 1-33 33

the watershed moment

The armed security guard returned to his station and the orderlies
put me in a small in-take room, removed the zip-ties that had been
physically restraining me and left.

Across the desk was a middle-aged, stereotypical nurse. White
shoes, uniform and hat. Her clothes made the nylon swooshing
sound when she walked around the room.

She took my vitals and then handed me a medicine cup containing
five little pills of various shapes and colors without saying a word.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry…,” I said, “I think there’s been a big
mistake.”

“Mr. Thompson, you need to take these. It will help you relax.”
she replied. I was quickly realizing that I had no rights. It would
be useless to resist or refuse. I knew that if I did, it would sound
like any other patient refusing to cooperate and I could make
things worse for myself.

I found out later that the pills were designed to counteract any ill
effects from any recent alcohol or drug consumption. A large
portion of the patients who are admitted to the psych ward are
under the influence of some reality altering substance. It was
standard procedure.

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She began to enter my medical history into the computer. The
questions were routine and my answers were brief. Finally, she
left the room and returned with a hospital issue of four hand
towels, a pair of yellow pajamas, rubber flip-flops and a robe…
with no belt.

The nurse then escorted me to my room accompanied by an
orderly. As we walked down the hallway I had my first
opportunity to observe other patients.

In one of the hallways, a man resembling a thin Italian was pacing
up and down. Facing the wall, his hands flat against it, was
rubbing and searching for an opening in the wall that was not
there. He was trying to step through to another dimension.

Coming from some of patient’s rooms were voices. I couldn’t quite
make out what they were saying. I wondered if they were actually
talking to someone or just to themselves?

I knew the answer.

Some men were sitting in chairs, others were wandering aimlessly.
They all shared that look on their face as if they were someplace
else. I had never been in a place like this before.

When we got to my room the nurse suggested that I take a shower
and change out of my gown. Dinner would be served in about an
hour. She closed the door behind her and I was alone.

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As I placed my belongings on the end of the bed I noticed that it
was bolted to the floor including the nightstand. Looking around
it was virtually impossible for you to hurt yourself with any
instrument. Everything was attached to something else.

I took off my gown and threw it on the bed, picked up one of the
hand towels and walked into the bathroom. It was not a private
bathroom but shared with the adjacent room. There were no doors
so any patient could walk in from either room, it was all open.

I got into the shower, lukewarm at best and little more than a
trickle. No shampoo or soap, toiletries would be issued later. I
was standing there with my eyes closed letting the stream of water
run down my face when I heard a disturbing mumble. It was the
patient from the next room. Looking through his doorway I could
tell there were no lights so whatever he was doing was in the dark.

I didn’t know who he was or his condition so turned the water off
and looked around for a bath towel to dry off with.

There were no other towels, only the hand towel.

Frustrated, I dried off as best I could and walked into my room to
get dressed. Looking at the bed I noticed my pajamas, robe, towels
and shoes, were gone. The only possessions I had left in this world
were gone.

Everything was gone. I became enraged.

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I stormed out of the room holding the only possession I had left to
cover the most private part of my body. With determination I
stomped down the hallway leaving wet footprints on the tile.
Some patients looked up and others seemed unfazed that a naked
man would briskly walk the halls. This was an uncommon act in
a place where uncommon acts were common.

I was leaving a trail of onlookers behind me. John, an African
American patient who would later become my friend, was
standing just inside his room finishing a nutrition bar when I
passed his doorway. He would later confess to me that all he saw
was “some naked white guy walking down the hall who looked
like he was on a mission.”

I made my way to the nurse’s station located at the center of the
ward. I stood in front of the window holding my hand towel with
both hands in front of me, water droplets still clinging to my hair
and mad as hell. I no longer concerned myself with procedures,
protocol or the basic manners my mother taught me. A large
African American nurse in the nursing station who was typing on
a computer suddenly stopped, rolled her eyes up and saw me
standing there through the glass partition window in distress. The
hint of a smirk curved the corner of her mouth. She took her long
fingernail and slid the glass window open slowly.

“Did you lose something, Mr. Thompson?” she asked.

“YES!” I said in a very loud and stern voice with tears streaming
down my red face.

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“I’ve lost my house,
my family,
all my possessions,
a pair of cotton pajamas,
a matching bathrobe
and….THREE OF MY EMBROIDERED HAND TOWELS!!!”

My commanding voice echoed through the corridors. Nurses,
patients and staff stood in silence and watched how this twenty-
seven year veteran nurse was going to respond to my outburst.

She spoke softly, “Did you lose anything else?’

