Anything could trigger an attack. Driving past the coroner’s office where they’d taken Dylan’s body: boom. Watching an old movie where a cowboy throws dynamite into a barn: boom. Red flowers on a bush: boom. My digestive system has always been my Achilles’ heel, and I became afraid to eat because of the constant intestinal upsets that came with the panic.
Because the attacks were triggered by anything that reminded me of Dylan’s death, my therapist felt they were a manifestation of post-traumatic stress disorder. She was clear about my course of treatment: I needed to take the tranquilizers a doctor had prescribed. But I was afraid of becoming addicted to them, and so I’d only take half a pill, or a quarter—enough to dull the edge of my anxiety but not enough to give me a true sense of well-being or to allow my racing mind to rest. Underneath it all, I felt as if my suffering indicated an essential character flaw. Cut it out, I thought viciously to myself. Get yourself together. You should be able to think your way out of this.
My therapist believed I wasn’t ready to appear on the panel. But I was compelled to follow through on my commitment, whatever the cost, and my compulsion to publicly represent “normalcy” made the pressure worse. I wanted to demonstrate that I wasn’t controlled by my fear. In trying to prove it, I created a trap for myself.
As the day of the panel approached, my panic attacks became more frequent and intense. One evening on my drive home, the sensations were so acute that I was sure I’d cause an accident. I had never had a truly suicidal thought before, but now I looked over at the passenger seat and thought: If there were a gun there, I would use it to make this stop. I clutched at the steering wheel and thought clearly to myself: This cannot go on.
I got through the panel presentation—with some help. On my therapist’s recommendation, a friend taped my answers so I could simply press Play if unable to speak. I ended up relying on the tape about half the time. It was a difficult day for everyone who appeared on the panel but a successful one nonetheless; the evaluations showed clearly that we’d made a real difference in the way people understood murder-suicide. One called it “a revelation.” Another went so far as to apologize to us for the way she’d thought about our cases before.
I began taking the tranquilizers as they were prescribed, and with medication, therapy, and lots of long walks, the debilitating attacks eventually began to subside.
I now understand that anxiety is a brain disorder I will live with and manage for the rest of my life. Even when I am not in crisis, the possibility is always with me. Because of this vulnerability, I carefully monitor my response to stress, as people at high risk for stroke monitor their blood pressure. I meditate, do yoga and deep breathing exercises, and exercise daily. I see a therapist and take antidepressant medication if I need extra help. Over time, I have come to listen to my anxiety, and to recognize it as an indication of something amiss.
As the years passed, the distance between Tom and me continued to widen, leaving us with almost no common ground and no way to build a bridge back to each other. In 2014, after forty-three years of marriage, we decided to part ways—a decision I could only make after I realized that the thought of staying in the relationship made me feel more stress than the idea of leaving it. We ended our marriage to save our friendship, and I believe we will always care for each other. I am grateful for that.
As I emerged from the dark and terrifying period of those last panic attacks, I felt like Dorothy stepping cautiously into the Technicolor land of Oz. Once safe on the other side, I saw that my own crisis had served as an enlightenment of sorts. It had taught me some things I needed to know in order to better understand Dylan’s life, and his death.
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The World Health Organization defines mental health as “a state of well-being in which every individual realizes his or her own potential, can cope with the normal stresses of life, can work productively and fruitfully, and is able to make a contribution to her or his community.”
My anxiety disorder showed me what it feels like to be trapped inside a malfunctioning mind. When our brains are impaired, we cannot manage our own thoughts. No matter what I did to try to think myself back to balance, I didn’t have the tools to do it. I understood for the first time what it meant not to be in control of my brain.
Understanding this gave me a great deal of empathy for others who suffer. I’d been trying for years to understand how Dylan could have done what he did. Then my own mind ran out of control and I entered the world on the other side of the looking glass, a private, seething hell in which unwanted thoughts took control and called the shots.
The sad, scary truth is we never know when we (or someone we love) may experience a serious brain health crisis.
Once I was feeling better, I couldn’t believe how distorted some of my thinking had been. For the first time, I understood how Dylan could have thought he was going in the right direction when it had been anything but.
I still can’t fathom what Dylan and Eric did; I cannot understand how anyone on earth could do such a thing, let alone my own son. I find it easy, if painful, to empathize with someone who has died by suicide, but Dylan killed. It is not something I will ever get used to or get over.
Was he evil? I’ve spent a lot of time wrestling with that question. In the end, I don’t think he was. Most people believe suicide is a choice, and violence is a choice; those things are under a person’s control. Yet we know from talking to survivors of suicide attempts that their decision-making ability shifts in some way we don’t well understand. In our conversation, psychologist and suicide researcher Dr. Matthew Nock at Harvard used a phrase I like very much: dysfunction in decision making. If suicide seems like the only way out of an existence so painful it has become intolerable, is that really an exercise of free will?
Of course, Dylan did not simply die by suicide. He committed murder; he killed people. We’ve all felt angry enough to fantasize about killing someone else. What allows the vast majority of us to feel appalled and frightened by the mere impulse, and another person to go through with it? If someone chooses to hurt others, what governs the ability to make that choice? If what we think of as evil is really the absence of conscience, then we have to ask, how is it a person ceases to connect with their conscience?
My own struggle showed me, in a way nothing else could, that when our thoughts are broken, we are at their mercy. In the last months of his life, Dylan turned his back on a lifetime of moral education, empathy, and his own conscience. Everything I have learned supports my belief that he was not in his right mind.
Brain illness is not a hall pass. Dylan is guilty of the crimes he committed. I believe he did know the difference between right and wrong at the end of his life, and that what he did was profoundly wrong. But we cannot dedicate ourselves to preventing violence if we do not take into account the role depression and brain dysfunction can play in the decision to commit it.
Of course, that is a risky thing to say. The idea that people with brain disorders are dangerous is among the most pervasive and destructive myths out there, and it is largely false. Most people with brain disorders and illnesses are not violent, but some percentage are. We must arrive at a way to discuss the intersection between brain health and violence in an open and nonjudgmental manner, and we cannot do that without first talking about stigma.