Sunday Diaries

 

Happy September! I missed writing last week, even though it was the long weekend. I didn't feel up to it and didn't have much to say. Even though these posts have been sort of random, I've really enjoyed the act of writing each week and making it a practice.

September is Suicide Prevention Awareness month, and this week marked World Suicide Prevention Day on September 10th. After losing my mom to suicide in 1998, suicide, mental health and mental illness have been things that I've talked about pretty openly for much of my life. I've shared many posts on the blog over the years:

• The S Word
• Suicide, God, and Comments on the Internet
• To Frances Spade

It's so interesting to go back and read those thoughts, and also see the evolution of my perspective over time. I have learned more about better language to use around suicide and mental health, and hope to keep learning as time goes on. I posted a reel on Instagram this week about World Suicide Prevention Day, and talked about how I hope going forward we can ensure that the conversations around suicide prevention include more than just a crisis line. It's removing barriers to mental health support, getting rid of the stigma around mental illness, creating safety in asking for help, creating access to community support and so much more. 

It's been more than 20 years since my mom's death and I truly still miss her every day. I have no idea what it would be like to have her in my life now, or what she'd be like in 2020, but I know that there's a Debbie-shaped hole in my life. I'm grateful for the memories I do have, and that I have an opportunity to share her story. 

Let's keep talking, and doing our part to keep these important conversations going. 

To Frances Spade (from someone else who lost her mom to suicide at 13)

Dear Frances,

I've been thinking a lot about you over the last couple of days. I want to start off by saying that I'm so sorry for your loss. Losing a parent is incredibly difficult at any age, but 13 is even more tough. Not only am I sorry for the loss of your mom, but I'm so sorry that you will be going through this in the public eye, with a lot of people sharing their thoughts and opinions about your mom, her death, stigmas about mental health, and the fact that it was a suicide.

I too lost my mom to suicide when I was 13. It was in 1998 before the internet was popular, yet even still, news of my mom's death and the "mysterious" circumstances spread like wild fire. People said that I was lying. My peers speculated on the way that she died. There were rumours, lies, and a whole lot of opinions that I could have done without - and my mom was just an everyday person, not even a public figure.

Over the last 20 years I've grappled with many emotions, feelings and waves of grief. It isn't my nature to be angry, but if that's what you're feeling, it's ok. Your feelings are valid, whatever they are. A friend once shared with me that grief is like the seasons - ever present, but always changing. Over time you will run the gamut of emotions, you may have already felt like you've gone through too many to name this week.

I was very lucky to have an incredibly guidance counsellor and a very compassionate homeroom teacher when my mom died. And that guidance counsellor set me up with my high school guidance counsellor, who helped me to participate in a bereavement group in my high school. I found a great therapist 2 years ago and she's been instrumental in my continued journey. I am so grateful for those resources and support. I urge you to find that support for yourself, or talk to someone who can help you do so; It will be invaluable for the future.

With each passing day, this will now be the lens with which you view the world. Your friends' and peers' problems will likely feel small and challenging to empathize with for awhile. It isn't common for teens your age to lose a parent, especially not in this way. They may be dealing with moving out of their childhood home, getting a low grade on a test, or having a disagreement with another friend - it is okay to show compassion, set boundaries, and remove yourself from the situation if needed. Managing your own self care and self preservation in those moments is key.

As you meet people in your life who have gone through something similar, don't be afraid to be vulnerable and talk to them about your shared experiences. I have found that I have become deeply connected to those who have experienced trauma, grief, loss and the suicide of a loved one. I cherish those relationships deeply, and know that they have helped me in my own process over time.

Don't read the comments on the internet. While always a good practice, when it comes to these matters I would advise you to be even more stringent. People can be insensitive, cruel and downright nasty. You may feel attacked personally by their words and insensitivity. Save your energy and potential rage.

As the years go by, continue to take care of your own mental health and practice good self care. There will be days that will be hard - some will be predictable (like mother's day, her birthday, the loss of others, special days in your life) and others will be sneaky and catch you by surprise. Lean on your supporters, ask for help from your network and remind yourself that it's ok to not be ok.

Your mom brought joy to many people - not only with her brand, but to you, your family and those who knew her closely; her death does not take that away. Talk about your mom. Say her name. Print photos. Ask people who knew her to tell you stories about her. Repeat your favourite stories about her. When you meet new people, share her story. They won't be able to meet her, but her legacy will continue to live in you.

These are all the things I wish I could go back and tell myself. Twenty years later I am impacted deeply by my mother's life and her death, and I still miss her every day.

Kate Spade was an incredible woman who loved you very much. I am thinking of you through these challenging days, and hope that little by little, things will seem a bit brighter. Take care of yourself.

xo

Photo by Matthew Henry

Yesterday was Fine, Wasn't It?

I received this post this week and then received an almost identical message following my post on my mom's death anniversary on Tuesday. This is why the Life is Sweet series and sharing my story alongside so many others is so important to me. We are not alone. 

There are often times I don’t know how to deal with my feelings. Many days I feel fine, but then all of sudden, like from out of nowhere, BOOM, I feel every awful feeling at once. Sadness, hatred, anger, unappreciated, overwhelmed; as if I’m drowning in my own feelings. I can’t control myself in those moments, I’m 30 and still can’t figure out a way to control my feelings like a fully functioning adult should. I run to the bathroom or anywhere I can lock myself from everyone else and cry and scream and think all sorts of horrible thoughts.

In that moment I think of how much better my family would be without me. Or would they be?

They wouldn’t have to witness my breakdowns; my children might have a better chance at self-control, since I am certainly not a great teacher of that particular skill. Then as I think of how I would do it, how I could end my life, I stop, breathe and think of how my friend has felt ever since losing her mother while we were in grade school. Her mom unfortunately succumbed to these types feelings.