“YES I HAVE!” I shouted.

“MY SANITY, WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE!!?”

Removing her fingers from the keyboard slowly and clasping her
hands together, she responded…

“Well, Mr. Thompson, we’re waiting for you to tell us.”

Her response hit me and shook me to my core. I stood there as
my eyes welled up with tears delivering a blank stare back at her
as my mind began to process a reality.

If they were waiting for me to tell them why I was there… that
must mean I have the answers. And if I had the answers, I must
have control.

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All this time when I thought I became a victim of circumstances
beyond my control, a recipient of a bad karma and unfortunate
events feeling powerless, I actually had the power to change
everything at anytime.

My business did not fail because of the economy. My marriage did
not end because my business failed. I did not lose everything
because of chance, circumstance, destiny, consequence or divine
will or intent.

I lost everything because that’s what I chose to do.

Let me say that again… it’s because of what I chose to do.

I chose to move to California.
I chose to take that risk without the financial capital.
I chose to reduce my fees.
I chose to be resentful.
I chose to try and take my own life.
I finally realized that I was here in this place because of the
choices and decisions I made.

I had the power of choice all along,…..the only problem was I
just didn’t know how to use that power.

a historical treasure

Feeling completely numb, I slowly turned and saw the hall filled
with onlookers. I cautiously and very slowly began to take steps
back to my room. Retracing my wet footprints, I walked past other

39

patients feeling unable to look at them. Most stared at me with an
understanding of my pain… they too, had been there.

An orderly shadowed my steps to make sure there wouldn’t be any
more trouble, but kept his distance.

I slowly walked past John’s room as he stood in his doorway,
finishing what was left of nutrition bar. We made eye contact, but
said nothing.

When I arrived at my room door, a nurse was there holding a
brand new pair of folded pajamas and robe. They were colored
light blue and she said, “Here you are Mr. Thompson, a fresh pair.
I’ve even laid out a new set of towels on your bed.”

“Thank you.” I replied. I felt her tenderness was genuine as I
walked in my room and closed the door behind me.

Once dressed in my clean pajamas I sat on the bed and began
thinking about my entire life and the decisions I’ve made. I
remembered when things were going well in my life I was making
good choices, and when things went bad I was making bad
choices. It seemed so simple and obvious and though I
understood I couldn’t control destiny or fate… I could control how
I reacted to it.

I thought to myself… I just had a major breakthrough moment in
understanding who I am and how I got here, but I still didn’t
understand why I made the bad decisions in my life.

40

I wasn’t aware of it, but that answer was coming very soon.

Then, I received a knock at my door, it was John.

“Come in.” I responded.

He entered my room in his yellow pajamas with a giggle under his
breathe. “You made quite an entrance today…” he said sticking
his hand out as he introduced himself. “My name is John, I just
wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Standing up, I shook his hand and said “Thank you.”

He proceeded to tell me he was a three year veteran of the
institution and had seen it all. Laughingly, he said my
performance today was entertaining and told me that he had never
seen a white boy move so fast.

That made me laugh. I had a small tear, but John helped me
transition my anger and it was suddenly in the past. He put his
hand on my shoulder and walked me to dinner.

When we arrived in the dining area, we found a table in the corner
and sat together. I learned that John suffered from seizures and
had a history of emotional outbursts that kept him unemployed
and alienated from his family. John was taking lots of medication
and it helped, most of the time. He seemed to calmly accept the
fact that this institution was likely going to be his home for the rest
of his life.

41

The dining area was a collection of tables and was used for
multiple purposes. It was a place to come for your meals, but also
a recreation area that had a large flat screen TV on the wall,
reading books, magazines and board games. It also served as a
classroom for group sessions.

The food cart had arrived and the patients got in line to receive
their trays. Each tray was assigned to an individual patient based
on their diet requirements.

My name was called, and I received my tray. Salisbury steak,
green beans, mashed potatoes with a pool of butter, a Jello cup
and a small carton of milk. I felt like I was in high school all over
again carrying my tray back to the table.

While using my plastic fork to cut into the steak, there was a
sudden disturbance at the far end of the dining area. A patient
had gotten up yelling, tossed his tray across the room and walked
over to the large screen TV and pulled it off the wall throwing it
against the metal mesh that protected the windows. Other
patients stood up and began yelling at the top of their voices
demanding Angela Lansbury’s phone number. Apparently, now
that the TV was destroyed, they wouldn’t be able to find out who
the killer was on Murder She Wrote. Milk cartons and food were
being thrown as the orderlies charged in to restore order.

