A Mind That Found Itself by Clifford Whittingham Beers
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15 A MIND THAT FOUND ITSELF
_An Autobiography_
By
CLIFFORD WHITTINGHAM BEERS
_First edition, March, 1908
Second edition, with additions, June, 1910
Reprinted, November, 1912
Third edition revised, March, 1913
Reprinted, September, 1913
Reprinted, July, 1914
Fourth edition revised, March, 1917
Reprinted, February, 1920
Fifth edition revised, October, 1921_
Dedicated
TO THE MEMORY OF MY UNCLE
SAMUEL EDWIN MERWIN
WHOSE TIMELY GENEROSITY I BELIEVE SAVED MY LIFE
AND WHOSE DEATH HAS FOREVER ROBBED
ME OF A SATISFYING OPPORTUNITY
TO PROVE MY GRATITUDE
A Mind That Found Itself
I
This story is derived from as human a document as ever existed; and,
because of its uncommon nature, perhaps no one thing contributes so
much to its value as its authenticity. It is an autobiography, and
more: in part it is a biography; for, in telling the story of my life,
I must relate the history of another self--a self which was dominant
from my twenty-fourth to my twenty-sixth year. During that period I was
unlike what I had been, or what I have been since. The biographical
part of my autobiography might be called the history of a mental civil
war, which I fought single-handed on a battlefield that lay within the
compass of my skull. An Army of Unreason, composed of the cunning and
treacherous thoughts of an unfair foe, attacked my bewildered
consciousness with cruel persistency, and would have destroyed me, had
not a triumphant Reason finally interposed a superior strategy that
saved me from my unnatural self.
I am not telling the story of my life just to write a book. I tell it
because it seems my plain duty to do so. A narrow escape from death and
a seemingly miraculous return to health after an apparently fatal
illness are enough to make a man ask himself: For what purpose was my
life spared? That question I have asked myself, and this book is, in
part, an answer.
I was born shortly after sunset about thirty years ago. My ancestors,
natives of England, settled in this country not long after the
_Mayflower_ first sailed into Plymouth Harbor. And the blood of these
ancestors, by time and the happy union of a Northern man and a Southern
woman--my parents--has perforce been blended into blood truly American.
The first years of my life were, in most ways, not unlike those of
other American boys, except as a tendency to worry made them so. Though
the fact is now difficult for me to believe, I was painfully shy. When
first I put on short trousers, I felt that the eyes of the world were
on me; and to escape them I hid behind convenient pieces of furniture
while in the house and, so I am told, even sidled close to fences when
I walked along the street. With my shyness there was a degree of
self-consciousness which put me at a disadvantage in any family or
social gathering. I talked little and was ill at ease when others spoke
to me.
Like many other sensitive and somewhat introspective children, I passed
through a brief period of morbid righteousness. In a game of
"one-old-cat," the side on which I played was defeated. On a piece of
scantling which lay in the lot where the contest took place, I
scratched the score. Afterwards it occurred to me that my inscription
was perhaps misleading and would make my side appear to be the winner.
I went back and corrected the ambiguity. On finding in an old tool
chest at home a coin or medal, on which there appeared the text, "Put
away the works of darkness and put on the armour of light," my sense of
religious propriety was offended. It seemed a sacrilege to use in this
way such a high sentiment, so I destroyed the coin.
I early took upon myself, mentally at least, many of the cares and
worries of those about me. Whether in this I was different from other
youngsters who develop a ludicrous, though pathetic, sense of
responsibility for the universe, I do not know. But in my case the most
extreme instance occurred during a business depression, when the family
resources were endangered. I began to fear that my father (than whom a
more hopeful man never lived) might commit suicide.
After all, I am not sure that the other side of my nature--the natural,
healthy, boyish side--did not develop equally with these timid and
morbid tendencies, which are not so very uncommon in childhood.
Certainly the natural, boyish side was more in evidence on the surface.