I think of the wonderful things I would miss with my children, and how hurt my family would be. How would my husband raise our kids on his own? Even though it might put an immediate end to my internal fight, what would happen to everyone else? Then I cry harder, wishing so much that I could control myself, my feelings, and my thoughts. I think, "what just happened in that moment to push me over the edge? Yesterday was fine, wasn’t it?"

Many times I’ve attempted to get help. Seeing many different counselors, taking classes, trying to start exercising regularly (which for one reason or another never happens). I feel I have not yet found someone who is able to properly assist me. I am trying very hard not take meds yet as I want to try all the natural methods I can first. It’s not have I think there is anything wrong with medication, but I’ve watched my mom take it since I was in elementary school and I just always hoped I could find an alternative. However, I also am more aware that it might end up being the only thing that will help. 

Since depression and anxiety run in my family I knew it was something that I needed to be mindful of, though I often try to deny these feelings. I’m still searching for help, and know that I want to feel better for myself, my children and my family. I want to be the mom, daughter, sister, wife and friend that people deserve for me to be. I just am still unsure of how to get there. I hope I will find someone who is able to help me soon so that I could at least have the tools to take control of my feelings.

Though it’s bittersweet, I think the thought of my friend and her mom helps keep me from doing the unthinkable. I was lucky to have known her and she raised a beautiful human being in her short time here.

Why My Mum Would Rather Have Cancer Than Bipolar Disorder

This post was sent to me to be shared anonymously. As someone who has family members who deny the existence of mental illness in our family, I can sadly relate to this idea of her mum's "accident". Even though mental illness is so prevalent in our society, people are still afraid to talk about it and there remains an enormous stigma around it. I hope to see a shift in this thinking in my lifetime.

When I was a kid my mum told me that she would rather have cancer than to be “crazy” because at least if she had cancer no one would blame her, or mock her, or tell her to ‘just snap out of it’; people would have sympathy for her, and would care for her¹.

Then when I was a teenager my mum quietly rode a bus to a bridge. When she got to the bridge she took off her jacket, folded it and set it down at the side of the road. She took off her purse and her shoes and placed them on top of her neatly folded jacket, and jumped feet first off the bridge.

My mum survived the fall. She was even conscious and lucid enough laying on the concrete below the bridge to be embarrassed when a passerby asked if she needed help, and so she said no, she was fine.

In my family my mum’s last suicide attempt is referred to as her “accident.” People in my family say things like, “before your mum’s accident” and “since your mum’s accident” as though it were the most accurate and natural description of what happened. But it isn’t. My mum didn’t have an accident. She was ill, and she tried to end her life intentionally, not accidentally. The word “accident” is a cover, a screen, a way to avoid the shame and disgrace that mental illness carries. It’s also a slap in my mum’s face because it denies her illness, obfuscating the pain and duress at the root of her jump.

My mum has found a level of normality and comfort since her last suicide attempt but she will always be medicated, she will always be fighting depression, her feet will always hurt from the moment she wakes up until the moment she falls asleep, and everyday is a journey.

----

¹This is not meant to minimize the enormous challenge, pain and heartbreak that people who have cancer (and their families) experience. It is only meant to illustrate the added layer that the stigma surrounding mental illness adds to the experience of sickness.

Suicide, God and Comments on the Internet

A few months ago, someone that I admire wrote a post about Brittany Maynard, the woman who had moved to a new state with her family so that she could die with compassion. She was terminally ill with brain cancer and her health was deteriorating and she wanted to live the end of her life with dignity and have control over a disease that had taken control of her life.

This person that I admire is openly religious and often posts about his faith. He wrote a post about this woman, asking "what if Brittany choosing to die was not in God's plan" and went on to wonder whether God had great things planned for this woman that she would miss out on because she was choosing to end her own life. I read the post and realized that he and I shared a very different view on Brittany's decision, but then I made the mistake of reading the comments.

People were ripping the woman apart. Some said she should burn in hell for choosing to end her own life. Harsh opinions of suicide ensued. Others criticized her immensely for her "selfish" decision. Comments on the Internet can be a really horrific thing, but I couldn't believe the lack of compassion that these people were showing this woman who had made such a tough decision and shared it publicly. And while Brittany's situation is very different than anything I've experienced in my lifetime, with their criticism of her choice and suicide in general, I felt like they were also attacking my mom.

Since my mom's death in 1998, I've had some very difficult conversations / debates / arguments with people about suicide. It's a heated subject, and I've had my fair share of people express their opinions about it to me.

About how selfish it is.
How awful it is for the people who need to "clean it up".
Shouldn't I be angry at my mom?
And now reading the opinions of these people who believed that those who die by suicide should burn in hell.

Just, wow.

In 17 years I've certainly wondered what had to be happening in my mom's head in order for her to end her life. She had 2 children, family and friends who loved her immensely and she left that behind. I've felt sad for the time I lost with her and all the things she'll never be a part of in my life. It hurts to think about the time we've missed out on together and the moments in my life that she will never experience. The important people in my life that she'll never get to meet. And while suicide is a very final choice, I recognize that those who die by suicide really see no other way to keep living. It's not a feeling that I have personally experienced, but I have felt the bleakness that comes with depression and can only imagine that suicide is a further extension of that. And in Brittany's case, it was a choice to die with dignity. Not an easy one, but a decision that she and her family decided was the right one for her.

I can't imagine condemning anyone to "burn in hell", especially not someone who was hurting immensely and going through their own version of hell; A person who was experiencing a lot of pain and sadness, who through their own actions would leave family and loved ones and a whole life behind. I'm not a religious person, but I understand that the bible says to "love thy neighbour", right?

