My Brief History of Time

By Dan Otzel
Senior Staff Writer

My first day of college. On the left is my roomate.

How a wasteland of agony led to triumphant understanding.

In May of 2003 I graduated from high school. My four years at Fairfield Prep had been the best of my life. I received a great education, grew into a man, and partied and partied and partied and partied.

The future was looking bright. I was heading to Florida to party – I mean – study, just outside of Daytona Beach at Stetson University. I was young (18), handsome, smart, funny, athletic, and excited. I had a family who loved me, friends who would take a bullet for me, and a gorgeous girlfriend.

What the hell could go wrong?

Yeah, not only do I have the horror stories; I also have stories that would make your head spin. However, most of my semester-and-a-half in sunny Florida was a blur. It culminated in me waking up one Monday afternoon to my father’s voice. When I finally came too, I heard him utter, “We have a meeting with the Dean.” The next thing I knew, I was in Bridgeport taking biology with a man who, to this day, I couldn’t pick out in a line up.

Why couldn’t I pick him out of a lineup?

Because the mistakes which got me tossed out of Stetson were no longer mistakes – they were a way of life.

Every day I drove to Housatonic Community College wasted. When I woke in the morning the drinking started. As class neared I start drinking heavily. The ride from Milford to Bridgeport was usually quick and filled with speeding cars, loud music, a carton of cigarettes, and, you guessed it, more booze. Once in class, the real drinking began. Most students carry textbooks and pens in their backpacks; I carried a bar.

After getting sub-par marks in classes I should have aced, (I was handing in high school papers still saved on my computer, and after a few successful Horizons articles, I decided I didn’t feel like writing anymore that semester) I had, what some call, a “moment of clarity.”

I called my father into my room and told him I had a problem and I needed help before it killed me. The lifestyle I had been living since high school, a lifestyle filled with booze, drugs, women, and insomnia had caught up to me. I didn’t know what to do.

It was hard for both of us, but what was harder was hearing him tell me he didn’t think alcohol was my only problem. He thought there was something else, something deeper, embedded in my physique.

Once I got help, I quit drinking cold turkey. It wasn’t hard at all. In fact, to this day, I enjoy a drink every so often; it is not a problem. As a matter of fact, it was never the real problem. I used alcohol as a crutch, as self-medication for what was eventually diagnosed as manic-depression. I believe the PC term is bi-polar disorder. Whatever you call it, it blows.

The hardest thing I have ever encountered, or will ever encounter in my lifetime, is fighting this beast of a disease. In the summer of 2008 my life was as back to normal as it ever could be. I picked up the shattered pieces of my past, from 2004 until the 2008 summer, and made my most valiant attempt to put my life back together.

I am quite certain the best wordsmith in the world would have a tough time describing what those four years were like. I am no great writer, but I will try anyway.

Being diagnosed with a more dire case of the illness, I became somewhat of a lab rat for my caring doctors who just wanted to help (except for this one prick). I experimented with dozens of drugs, waiting for three years to find a cocktail that worked.

When the drugs don’t work, manic-depression is a terrible disorder.

The manic side is odd. I would stay up for days with no sleep, working on projects, which, at the time, seemed so grandiose. I would compose the greatest notes ever struck on a guitar. I would write lyrics that made Bob Dylan look illiterate. I would write the Great American Novel, spitting on Huck Finn and Ernest Hemingway. During that time, however, I learned a lot. I was constantly yearning for knowledge; I didn’t care how I got it. But that type of life not only takes a toll on the body, it destroys the mind. An unhealthy body, joined with a disillusioned mind, is a recipe for disaster. I was not Dan Otzel. I had no name. I was an entity who disregarded time and space. I existed, but was lost in that existence. You could not talk to me, converse with me, or relate to me – there was no me, just a false idol, an idol only my mind worshipped.

And then there’s the depression.

I never actively sought suicide, but I didn’t care if I lived or not. Whereas mania lasts a few days to a week, depression is a damned incident, lasting for weeks to months. These days were spent in the layer below Hell. At least Hell is warm and colorful where you can watch miserable souls be tortured for eternity; at least something was going on. Depression, especially when you “crash” from the mania is like nothing you have ever experienced. You wouldn’t wish it upon your worst enemy (well, maybe that prick doctor).

Depression is a black whole. You see nothing, but are totally aware of your miserable existence. But the feeling, the feeling…It is not a feeling of nothingness or remorse…It is a feeling of demise. You can feel death breathing down your neck, and you want to except it, but are too apathetic to do so. It’s a feeling all is lost and it’s all your fault. And what’s scary about it? Nothing provokes it. It just happens. You can’t see it coming and…BOOM! It hits you like a freight train from hell.

My feeble attempts to described symptoms aside, when the drugs do work, you’re at the place I am now. A place where, I’m sure my classmates and professors would tell you, I am completely normal emotionally. But what about when the drugs work too well? When they poison the blood?

Although those occurrences are not as bad as the symptoms, they can delay possible recovery. I have lost my sight, lost my equilibrium, shaken uncontrollably, and gained a tremendous amount of weight. However, I cannot speak for every patient, some get their medication right on the first try.

During that time, I had made my second attempt to earn my Associates Degree at HCC. After receiving an A in my summer course, I had to withdraw from my next 2 courses due to the return of symptoms from the illness. Again, I could not function.

Things were looking pretty bleak once more. But then on July 2, 2007, I checked into Silver Hill Hospital as my last resort. There I was able to get some more help and plan my recovery.

After taking some time off I returned to work. I was working hard, every day, and feeling productive again. Then God looked down and said, “Danny, let’s see how you deal with this,” and blew up the shop I worked at; twenty minutes after I had left (no one was hurt).

So, I decided to come back to HCC.

This is my second straight semester, and I am taking a full workload and excelling. My GPA is up to 2.99 (I’m digging out of a pretty deep hole) and I plan to graduate with honors.

These last six years have been trying times, but it makes the conquests even sweeter.

I have picked myself up by the bootstraps and started over, achieving not only what I could have before, but also learning the depth and magnitude of my character and strength. I feel I have been armed with tools that can seriously help a peer, or even save a life.

I just can’t help but wonder:

When I sit down to revise my story six years from now, what will it say?