I was as good a sport as any of my playfellows in such games as
appealed to me, and I went a-fishing when the chance offered. None of
my associates thought of me as being shy or morose. But this was
because I masked my troubles, though quite unconsciously, under a
camouflage of sarcasm and sallies of wit, or, at least, what seemed to
pass for wit among my immature acquaintances. With grown-ups, I was at
times inclined to be pert, my degree of impudence depending no doubt
upon how ill at ease I was and how perfectly at ease I wished to
appear. Because of the constant need for appearing happier than I
really was, I developed a knack for saying things in an amusing,
sometimes an epigrammatic, way. I recall one remark made long before I
could possibly have heard of Malthus or have understood his theory
regarding birth rate and food supply. Ours being a large family of
limited means and, among the five boys of the family, unlimited
appetites, we often used the cheaper, though equally nutritious, cuts
of meat. On one occasion when the steak was tougher than usual, I
epitomized the Malthusian theory by remarking: "I believe in fewer
children and better beefsteak!"
One more incident of my boyhood days may assist the reader to make my
acquaintance. In my early teens I was, for one year, a member of a boy
choir. Barring my voice, I was a good chorister, and, like all good
choir-boys, I was distinguished by that seraphic passiveness from which
a reaction of some kind is to be expected immediately after a service
or rehearsal. On one occasion this reaction in me manifested itself in
a fist fight with a fellow choir-boy. Though I cannot recall the time
when I have not relished verbal encounters, physical encounters had
never been to my taste, and I did not seek this fight. My assailant
really goaded me into it. If the honors were not mine, at least I must
have acquitted myself creditably, for an interested passer-by made a
remark which I have never forgotten. "That boy is all right after he
gets started," he said. About twelve years later I did get started, and
could that passer-by have seen me on any one of several occasions, he
would have had the satisfaction of knowing that his was a prophetic
eye.
At the usual age, I entered a public grammar school in New Haven,
Connecticut, where I graduated in 1891. In the fall of that year I
entered the High School of the same city. My school courses were
completed with as little trouble as scholastic distinction. I always
managed to gain promotion, however, when it was due; and, though few of
my teachers credited me with real ability, they were always able to
detect a certain latent capacity, which they evidently believed would
one day develop sufficiently to prevent me from disgracing them.
Upon entering the High School I had such ambitions as any schoolboy is
apt to have. I wished to secure an election to a given secret society;
that gained, I wished to become business manager of a monthly magazine
published by that society. In these ambitions I succeeded. For one of
my age I had more than an average love of business. Indeed, I
deliberately set about learning to play the guitar well enough to
become eligible for membership in the Banjo Club--and this for no more
aesthetic purpose than to place myself in line for the position of
manager, to which I was later elected.
In athletics there was but one game, tennis, in which I was actively
interested. Its quick give-and-take suited my temperament, and so fond
was I of it that during one summer I played not fewer than four
thousand games. As I had an aptitude for tennis and devoted more time
to it than did any of my schoolmates, it was not surprising that I
acquired skill enough to win the school championship during my senior
year. But that success was not due entirely to my superiority as a
player. It was due in part to what I considered unfair treatment; and
the fact well illustrates a certain trait of character which has often
stood me in good stead. Among the spectators at the final match of the
tournament were several girls. These schoolmates, who lived in my
neighborhood, had mistaken for snobbishness a certain boyish diffidence
for which few people gave me credit. When we passed each other, almost
daily, this group of girls and I, our mutual sign of recognition was a
look in an opposite direction. Now my opponent was well liked by these
same girls and was entitled to their support. Accordingly they
applauded his good plays, which was fair. They did not applaud my good
plays, which was also fair. But what was not fair was that they should
applaud my bad plays. Their doing so roiled my blood, and thanks to
those who would have had me lose, I won.
In June, 1894, I received a high school diploma. Shortly afterwards I
took my examinations for Yale, and the following September entered the
Sheffield Scientific School, in a non-technical course.
The last week of June, 1894, was an important one in my life. An event
then occurred which undoubtedly changed my career completely. It was
the direct cause of my mental collapse six years later, and of the
distressing and, in some instances, strange and delightful experiences
on which this book is based. The event was the illness of an older
brother, who, late in June, 1894, was stricken with what was thought to
be epilepsy. Few diseases can so disorganize a household and distress
its members. My brother had enjoyed perfect health up to the time he
was stricken; and, as there had never been a suggestion of epilepsy, or
any like disease, in either branch of the family, the affliction came
as a bolt from a clear sky. Everything possible was done to effect a
cure, but without avail. On July 4th, 1900, he died, after a six years'
illness, two years of which were spent at home, one year in a trip
around the world in a sailing vessel, and most of the remainder on a
farm near Hartford. The doctors finally decided that a tumor at the
base of the brain had caused his malady and his death.