And like I felt the day I read those comments, I feel the need to write this and defend my mom, because she isn't here to do it herself.

Because in my experience, when people get upset about suicide or the idea of suicide, they forget that there was a person attached to the concept. They dismiss the people that were left behind. They get caught up in being against the idea and view it as a concept that they are against. When really, there's so much more to it than that.

Each year I host this Life is Sweet series for people to share their stories and to remind others of the humanity behind the ideas of mental health, mental illness, suicide and loss. It's easy to get caught up in a concept, but let's remember that there are people behind them.

Seventeen years ago, my beautiful mother Debbie chose to end her life by suicide. I can't claim to understand exactly why, but I know that she dealt with a lot of pain and sadness in her lifetime.

I'm not angry at her.

I don't feel resentful of her "selfish" act.

I feel sad for all that we both missed out on.

And I miss her every day.

Awful Sweet, to be a Little Butterfly

The statistics say that 1 in 5 Canadians will deal with a mental health concern in their lifetime. The other 4 out of 5 will know someone with mental illness. While it may not be something we deal with directly, we will most certainly encounter at least one person in our lifetime who has a mental health concern. I appreciate Lacey sharing the story of her friend, Nel for the Life is Sweet series.

When I was eighteen years old I moved into my dorm at university and met the quiet and pretty girl that lived across the hall from me.
 

Her name was Nel.

Well, her name was actually "Ellen" but everyone called her Nel.

She was nice and also into theatre. Her study music was showtunes. 

She would post pictures and quotes on her dorm room door. It's been ten years, but I still remember two of them because they resonated with me. One said: "If you are not enraged, you are not paying attention!" and the other said: "I want to live in a world where schools are fully funded and the army needs to hold bake sales." I thought she possessed an unusually high level of social awareness for an eighteen year old. I followed her example.

Nel and I had acting class together. I thought she was brilliant. I felt like she could see colours no one else could. Like a butterfly.

During our time at school together, I learned that Nel was a talented writer. She was working on a manuscript and asked some of her friends to read it for the first time. The manuscript was a story about her time in an eating disorder treatment facility. Nel was good at conveying what it was like to have anorexia, and the difficult road to recovery. 

After school Nel went travelling. It was one of her favourite things to do. I followed her Facebook pictures closely, and since our time at university, we ran into each other at Hart House, Pride and here and there. Our text messages always consisted of plans to meet up that never came to fruition.

Despite this, mine and Nel's friendship was very active on Facebook. Nel posted statuses and memes about issues very close to my heart. It was also apparent that Nel was suffering from severe depression by this time, as she was very open about it online. She would post memes every other day that would attempt to describe what it was like to live with a mental illness. I admired her so much, she was so desperately trying to get people to understand. It is important for people to try and understand what living with depression is like. She was so brave to rail against the stigma. 

 And I thought Nel would win. I thought that she would go on to help end the stigma against mental illness and be a voice of strength for other people who were suffering. I thought for sure the darkness wouldn't take her.

This is why I was surprised, taken aback, devastated that on January 5th, 2015, Nel took her own life. I wasn't doing anything important that day. Just work and the gym. I would give everything I have to go back and be with her on that day. Beg her not to leave. Convince her that she had made enough of an impact in my life that if she was gone, I would care. Oh God, I would care.  

This threw into sharp contrast just how serious depressions is. Like cancer, like heart disease, it takes people. It affects those suffering from it, and it affects those around the people who suffer from it.

This is my hope for the future, that these facts become widely acknowledged. That depression is a real illness, that is can be life threatening, and that doesn't only affect those suffering from it, but the friends, families, coworkers, lovers of those who suffer from it as well.

Now Nel is no longer here to keep fighting. So I will. For her. 

I'll start by going here:

http://suicideprevention.ca/

http://twloha.com/

--

Lacey is a freelance Stage Manager who studied at York University. She enjoys biking, singing and playing guitar. Coffee and wine are her favourite potions and poisons.

The Other Side of the Story

Welcome to the third annual Life is Sweet month on Dancing Through Life. Over the month of February, I'll be sharing posts from a variety of guests who have offered to share their stories of mental health, mental illness, suicide and loss. The last 2 years of posts have provided an outlet for people to share their stories and continue the conversation about mental health. You can read the posts from previous years, here and here. 

I hope that you're visit the blog this month to read the stories of my guest bloggers and continue to open up the dialogue about mental health by sharing their stories via social media with the hashtag, #lifeissweet. 

I had connected with Justin last year about contributing to the series, but my message was lost in Facebook's 'Other' inbox. I'm thankful that we were able to connect and appreciate that he was willing to share his story. 

=== WARNING: TRIGGER ALERT. ===

I don't like February. It's never been a favourite month of mine. The cold. The dreary weather. The constant grey.

While February has been dubbed "the dead of winter", the Center for Disease Control and Prevention and the National Center for Health Statistics have both reported that suicide rates in the United States are lowest during the winter months and highest in the summer and spring. Despite this, popular belief tends to promote the line of thinking that most suicides peak during the winter months. (Source)

I've been very public about my struggle with depression, and with the recent passing of well-known public figures such as Robin Williams and many others who have struggled with mental health issues, as well as the recent #BellLetsTalk day, this topic has only become more important to me.

However, there's a side of this story that I haven't shared publicly. A side people haven't heard before. It's the dark side of this story, one that deserves to be told.

To begin explaining this story is to go way back into time. All the way back to the beginning, some 30 years ago.

I grew up in a violent environment where fear and intimidation were omnipresent. Where the threat of violence was always around the corner - and in many instances, it appeared out of nowhere. An environment where the act of violence was carried out without understanding what the end result might be. The bruises, the blood and the inevitable tears were not the final outcomes.

