Jan Wong - Out of the Blue: a Memoir of Workplace Depression, Recovery, Redemption and, Yes, Happiness

Also by Jan Wong:

Red China Blues: My Long March from Mao to Now Jan Wongs China: Reports from a Not-So-Foreign Correspondent Lunch With Jan Wong: Sweet and Sour Celebrity Interviews Beijing Confidential: A Tale of Comrades Lost and Found

Copyright Jan Wong 2012

ISBN: 9780987868510

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any meanselectronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval systemwithout the prior written consent of the author, is an infringement of the copyright law.

Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint excerpts from Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness by William Styron, copyright 1990 by Random House Inc.

Published in Canada by Jan Wong
Jacket design: Paul Hodgson
Text design: Paul Hodgson
Printed and bound in Canada
Published by Jan Wong.
Visit her website at www.janwong.ca

To Gigi

Out of the Blue is the story of my personal journey into and out of depression. The particular events that led to losing my job comprise the narrative thread, but the way I was treated is probably no different from the way many companies treat employees with a mental illness. In this book I have tried my utmost to be objective, to let the facts speak for themselves. Every scene, quotation and incident is based on documents, eyewitness accounts, interviews or my direct experience.

My goal is to bring you, the reader, into a depressives emotional world. Some may dispute my interpretation of events. And, indeed, as I have written in this book, I know that a persons perception of reality becomes skewed during a major depressive episode. When I was depressed, I discovered that I was alternately hypersensitive and hyposensitive. I felt some things acutely, perhaps too acutely. At other times I misread cues. I acknowledge those occasions when I might have misinterpreted words and gestures, or where my emotional response to a situation was colored by depressive symptoms. What I present here is the most accurate narrative I could assemble based on the evidence.

There is no universal story of depression. That is why its so hard to diagnose. Its why so manyfriends, family and employersare skeptical and pass judgment. Depression is a complicated illness. You may read what happened to me and think, Hey! Thats not what its like. But it runs the gamut from paralysis to high-functioning behavior, with many layers in between. Some people stay up all night to justify staying in bed all day. Others seem normal: they go to work, they socialize, they run errands. And then one day, they go home quietly and kill themselves. Wade Belak, an enforcer in the National Hockey League for ten seasons, lived an enviable life with a beautiful young family and a new gig as a host on an all-sports FM station in Nashville. He was in the midst of taping Battle of the Blades, a hit Canadian television show that pairs hockey players with figure skaters in an ice-dancing competition. On what would turn out to be the last night of his life, Belak went out to a bar with a friend. By all accounts he appeared in good spirits. Less than twelve hours later, when he failed to show up for a radio interview, staff at the Toronto condo where he was staying checked on him. They found he had hanged himself in his room.

He was such a bright light, his former coach with the Toronto Maple Leafs, Pat Quinn, later told the Toronto Star. He had a smile on his face every day.

I smiled, too, even when I despaired, although perhaps not every day. This book is not only about that descent into despair. It is also the story of my recovery. I am healthy now, and very productive. I want to tell you that there is day after night, and hope on the other side.

This letter is to let you know that I will be going soon to Toronto to kill you . It will make me feel good to shoot at you a bullet right through your skull

p.s. I know where you live.

Thats all I managed to read before I averted my eyes and called the police.

Four days later, I was still scared. On a quiet Sunday evening in October, as I pulled into my driveway in Toronto, I glanced at the rear-view mirror. A pickup truck, its headlights on, was parked across the street in the empty lot of the schoolmy childrens school. My heart began to pound.

The killer has found my house.

Shaking, I pressed the remote control on the visor. The heavy blue garage door rumbled open. I drove in. I checked my rear-view mirror again, but the pickup truck hadnt moved. Its lights were still on.

To see better when he aims.

Inside the garage, sitting in my minivan, I assessed my options. A bullet would splinter the wooden garage door, shatter the van windows, smash into my skull. The brick walls of my house were thicker. I would take a chance and make a run for it. Carrying a purse, fumbling for a house key, would slow me down. I left my purse in the van. I swung open the van door, leapt out and dashed across the driveway, vaulting two steps to my front door.

Hurry! Please hurry, I prayed as I stabbed the small illuminated doorbell.

I had phoned ahead to say Id be home in half an hour. Normally I dont do that, but the death threat had changed everything. I couldnt remember whether my husband or one of the boys had answered the phone. Whoever it was had merely grunted when I said I was on my way. I didnt saydidnt want to say out loudsomeone is trying to kill me. I knew my family would understand I meant for them to wait at the door.

Where were they? I pressed my nose to the sidelight. I stabbed the doorbell again, so hard the tip of my finger turned white. Still no one came. Leaving my purseand house keyin the van was a fatal error. Now if I ran back, my killer could shoot me on the way. What if he cornered me in the garage? Perhaps I would not get shot if I didnt look back? Dont turn around. Thats what the bad guys always say in the movies. And then a ridiculously long conversation ensues and the victim escapes. This could work for me: I would not turn around and I would escape. Except that the killer hadnt agreed to any deal.

It will make me feel good to shoot at you a bullet right through your skull. p.s. I know where you live.

On a subconscious level, even as I was trying not to get killed, I couldnt help parsing the sentence. My inner editor itched to cross out the words, at you. The journalist in me made a mental note: English is not his native tongue. Perhaps he is a French speaker. When translated literally, to shoot a bullet at you becomes perfectly acceptable French: tirer une balle sur toi. (I assumed the killer was male: we journalists know that men issue death threats, not women.)

This was, however, no time for fixing grammar. I leaned on the doorbell with all my strength. In the silence of the autumn evening, I could hear the long, strident ring, as shrill as a panic button in an elevator.

Still no one came.

I began screaming. I banged on the door, bruising my knuckles. The blue-painted steel, insulated against Canadian winters, muffled the sound of my pounding. I was crying now, tears of pure terror. Did no one care if I died? I became convinced the killer was now standing right behind me. I still believed if I didnt turn around, I had a chance. Time passed. It might have been eight seconds or eight minutes. I had no idea.