My body was pumped full of adrenaline, I stood up not knowing
whether to run or find cover. John, continued to eat, oblivious to
the chaos in the room.

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Then, his hand started shaking and he clutched his fist tight
around plastic fork. The stress of the situation had triggered one
of his seizures. His whole body had become stiff and was falling
out of the chair. I caught him as he fell to the floor, his cheek
slightly smeared with mash potatoes he began making a choking
sound.

“Orderly!!” I shouted.

“Orderly!! Come quick!!” the chaos in the room overshadowed
John’s plight. “Hang on buddy…” I whispered to him as I held
him tight, his eyes rolling back into his head. I had no idea if he
could hear me.

“Order---….!!!” Just as I shouted for help again, an orderly
grabbed me from behind mistakenly thinking I was assaulting
John as I knelt over him.

Pinning me to the floor, I tried to tell him that John was sick, but
the weight of the orderly compressed my chest and it was difficult
for me to catch my breathe.

The room began to fade and turn dark as I felt a pain in my arm.
I don’t remember anything after that.

When I opened my eyes, I found myself in bed in my room. I had
a terrible headache, and my cheekbone was sore and must because
it was slightly bruised during the commotion. I got up and slowly
walked out into the hall, order had been restored. Patients again,

43

were wandering the halls aimlessly and there was peaceful music
playing on the intercom system.

I walked to the dining area and the table and chairs were back in
place and the TV was back on the wall. It had a massive shattering
crack across the screen and there was no sound, but it still worked
as a small cluster of patients were watching Judge Judy. The sun
was shining through the window, it was the next morning.

I then heard a voice, “Mr. Thompson…”

I turned, and it was the head psychiatrist. He introduced himself
and said, “Let’s walk to my office and have a chat.” I followed him
reluctantly.

As we walked into his office, he said “Have a seat, I’m sorry about
the disturbance last night things can get stimulating around here
from time to time.”
His demeanor was pleasant. He looked like the typical Freudian
doctor wearing a white beard, wool vest and jacket with a dangling
chain from his pocket watch.

He had been a doctor for nearly 40 years and was a collector of
psychiatric antiquities. He showed me his collection in the office
of pieces he obtained throughout his travels from around the
world. Old photographs of patients, instruments, surgical tools
and books. His wall was crowded with certificates, awards,
plaques and framed letters of recognition. His most treasured
possession was a signed antique baseball from Tommy Tucker,

44

first baseman of the Cleveland Spiders from the 1890s. He said
his grandfather, who attended a Spiders’ game as a young man,
gave it to him.

He seemed very approachable and trusting.

“Please, Mr. Thompson,” he said. “Tell me your story…” Sitting
back in his leather bound chair he was eager to hear what I had to
say, so I indulged him.

For the next hour I told him the story of how my wife and I left
Chicago, the struggles with my business, the loss of our home, my
wife’s social media rants and my suicide attempt with what
appeared to be a spiritual experience. Unlike the counselor from
before, he seemed genuinely interested.

I also told him about a breakthrough moment I had with at the
nurse’s station the day before. I had mentioned to him my
realization of life’s choices and though I chose to be here… I didn’t
understand the power of choice.

He was impressed.

He said, “Most of my patients don’t understand why they’re here
and it usually takes several sessions before they learn about
effects of choices and consequences.”

“What is your academic background?” He asked. I told him that
I didn’t have a formal degree but became a student of human

45

psychology to gain a better understanding of my field in marketing
and advertising.

I felt comfortable at this point to tell him that it was a mistake that
I was admitted to the ward. Expecting further resistance, I was
shocked by his response.

“I agree…” he said. “I don’t think there is anything wrong with
you. You’re articulate, intelligent and you made a mistake. You
slipped under an intense set of circumstances and voluntarily
sought professional help. You don’t belong here.”

I began to get emotional and was relieved that someone
understood what I went through.

“I do have one question, Doc.” I said. “Why do people make the
wrong choices? Where does that come from?” He smiled, and
leaned over to unlocked a drawer in his desk and opened it.
He pulled out a very old leather notebook. It was the personal
notes of an unknown doctor, written in Latin over 200 years ago.

While most notable doctors during that time, including Benjamin
Rush, John Conolly and Phillip Pinel focused on the diseases of
the mind and philosophy, this unknown doctor made an
extraordinary claim in his notes.

He theorized that vitae (life) is comprised of corporis, animo and
sensum (body, mind and feeling or emotion)

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He implicated that they were all connected.
The head psychiatrist explained to me that the power of choice, to
choose that which results in good consequences OR to choose that
which results in bad consequences comes from your mind AND
body AND your emotions.

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