Those final outcomes were a lack of self-esteem. A crippling lack of confidence. A loss of trust. The feeling that I would never be the same. That safety and security would always be elusive.

The feeling that I would never be worthy of being loved, that I would never be capable of loving something or someone else and that I would never be accepted were always there, lurking just below a blistered, bruised and battered surface.

But most of all, I was left with feelings of betrayal, confusion and anger. How could this happen to me? How could anyone willingly do this to another person, despite the obvious signs of fear, suffering and sadness?

I believed that I could never love myself and that I would forever be an empty shell of a person who couldn’t offer something to the world - someone who, despite their best efforts, would never be good enough.

For many years, I struggled with these feelings. I blamed myself. I began to believe that it was somehow my fault, that I had done something terrible to do deserve this. These feelings began to manifest themselves in some pretty terrible ways.

I began to shutdown. I started filing away the feelings and emotions, resolute in my desire to never let anyone see the side of me that had eroded at every aspect of my being.

On October 14th 2014, I came dangerously close to committing suicide.

To seriously consider suicide is the unlike any feeling I've ever had. It was a feeling of utter emptiness. I felt nothing except incredible disappointment, overwhelming sadness and that ending it all was the only way to make it go away.

I remember standing on the subway platform and thinking that jumping in front of the train would be easy, quick and painless. While I teetered on the edge of life and death, I began to think about all the things that could go wrong. Would I live and be horribly incapacitated? Who would see this happen? What would my family think? Would they understand? Would this make them understand that the gravity of my situation warranted such a decision?

I saw their faces, their disappointment, and realized the finality of it all. I broke down in tears and collapsed on the platform. The utter disappointment I felt was nothing what they would experience in the years to come as they would have to explain what happened, why I did it, and the hole it would leave in their lives.

I called a friend, and while I don't remember exactly what I said, I remember feeling as though I could never claw my way back to a sense of belonging. A sense of being needed. A sense of being loved and being wanted. A place where I'd be loved and cared for - and cared about.

What followed this were a few weeks of living in a robot-like trance where I felt nothing. I was tired most of the time, yet I couldn't sleep. I displayed no emotion, yet I cried numerous times a week. I couldn't think straight, yet my mind raced and was thinking a million different thoughts at once.

It came to a head in December, when I finally broke down and told someone what I was going through. This was the first time I openly cried and explained what had happened. I felt lost, and until then, it was as though I was wandering through a desolate place where there was no-one to talk to and nothing I could do to escape what I was feeling.

In short, I was an emotional wreck. Having that conversation, and the many that have followed since, have been both revelatory and exhausting.

Since then, I've learned a few things about how I deal with my mental health issues.

I've learned how to rewrite my history. For many years, I let the actions of an angry individual define my future, dictate who I am and determine what I'm capable of. I've come to realize that my past doesn't define who I am. Realizing this has been the most freeing moment of certainty I've had in quite some time.

The world is a gift shop. There are so many beautiful things to be seen, if only we open our eyes. I've made a conscientious choice to ignore the negatives, the things that affect my mood, the behaviours that have contributed to my feeling of frustration. Instead, I choose to see the positives in this world and focus on those things.

I am safe. I am loved. I have people who love and care for me. Realizing this seems easy to most, but I am not most people. For a long time, I certainly didn't feel like "most people". In some aspects, I still don't. But as the days go by, pieces of the old me disappear, and are replaced with understanding, awareness and a resolve to be mindful, be open, and be receptive.

Do I still harbor feelings of disappointment? Yes. Do I still have feelings of confusion? Sure. These feelings won’t disappear overnight, and I’m fairly certain I will probably always have these feelings, but through therapy, I've come to learn they're manageable. With a bit of work, I have developed a strategy for dealing with the triggers that have historically been associated with these feelings. Having a strategy to recognize the triggers and manage their outcomes has been at times difficult to learn, but one that was necessary in better understanding the effects mental health has on me and my behaviour.

I can't say my struggle with mental health is over. I think it will be with me for the rest of my life. But starting this month, and every month, I choose to be happy. I choose to be open, be receptive and mindful of the beautiful things this world has to offer.

I choose to not let my past define me. Instead, I choose to use my past as as a series of stepping stones along the path to doing great things.

I choose not to suffer alone. Because while it can feel as though we suffer alone, let me say this: You're not alone. I know that it feels that way sometime, but this couldn't be further from the truth. If you ever feel that way, I want you to remember these three very important words: You're not alone.

We can support each other. We can laugh together, cry together, and learn together. We're all in this together, and when we support one another - in the good times and the bad - we can come back into the light and see the world for how it really is: A beautiful place full of even more beautiful things.

All we need to do is open our eyes.

Justin Kozuch is a Toronto-based technology reporter covering startups, mobile and marketing. When not staring into his computer screen, he can be found exploring the Ontario backcountry, reading a book or enjoying a glass of scotch.

Accepting the Sadness

Another insightful (and anonymous) post on dealing with depression along with some ideas for those dealing with depression or any sort of mental illness, as well as for those trying to support someone going through a difficult time. 

I have dealt with deep sadness since I went through treatment for an illness as a teenager. I grew up very fast, and started to ask big questions at a young age like, "Is life meaningless? Do I matter at all?" The illness I had is a story in and of itself, but was the kickstart to a much harder journey, that of my depression and anxiety. It's weird how I often look back and think that the time during treatment was not as hard as afterwards. After I left the hospital, I was dropped back into school after missing an entire year amongst my peers. I didn't know the latest gossip, didn't realize who had changed over the year, and most of all didn't know how to interact like a girl my age. I didn't know how to chit-chat. The doctors and nurses were my friends, the hospital my home. And so, after constantly being brushed off in the hall after saying hi to my friends, after consistently being excluded to gatherings and parties, and after realizing that my friends had counted their hours visiting me as community service, I sunk into a deep sadness. I didn't think it was depression. I didn't know what it was. I had suicidal thoughts. I wanted to end my life after a year of doing everything to save my life. I didn't know who I was anymore.

