I was in what many people call “the rich man’s playground,” Monaco: the small country on the Mediterranean where France meets Italy. As I sat on my hotel balcony watching the yachts pull in to dock, I tried my best to put my life in perspective. My bank account was healthy, and I had plenty of friends. Less than a month before, in Atlanta, I had won an Olympic gold medal. I was in Monaco with several other track stars training for post-Olympic competitions throughout Europe.
One of the athletes phoned me from the swimming pool. “Derrick, there are some Italian girls down here who want to come up to your room.” “Tell ’em I’m tired.” Click.
I wasn’t in the mood for women. I had already tried the sexual-promiscuity thing. It didn’t bring me happiness. In fact, I had tried lots of different things: binge drinking to numb my pain, obsessive training to burn out my stress, self-help books, meditation, you name it. None of them worked to cure my depression. My mood just sank lower and lower until finally I hit my lowest point that night. In a cloud of suicidal despair, I buried my head in the pillow and screamed out my frustration at the top of my lungs.
Six months before, I had been diagnosed as a chronic depressive due to a chemical imbalance in my brain. My psychiatrist had prescribed the antidepressant Luvox. I took it for a brief time, but it made me tired, so I stopped. The Olympics in Atlanta were coming up, and I wasn’t going to let anything hold me back.
I was the favorite to win the 400-meter hurdles. I was an Atlanta resident competing at home. It was my ultimate dream to win an Olympic gold medal. When, miraculously, my dream came true, it was a great feeling. But once my victorious moment was over, my elation faded.
My first symptoms of depression came when I was a teenager. At the age of 13, I began to feel a mild yet lasting dissatisfaction with life. I joined the school track team and realized that running helped me feel better. I began to idolize local high-school sports heroes. They got respect from their friends. They were written about in the local papers. Everyone looked up to them.
I became determined to be a great high-school athlete myself. I trained relentlessly, and four years later I was the best high-school hurdler in the nation. I received scholarship offers and was very popular in school and in the community. I had done what I had set out to do, yet I continued to feel a sense of discontentment. I told myself that once I got to college I’d be happy.
In college I did feel a little better, but the subtle depression deep within my soul lingered. I turned into a workaholic. I studied five hours a day, every day. On the track I ran at an even faster pace than my coaches required. While my teammates were often encouraged to train harder, I was told to relax. I thought that if I could just be the nation’s No. 1 collegiate hurdler, my problems would be solved. I achieved that goal during my senior year. Still, I felt something was missing.
After graduating in June 1993, I became a professional runner and signed a contract with Reebok. From the outside looking in, I had it made. I traveled around the world, ran races and collected money. The irony is that this is when my depression got much worse. I tried to focus on the future: “Once I get a new car, I’ll be happy. Once I buy a house, I’ll be happy.” But none of these things brought me fulfillment.
In early 1996 I finally sought help. My doctor put me on an antidepressant, but after taking it for a few weeks I threw it away. I wanted to avoid the lethargy that came with it, but I also knew from experience that my sour moods would fuel my performance. And once I was an Olympic champion, I reasoned, there was no way I could be depressed.
Winning the gold did make me happy. But just weeks later: crash! That night in Monaco convinced me that I needed to listen to my psychiatrist.
After returning home from Europe, I got back on my meds, and guess what? I’ve been doing well ever since. For so many years I was searching for happiness in athletic achievement, when all I had to do was focus on my health. I didn’t want to be labeled as a chronic depressive, a mental patient, a crazy person. As it turned out, my pride caused me a lot of pain.
Since I’ve been medicated, my track career hasn’t been the same. The fatigue has proved too severe for me to run with the world’s best. I now accept the fact that my health is more important than winning races.
I finally have peace and joy, two things far greater than an Olympic gold medal. I’ve found that praying and reading Scriptures helps me stay balanced emotionally; therefore, I’ve entered theology school and will dedicate the rest of my life to inspiring others. I’m a man with a mission and a message: don’t be too proud to seek help, and remember that all that glitters ain’t gold.