As I was in college when my brother was first stricken, I had more time
at my disposal than the other members of the family, and for that
reason spent much of it with him. Though his attacks during the first
year occurred only at night, the fear that they might occur during the
day, in public, affected my nerves from the beginning.
Now, if a brother who had enjoyed perfect health all his life could be
stricken with epilepsy, what was to prevent my being similarly
afflicted? This was the thought that soon got possession of my mind.
The more I considered it and him, the more nervous I became; and the
more nervous, the more convinced that my own breakdown was only a
matter of time. Doomed to what I then considered a living death, I
thought of epilepsy, I dreamed epilepsy, until thousands of times
during the six years that this disquieting idea persisted, my
over-wrought imagination seemed to drag me to the very verge of an
attack. Yet at no time during my life have these early fears been
realized.
For the fourteen months succeeding the time my brother was first
stricken, I was greatly harassed with fear; but not until later did my
nerves really conquer me. I remember distinctly when the break came. It
happened in November, 1895, during a recitation in German. That hour in
the class room was one of the most disagreeable I ever experienced. It
seemed as if my nerves had snapped, like so many minute bands of rubber
stretched beyond their elastic limit. Had I had the courage to leave
the room, I should have done so; but I sat as if paralyzed until the
class was dismissed.
That term I did not again attend recitations. Continuing my studies at
home, I passed satisfactory examinations, which enabled me to resume my
place in the class room the following January. During the remainder of
my college years I seldom entered a recitation room with any other
feeling than that of dread, though the absolute assurance that I should
not be called upon to recite did somewhat relieve my anxiety in some
classes. The professors, whom I had told about my state of health and
the cause of it, invariably treated me with consideration; but, though
I believe they never doubted the genuineness of my excuse, it was easy
matter to keep them convinced for almost two-thirds of my college
course. My inability to recite was not due usually to any lack of
preparation. However well prepared I might be, the moment I was called
upon, a mingling of a thousand disconcerting sensations, and the
distinct thought that at last the dread attack was at hand, would
suddenly intervene and deprive me of all but the power to say, "Not
prepared." Weeks would pass without any other record being placed
opposite my name than a zero, or a blank indicating that I had not been
called upon at all. Occasionally, however, a professor, in justice to
himself and to the other students, would insist that I recite, and at
such times I managed to make enough of a recitation to hold my place in
the class.
When I entered Yale, I had four definite ambitions: first, to secure an
election to a coveted secret society; second, to become one of the
editors of the _Yale Record_, an illustrated humorous bi-weekly; third
(granting that I should succeed in this latter ambition), to convince
my associates that I should have the position of business manager--an
office which I sought, not for the honor, but because I believed it
would enable me to earn an amount of money at least equal to the cost
of tuition for my years at Yale; fourth (and this was my chief
ambition), to win my diploma within the prescribed time. These four
ambitions I fortunately achieved.
A man's college days, collectively, are usually his happiest. Most of
mine were not happy. Yet I look back upon them with great satisfaction,
for I feel that I was fortunate enough to absorb some of that
intangible, but very real, element known as the "Yale spirit." This has
helped to keep Hope alive within me during my most discouraged moments,
and has ever since made the accomplishment of my purposes seem easy and
sure.
II
On the thirtieth day of June, 1897, I graduated at Yale. Had I then
realized that I was a sick man, I could and would have taken a rest.
But, in a way, I had become accustomed to the ups and downs of a
nervous existence, and, as I could not really afford a rest, six days
after my graduation I entered upon the duties of a clerk in the office
of the Collector of Taxes in the city of New Haven. I was fortunate in
securing such a position at that time, for the hours were comparatively
short and the work as congenial as any could have been under the
circumstances. I entered the Tax Office with the intention of staying
only until such time as I might secure a position in New York. About a
year later I secured the desired position. After remaining in it for
eight months I left it, in order to take a position which seemed to
offer a field of endeavor more to my taste. From May, 1899, till the
middle of June, 1900, I was a clerk in one of the smaller
life-insurance companies, whose home office was within a stone's throw
of what some men consider the center of the universe. To be in the very
heart of the financial district of New York appealed strongly to my
imagination. As a result of the contagious ideals of Wall Street, the
making of money was then a passion with me. I wished to taste the
bitter-sweet of power based on wealth.