Luckily, I got through high school and the rest of my teenage years because I had gone to a camp specifically for kids with my illness and reconnected with myself and kids my age at just the right time. I thought maybe this sadness was behind me. But something started to happen again in second year university. I had two groups of friends leave my life, one after the other, pretty much overnight, and not really with any rhyme or reason. The fear of people leaving me, the fear of being hated and talked about and excluded started to consume me. I cried uncontrollably to sleep every night. I was in physical pain from being so sad and not leaving my bed. I became irritable and angry at everyone and everything. This would subside and come back throughout the year. If I kept myself busier things were better, but this deep feeling of being hated and alone was always there. By third year university I had to go home for the summer because my suicidal thoughts and sadness was at an all time high. I kept a lot of how severe it was from my parents because I felt they had endured enough during my time in the hospital. But I did confide in my mom that something is wrong because I even think that people on the street are staring at me and laughing at me. That I knew it made no sense, but it consumes my thoughts and often makes it impossible to go out. I think my parents may have taken it in...I'm not sure. I think they may have been in a bit of denial that I was going through depression and anxiety.

I was formally diagnosed with depression and social anxiety in 2010. I refused to go on antidepressants for a long time, partly because I felt weak if I did go on them, that maybe I could muscle through or look on the "bright side of things" more, and partly because I knew my parents would disapprove. My parents and I fought a lot during this time. I felt like they didn't understand me, they were fed up with my sadness and irritability and inability to see beyond my emotions, and they didn't want me to go on medication. Now when I look back, I think they were just coming to terms with the idea that after everything, their daughter was not healthy - after all the treatment, I was still struggling and going to struggle with my health and they couldn't fix it as much as they wanted to.

My first suicide attempt forced me to go on medication. I have been through three types, all with varying degrees of side effects and success. The first was good at first and stopped working, the second didn't work at all and my depression and anxiety was the worst it had ever been and was accompanied with constant suicidal thoughts, cutting, and many suicide attempts. I would stand in the subway station and think that jumping in front would be easy and best for everyone. That no one would show up to my funeral anyway and life would go on as if nothing happened. On my commute home from work I would press my head against the window and cry uncontrollably in public - for no reason but that I felt I was meaningless and a waste of space. Often strangers stopped me on the street concerned and wondering if I was ok - I would usually force a smile and say yes when I desperately wasn't.

Finally, in the spring of 2012, my best friend at the time up and left me in an email. Out of the blue. And blocked all communication with me. I still don't really know why. All I know is that this person promised he would be there and that he wouldn't leave like others had did and now he had done it in the most heartless and cruel way. This was the worst of my depression. I spent some time in the hospital as an outpatient, was put on a new medication, found a therapist (after many failed ones before), and had to take a sick leave work. I couldn't leave my bed. I couldn't clean my apartment. Any flowers or plants my friends brought died (if they were even put into a vase at all). I couldn't move or eat and sometimes felt that I was going to die from feeling so sad. I would sit on my bed and cry until I hyperventilated or felt nauseous or pass out. I had a group of friends who were helping me, but I still felt completely alone. The thought of even having a shower was an incredibly daunting task. Every minute was a painful struggle.

I could go through the entire healing process - but the fact is, I'm writing this right now, in a much better place. I turned down the offer to write for this blog last year because I felt I was still going through it. And not to say I have beaten depression and anxiety now - I haven't. I will always struggle with it. But it doesn't control my life anymore. And very often I actually feel that elusive emotion I never thought I would feel - happy. 2013 was a great year for me - I had some huge successes in my career, moved to a new apartment that I love, met some amazing people, started getting back into shape, and met my wonderful and loving boyfriend who treats me so well and is a constant source of joy and support. 

Not to generalize and say "this is the way to get better", but looking back, these are the things that helped me get better that may help someone who is struggling or help a friend know how to help someone who is depressed.

1. I started to make sure my day was filled with things and people that made me happy and got rid of the rest. 

It got to a point where I felt I was wasting my life if I was feeling sad in a situation. Not to say that things like folding laundry (I hate folding laundry) need to be cut out of your life. But I'm talking about the bigger picture. I quit my day job that was an enormous source of unhappiness and was with a boss who could not understand my situation. I freelance full-time now. It's more stressful, but I am doing what I love to do. And as for people, I only spend my free time with people who I respect and admire and make me feel good about myself and appreciate me for who I am, the good and bad. A good sign for me is that they still like me if I am crying and are ok with silence. I don't spend time with people who only like me when I'm happy or make me feel like I'm a burden if I am sad.

2. I started standing up for myself.

One horrible feeling that comes with depression that is unfortunately propagated by the stigma of mental illness is that my feelings weren't valid. First I had to believe that my feelings were worth acknowledging and then I started to communicate clearer to people and show that my feelings are always valid. Depression and anxiety at least for me is always caused by a trigger, no matter how small, but it isn't completely irrational. The moment you hear someone say that your sadness isn't valid or you are making things up in your brain, this is a clue that this person should not be in your life. That former best friend of mine used to always say "it's just in your head". No. It wasn't. He was doing things to cause them and I should have left him a lot sooner.

3. I started exercising and eating healthy (or try to) for ME.

I wanted to start feeling good about myself inside and out. Not to impress anyone or to start going on dates. I wanted to feel good for me. It was interesting that even if there was no physical change after a workout, I still felt better about myself and less anxious to go outside. My thoughts also started to slow down and my reaction to things were more logical. It's almost like my body saying "Hey! Thanks for taking care of me! To thank you, I'm going to make you feel ok today!"

