Foxhole-prayers, antidepressants and a trip to the junkyard with a baseball bat helped award-winning journalist Christine Stapleton get a grip on her mental illnesses - alcoholism, depression and bipolar. Christine shares her experiences - from erotic dreams about George Clooney to dark plots of suicide-by-Prius-fumes - in this collection of her weekly columns, Kicking Depression, from The Palm Beach Post. The mentally ill are sick, Christine reminds us, not bad, weak or fond of “happy pill” wisecracks.
Christine Stapleton knew she would be a writer at an early age when she discovered that people actually got paid to write the stuff on the back of cereal boxes. After watching All The President’s Men a few dozen times, she settled on journalism.
She graduated from Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan in 1981 with majors in journalism and political science. She worked in publishing until 1985, when she moved to Florida to become a newspaper reporter. In her 23 years at The Palm Beach Post Christine distinguished herself as the paper’s court reporter for 12 years, leading the paper's coverage of many notable trials, such as the William Kennedy Smith rape trial.
She was among the lead reporters in The Palm Beach Post’s coverage of the November 2000 election. Her awards include the Robert F. Kennedy Journalism Award in 2004 and 2006 and the 2008 Mental Health American Media Award. She is a senior fellow of the Knight Foundation and has appeared on The Deborah Norville Show, Inside Edition, CNN and City Confidential. Christine now specializes in computer-assisted investigative reporting.
Her groundbreaking weekly column on depression evolved from her own battle with mental illness and covers a wide range of topics frequently ignored by the mainstream media. Her writing style - simple words, short sentences and intimate stories - is tailored for readers currently suffering.
She is an accomplished swimmer, triathlete, long-distance runner and the very proud mother of her daughter, Kealy.
Looking back, I can see my first bouts of depression began when I was a kid. My mother would often tell me she knew how miserable I was and that college would be better. It wasn't.
Endorphins were my first drug. I discovered them at age 8. I was a top age-group swimmer. I swam butterfly, fast and hard. I liked the rush. But by age 14, I was sick of swimming. I tried my first drink. Then drugs. My new medicines.
For 25 years, they kind of worked. At least I thought so. But the hangovers were endless and left me deeper in despair. To avoid the despair, I worked like a machine and put Martha Stewart to shame, cleaning and straightening and exercising. If my newspaper reporting was good, if my house looked good, if I looked good, maybe I would feel good. I didn't.
I quit drugs and alcohol. That seemed to work for a few years. Then I felt rotten again. I tried to take it a little easier. That didn't work.
Then exercise stopped working. I went to a spin class at my gym at 6 am. I pedaled so hard that my lips flapped like a racehorse. Foam formed in the corners of my mouth. I got off the bike, and my legs quivered. There was no rush. Just despair.
That day, I closed my private pharmacy and asked for help. I got it. My therapist restricted my exercise and made me write down everything I ate to avoid more weight loss. My nurse practitioner prescribed real medication and explained why self-medicating didn't work. I stopped eating foods made with flour and drastically reduced sugar. I cut back on caffeine. I meditated. I prayed. I began sleeping eight hours. I began to feel better.