For the first eighteen months of my life in New York my health seemed
no worse than it had been during the preceding three years. But the old
dread still possessed me. I continued to have my more and less nervous
days, weeks, and months. In March, 1900, however, there came a change
for the worse. At that time I had a severe attack of grippe which
incapacitated me for two weeks. As was to be expected in my case, this
illness seriously depleted my vitality, and left me in a frightfully
depressed condition--a depression which continued to grow upon me until
the final crash came, on June 23rd, 1900. The events of that day,
seemingly disastrous as then viewed, but evidently all for the best as
the issue proved, forced me along paths traveled by thousands, but
comprehended by few.
I had continued to perform my clerical duties until June 15th. On that
day I was compelled to stop, and that at once. I had reached a point
where my will had to capitulate to Unreason--that unscrupulous usurper.
My previous five years as a neurasthenic had led me to believe that I
had experienced all the disagreeable sensations an overworked and
unstrung nervous system could suffer. But on this day several new and
terrifying sensations seized me and rendered me all but helpless. My
condition, however, was not apparent even to those who worked with me
at the same desk. I remember trying to speak and at times finding
myself unable to give utterance to my thoughts. Though I was able to
answer questions, that fact hardly diminished my feeling of
apprehension, for a single failure in an attempt to speak will stagger
any man, no matter what his state of health. I tried to copy certain
records in the day's work, but my hand was too unsteady, and I found it
difficult to read the words and figures presented to my tired vision in
blurred confusion.
That afternoon, conscious that some terrible calamity was impending,
but not knowing what would be its nature, I performed a very curious
act. Certain early literary efforts which had failed of publication in
the college paper, but which I had jealously cherished for several
years, I utterly destroyed. Then, after a hurried arrangement of my
affairs, I took an early afternoon train, and was soon in New Haven.
Home life did not make me better, and, except for three or four short
walks, I did not go out of the house at all until June 23d, when I went
in a most unusual way. To relatives I said little about my state of
health, beyond the general statement that I had never felt worse--a
statement which, when made by a neurasthenic, means much, but proves
little. For five years I had had my ups and downs, and both my
relatives and myself had begun to look upon these as things which would
probably be corrected in and by time.
The day after my home-coming I made up my mind, or that part of it
which was still within my control, that the time had come to quit
business entirely and take a rest of months. I even arranged with a
younger brother to set out at once for some quiet place in the White
Mountains, where I hoped to steady my shattered nerves. At this time I
felt as though in a tremor from head to foot, and the thought that I
was about to have an epileptic attack constantly recurred. On more than
one occasion I said to friends that I would rather die than live an
epileptic; yet, if I rightly remember, I never declared the actual fear
that I was doomed to bear such an affliction. Though I held the mad
belief that I should suffer epilepsy, I held the sane hope, amounting
to belief, that I should escape it. This fact may account, in a
measure, for my six years of endurance.
On the 18th of June I felt so much worse that I went to my bed and
stayed there until the 23d. During the night of the 18th my persistent
dread became a false belief--a delusion. What I had long expected I now
became convinced had at last occurred. I believed myself to be a
confirmed epileptic, and that conviction was stronger than any ever
held by a sound intellect. The half-resolve, made before my mind was
actually impaired, namely, that I would kill myself rather than live
the life I dreaded, now divided my attention with the belief that the
stroke had fallen. From that time my one thought was to hasten the end,
for I felt that I should lose the chance to die should relatives find
me in an attack of epilepsy.
Considering the state of my mind and my inability at that time to
appreciate the enormity of such an end as I half contemplated, my
suicidal purpose was not entirely selfish. That I had never seriously
contemplated suicide is proved by the fact that I had not provided
myself with the means of accomplishing it, despite my habit, has long
been remarked by my friends, of preparing even for unlikely
contingencies. So far as I had the control of my faculties, it must be
admitted that I deliberated; but, strictly speaking, the rash act which
followed cannot correctly be called an attempt at suicide--for how can
a man who is not himself kill himself?
