In my case, I saw that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't keep up with work, and if I kept on this way, I would lose job after job until I became unemployable. At that point, the only way to support my kids would be to commit suicide. Thus, my life ultimately depended on doing whatever it took to turn things around, and it was easy to decide that I would prefer admitting that I had a problem and going on medication and sucking up the shame and embarassment of it over having to choose between completely failing my kids and death.
Treatment brought partial results, which brought a more optimistic outlook on life and clearer thinking, which led to better behavior and better relationships.
My wife swears she told me several times to see a doctor. I really don't remember it. She says that she did stop because she saw the futility of trying to drag me into treatment when I was resistant to the idea. I had to come to that conclusion all by myself.
And of course there's been continued frustration. Don't expect a doctor to make him all better at once. I've been going down this road for three years now, and I'm not anywhere near as far as I'd hoped to be.
a fine and enviable madness, this delusion that all questions have answers, and nothing is beyond the reach of a strong left arm.