4. Music, music, music.
Music is incredibly healing. Playing, listening, singing....it was all really helpful and felt like someone out there understood me, even if it wasn't verbalized. And actually, sad music made me feel better.

5. A really awesome therapist. 

I really love my therapist. She is incredibly validating, a good listener, and we have developed a very trusting relationship. I have been through five that didn't work for me and finally hit one that did. Seek the right fit out. It's worth the extra time (and sometimes money). 

6. Breathing
Yup. Something so simple does tremendous work. 

7. Sex and the City (I'm serious.)

Ok - this will be different for everyone. But for me, Sex and the City made me start to see things differently. I think this is different for everyone. But anything can be a source of help - a movie, a tv show, a book, a song, a picture to shift your perspective just a little bit. (Man, that episode with the post-it note break-up. Carrie. I feel you.)

And as for the things people did, this is certainly what works for me.

1. Validation
Saying that whatever I'm feeling must hurt a lot or that they are sorry I feel that way.

2. Listening
Sometimes I don't need advice or to see a silver lining (which comes across as very dismissive to me). I just need a listening ear. A TRUE listener. I need to feel heard and felt and empathized with. If I am going over the same problem over and over with a friend, it's likely that I haven't felt heard yet. Re-evaluate if you are truly being attentive during a moment of need, and if you aren't or can't, simply communicate that.

3. Accepting the sadness

Sadness is a part of life. I think I have realized it is needed to be balanced - sort of like a yin and yang. I think in Western culture we dismiss sadness instead of embrace it. And this can often mean that people who are depressed feel like they must hide this or that they are viewed as a lower class. I think I realized that it's important to embrace my sadness. To see the "empty" holes in my spirit not as a void, but a part of my whole. Sadness can be beautiful. It can fuel creativity. It shouldn't be shunned or labelled as a weakness. If your friend is depressed or sad, don't feel as it is your duty to change them. You are there for a support. But when people started to shun my depression, it felt like they were shunning me or that I had to put on a happy face all the time. I feel a lot better with friends who are fine with my sadness and don't try to change me. One thing that is great about my boyfriend is early on when I told him about my depression, he said he likes me just the way I am. Not that he enjoys seeing me sad, but I don't fear (or at least can talk my brain out of the fear) that he will leave me for it, because he has verbalized he is ok with it. If you have a friend going through it, maybe verbalize that to them.

4. Honour the relationship
Depression can be frustrating for any relationship on both sides. But one thing that sent me over the edge was my best friend leaving me in such an impersonal way. I think it's always important to evaluate how much your friendship has been through and how much you value this person in your life. I know sometimes we do need to part ways as friends or in relationships or if you cannot be a support any longer for whatever reason, but I think it's important to do so in a way that honours the relationship you had. It's important to always remember there is a person behind the mental illness. 

5. Just always tell people you love them
Everyone feels good when you tell them you love them, that you matter, and that they are proud of you. Make sure you do it often to the people you care about in your life. 

Life Isn't Always Easy

Over the last two and a half weeks, my Life is Sweet bloggers have been sharing their stories of the difficult times they've faced and the losses they've overcome. For many of them, the things they've faced have been the most challenging things in their lives to date, but seem to come out stronger and more resilient on the other side. While today's post is entitled 'Life isn't Always Easy', today's blogger Trish has demonstrated this strength and resilience following the challenges that she has faced with mental illness and I am inspired by her bravery in telling her story. 

Depression and I have history.

To say it's been a bumpy road is a bit of an understatement. My first concrete brush with depression came at 15. Life for a 15 year old isn't always easy. Suffice it to say, my life situation definitely wasn't typical or easy but, my first major depression came as a result of something that happens to most of us. My first love left me for one of my very best friends. It broke my heart. The details are a little blurry for me now but after the conversation with him I went home and took an overdose. There were plenty of prescription drugs available in my home. It sounds dramatic but I felt like my life was over. I had no idea how I could go on. The heartbreak, the betrayal, the humiliation. I had zero coping skills for this kind of intense emotion. It was my first of three serious suicide attempts.

All three of the attempts have overdose in common. However, each time I did something a little different afterwards. The first time when I woke up I told my mom. She completely under-reacted and I wonder to this day if she'd taken it more seriously and given me access to mental health professionals, maybe I wouldn’t have attempted a second and third time. I didn't get any professional help after the first attempt but I did manage to work my way out of that terrible dark place. The friendship, was over but I still had to deal with the two of them in my social circle. It wasn't easy. I made up my mind to separate myself from "those people" as soon as I could. I left home the week I finished high school and moved far away and saw very little of the people I'd grown up with.

Attempt two, I was 19. I'd lost my first "real" job and it was my fault. I'd been warned about being late, three times. I was young. I was working in an environment that was difficult. I was dealing with exposure to some pretty terrible experiences. I was in the dictation pool of a psychiatric hospital. The pay was great and I was really good at typing but the daily exposure to the horror of the things we human beings do to each other took a toll. I'd been self-medicating but it got harder and harder to get to work on time. I was in a relationship with a sweet guy. A sweet guy who had some addiction issues. I had a great roommate. A roommate who had access to lots of drugs. It was a bad combination.

When I woke up I knew I had to do something differently. I went to the emergency room and confessed. Again... things are kinda blurry, my brain does a pretty good job of protecting me from the worst of it. They admitted me and when they released me I broke up with the boy and moved out of the townhouse. I continued in an out patient treatment program for a while. It seemed to help.