Soon my disordered brain was busy with schemes for death. I distinctly
remember one which included a row on Lake Whitney, near New Haven. This
I intended to take in the most unstable boat obtainable. Such a craft
could be easily upset, and I should so bequeath to relatives and
friends a sufficient number of reasonable doubts to rob my death of the
usual stigma. I also remember searching for some deadly drug which I
hoped to find about the house. But the quantity and quality of what I
found were not such as I dared to trust. I then thought of severing my
jugular vein, even going so far as to test against my throat the edge
of a razor which, after the deadly impulse first asserted itself, I had
secreted in a convenient place. I really wished to die, but so
uncertain and ghastly a method did not appeal to me. Nevertheless, had
I felt sure that in my tremulous frenzy I could accomplish the act with
skilful dispatch, I should at once have ended my troubles.
My imaginary attacks were now recurring with distracting frequency, and
I was in constant fear of discovery. During these three or four days I
slept scarcely at all--even the medicine given to induce sleep having
little effect. Though inwardly frenzied, I gave no outward sign of my
condition. Most of the time I remained quietly in bed. I spoke but
seldom. I had practically, though not entirely, lost the power of
speech; but my almost unbroken silence aroused no suspicions as to the
seriousness of my condition.
By a process of elimination, all suicidal methods but one had at last
been put aside. On that one my mind now centred. My room was on the
fourth floor of the house--one of a block of five--in which my parents
lived. The house stood several feet back from the street. The sills of
my windows were a little more than thirty feet above the ground. Under
one was a flag pavement, extending from the house to the front gate.
Under the other was a rectangular coal-hole covered with an iron
grating. This was surrounded by flagging over a foot in width; and
connecting it and the pavement proper was another flag. So that all
along the front of the house, stone or iron filled a space at no point
less than two feet in width. It required little calculation to
determine how slight the chance of surviving a fall from either of
those windows.
About dawn I arose. Stealthily I approached a window, pushed open the
blinds, and looked out--and down. Then I closed the blinds as
noiselessly as possible and crept back to bed: I had not yet become so
irresponsible that I dared to take the leap. Scarcely had I pulled up
the covering when a watchful relative entered my room, drawn thither
perhaps by that protecting prescience which love inspires. I thought
her words revealed a suspicion that she had heard me at the window, but
speechless as I was I had enough speech to deceive her. For of what
account are Truth and Love when Life itself has ceased to seem
desirable?
The dawn soon hid itself in the brilliancy of a perfect June day. Never
had I seen a brighter--to look at; never a darker--to live through--or
a better to die upon. Its very perfection and the songs of the robins,
which at that season were plentiful in the neighborhood, served but to
increase my despair and make me the more willing to die. As the day
wore on, my anguish became more intense, but I managed to mislead those
about me by uttering a word now and then, and feigning to read a
newspaper, which to me, however, appeared an unintelligible jumble of
type. My brain was in a ferment. It felt as if pricked by a million
needles at white heat. My whole body felt as though it would be torn
apart by the terrific nervous strain under which I labored.
Shortly after noon, dinner having been served, my mother entered the
room and asked me if she should bring me some dessert. I assented. It
was not that I cared for the dessert; I had no appetite. I wished to
get her out of the room, for I believed myself to be on the verge of
another attack. She left at once. I knew that in two or three minutes
she would return. The crisis seemed at hand. It was now or never for
liberation. She had probably descended one of three flights of stairs
when, with the mad desire to dash my brains out on the pavement below,
I rushed to that window which was directly over the flag walk.
Providence must have guided my movements, for in some otherwise
unaccountable way, on the very point of hurling myself out bodily, I
chose to drop feet foremost instead. With my fingers I clung for a
moment to the sill. Then I let go. In falling my body turned so as to
bring my right side toward the building. I struck the ground a little
more than two feet from the foundation of the house, and at least three
to the left of the point from which I started. Missing the stone
pavement by not more than three or four inches, I struck on
comparatively soft earth. My position must have been almost upright,
for both heels struck the ground squarely. The concussion slightly
crushed one heel bone and broke most of the small bones in the arch of
each foot, but there was no mutilation of the flesh. As my feet struck
the ground my right hand struck hard against the front of the house,
and it is probable that these three points of contact, dividing the
force of the shock, prevented my back from being broken. As it was, it
narrowly escaped a fracture and, for several weeks afterward, it felt
as if powdered glass had been substituted for cartilage between the
vertebrae.
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