Life continued. I had a kid, got married, had another kid, got divorced. The divorce wasn't easy but I was busy and surrounded by good people. I got through it and I was doing well. Really well. I went back to school, got a great job, met a great guy and fell madly in love. Yay me, but things started to unravel. I got married, a beautiful wedding surrounded by wonderful friends and family but things continued to unravel. I would cry for nothing. The tears would start and I couldn't stop them. I knew what this was and I wasn't going to ignore it. I asked for help. I went to therapy. My doctor tried me on an antidepressant and then another and then another. She added something, she took something away. She finally admitted she didn't know what else to do and sent me to a pharmacologist. He adjusted the meds. I still didn't feel better.

The smallest thing would set me off and the night of the last attempt I can't even remember what that "thing" was. I do remember the thought I had as I took the handful of pills - "I just can't do this anymore. They'll be better off without me." I completely believed it. My husband found me, figured out pretty quickly what was going on and called an ambulance. I woke up and I was angry. Angry that I'd failed. Angry that it wasn't over. I spent a short time in the hospital but it really felt more like a holding place. The attempt had bumped up my priority and I was on a list for inpatient treatment at Homewood in Guelph.

Homewood had an amazing major depression unit and I was there for an entire summer. It was a back to basics program. Basics meaning, sleep, eat, and exercise. I hadn't been doing any of those things very well. Being forced to get up at a certain time everyday, to eat (or you and your group didn't leave the dining room) and to walk outside everyday. Routine. So important at this point. They nudged me out of my dark spot. For the first time I participated in group therapy, it was scary. I learned one of the most important things in group - I was not alone. I was not the only one feeling these things. Sounds simple but it was such a relief. I formed some amazing relationships there, including a new one with myself. Art therapy, music therapy, individual therapy, couples therapy, family therapy, cognitive behaviour therapy. I was given techniques to deal with the stress. I was taught how to recognize the early signs of danger and what to do. I was taught how to change the negative internal dialogue in my head.

Life still isn't easy but I'm in a better place. Today my life includes keeping an eye on my sleep, being aware of what I'm eating or more importantly for me, when I'm not eating, not isolating myself and exercise, regular exercise. I need to be proactive against depression every day. I made a promise to my children after the last attempt. I promised that there wouldn't be a fourth attempt. Some days are harder than others. Life can be bumpy, that’s what keeps things interesting. But I know, it's a promise I won't break. 

Trish is a mother of two boys, a friend to many, an avid dragon boater, a beekeeper, a Community Manager and a survivor of depression and EDNOS. She writes about her love of flowers, social media, music and photography on her blog: The Adventures of an Urban Flower Girl. She can hardly wait for winter to end so she can hang out at the beach.

Does Anyone Really Enjoy a Sequel?

Thank you to everyone who came to last night's show, sent sweet messages and caught me on Rogers Daytime Show or CBC Here and Now. Your support means the world to me and the show was a phenomenal experience. 

On Bell Let's Talk day I had the pleasure of connecting with all sorts of amazing people, and many people who were sharing The Life is Sweet Project and blog series. Cory was one of those folks and I'm so glad we connected. He's been an incredible supporter of the Life is Sweet Project and I'm grateful that he agreed to be a part of the blog series. 

It’s quite fitting that the opportunity to participate in this blog arose out of social media, as my initial entry into the Twitter universe (OK, OK, “twitterverse”) was connected to my journey with mental health. Allow me to explain.

In 2009, while on vacation in New York City with my husband, I experienced an episode of psychosis that lead to a harrowing return to Toronto, a suicide attempt, brief hospitalization and months of anxiety and depression as part of the fall out.

Even in this darkest moment of my life, I can see the sweetness and have gratitude for a number of realities. Above all, I was blessed with a partner whose love is so unconditional that even when the paranoia I was feeling caused me to turn on him, he remained steadfast and continued along the journey of recovery with me, no matter the twists and turns.

Secondly, I was fortunate to have a family, both family of origin and chosen, who offered support, not only to me, but to my partner, as well. I continue to assert that part of any successful approach to dealing with mental health issues must also include a focus on the caregivers, which is why I am glad to have since become aware of organizations such as F.A.M.E.

I also benefited from an employer who offered a short-term disability program and a manager who showed compassion while I adapted to the side effects of medication and accommodated my need for regular sessions with a psychiatrist during work hours. I know this sort of safety net was crucial in ensuring I didn’t simply fall through the cracks and could continue to contribute to society.

So, where’s the connection to social media in all of that? Having lucked out again by responding well to the initial treatment, I attempted to return to a “normal” life (or next to normal, at least). A big part of my physical activity prior to the episode was running and so I chose to register for the New York City Marathon as a way of reclaiming the city where it all began and proving that I not only survived, but was stronger. In order to secure a spot in the race, I signed up through Team for Kids, one of the official charities, which meant a large fundraising commitment. But having already sent numerous requests over the years for various causes connected to my running, I felt the need to branch out beyond friends and family. Enter Twitter.

And while I had simply envisioned the chance to get a few “retweets” of my donation page and spread the word about the work of Team for Kids, something even sweeter happened. I began to form connections with people sharing similar interests, including my passion for food. (I often state my running mantra is that I measure my miles in mouthfuls.) Between the spring and fall of 2012, I was astonished by the network of people with whom I had shared great food experiences and who were willing to help me with my fundraising goals. And so, it being the song of the summer of 2012, I decided to have a kiki….a kiki for the kids.

Matt Pettit of Rock Lobster Food Co. got the ball rolling by saying he was on board in whatever way I needed. From there things grew, with Matt Basile of Fidel Gastro’s offering to bring his popular food truck, Priscilla, and Tequila Tromba and Hogtown Brewers making sure we stayed hydrated as we took to the dance floor. And because a kiki would be nothing without a draq queen, I enlisted the beautiful and talented Cassandra Moore to give a lesson in this festive art form.

Toasting food and friendship with Matt Dean Pettit at my Kiki For The Kids – September 14, 2012

Matt Basile and Kyla Zinardi – a dynamic duo that never cease to amaze me with their energy and warm hearts

Jennifer Nichols, founder of the Extension Method and owner of The Extension Room and Libby Avalos, a childhood friend who helped me face anxiety during high school and beyond.

The generosity of individuals, restaurants and other businesses astounded me, as I amassed almost 40 items for a silent auction, from jewelry to gift cards, to a vacation to artwork. The venue itself for the fundraising event was also special to me, having spent many an hour stretching and sculpting at The Extension Room in ballet fitness classes with Jennifer Nichols. And while I debated about also sharing my deeper inspiration for returning to New York with those in attendance – that it was a physical test, a chance to support a charity, and (in my mind) the final piece in my recovery – I opted to focus on the fun. But I left that night knowing that the outpouring of love and encouragement were just the fuel I needed to complete the 26 miles of the marathon.

And then Hurricane Sandy hit. Over the course of that week, I was saddened to see the destruction people were faced with. I truly was torn with the question of whether or not to head to New York (an internal debate that I took to Twitter) and, yes, disappointed at some of the backlash the running community was dealing with. I finally chose to board the plane, arrived in New York, picked up my race kit and returned to the hotel to rest and take in all of the emotions of being back for the first time in three years. I was awoken shortly after by a gentle nudge from my husband, letting me know of the city’s decision to cancel the marathon. I turned to grab my phone and saw a slew of texts and tweets from friends and followers.

In this moment too, I looked for the sweetness. First and foremost, I was in a hotel with power and food, while others not so far away were still in crisis mode. And within the group of people who had made their way to New York, my journey from Toronto was a short one, unlike some of the runners who had traveled much longer distances. So we picked up and headed home the next morning, trying to claim a partial victory for at least facing the fear of returning to New York City.

But I couldn’t quite end it there. I didn’t have the sense of closure I was hoping for, the chance to turn the page on the psychosis and depression. So the following Sunday, November 11, I plotted out a marathon route in Toronto. Off I went, and 42.2 kilometres and 3 hours, 54 minutes and 57 seconds later, it was done. It felt fantastic to complete the physical feat, to tell people who had donated and cheered me on that I had completed the goal (just in a different location). So, for me, it was time to roll the credits.

And then, “someone” decided to write a sequel. Last summer, after making the decision to leave the company where I was working to pursue freelance opportunities, I found myself once more paralyzed by depression. To those who think that word is dramatic, simply do a search on monoamine oxidase A.

Drained of energy, I also found the interest I had in my passions of running and food (along with many other everyday activities) vanish. Even travels to London, England during Canada Day and Madrid during their Pride weekend failed to really get my heart pumping. The experiences were muted and I felt like I was simply going through the motions.

As the title of this blog suggests, I was not a fan of Depression: The Sequel. The feeling of sliding backwards was discouraging and compounded my lower mood levels. Despite being a “digital champion” for Canada Running Series in the lead up to the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon, I found myself switching to the half-marathon distance, before eventually withdrawing completely. I also was unable to continue with a mentorship program for LGBTQ youth that I was involved with and that sense of letting someone else down pushed me further down.

Fortunately, in addition to the friends and family who had walked every step of the way with me during my past recovery, I had my social network, a good number of whom had become friends in real life. The sense of genuine concern, the patience and understanding as I bowed out of activities and the willingness to share their own struggles with any number of challenges meant that connections formed on a computer and phone had an actual impact on my depression. Which is why I’m thrilled to say that the comeback was a flop and that by October, the curtain had come down and I felt reengaged with the world around me.

Am I naïve enough to believe there isn’t a possibility of a third (or fourth or fifth) depressive episode during my lifetime? Definitely not. Just look at Die Hard, Friday the 13th or Rocky (just hopefully not Sex and the City). But I continue to educate myself, look at ways of practicing self-care, share my story, offer up gratitude and try to find the Life Is Sweet spot.

A “sweet spot” from my solo marathon that I try to keep in mind.   

Cory Pagett enjoys exploring his interests in food, the arts, running, LGBTQ issues and travel. Through social media and real-world connections, he is grateful to be a part of communities that share these passions. As a freelance translator and bilingual communications expert, he is acutely aware of the power of language and is increasingly seeking to use his words in the war against stigma in its various forms.

Getting Back to Me

Since my mom's death, there have only been a few people who I have met who have dealt with the suicide of an immediate family member. Adrianna and I connected through the theatre / Twitter scene in Toronto a few years ago and though we've only spent a bit of time together, I've always felt greatly connected due to her experience and the path she has taken as a result. She has been a great supporter of  Life is Sweet month and I'm grateful to have her as a guest blogger.

Loss is sometimes greater than leaving your umbrella on the subway. Sometimes you lose someone you love. Forever. That’s what happened in the year 2010. It was a foggy November night when a knock at the door changed everything. My brother Andrew had killed himself. My father wanted to tell me in person so he came to my doorstep at midnight on November 12th 2010. Ever since then, things haven’t been the same. I lost more than my brother that night: I lost my home, because my boyfriend left so I had to move. I had to give my cat away. My workplace was forcing me to take minimal hours. I felt like I had lost my life. I felt like I had lost my self.

Bereavement was harsh and looked a lot like depression. I have select memories of the first year of bereavement. They are dark, sad, and drenched in alcohol and loud music. But through it all I was writing in my diary. Despite having two therapists (one just for me and one for family and group therapy), I felt like I didn’t have anyone to talk to. I wrote and wrote and wrote to try to work stuff out. In my past life, a.k.a. pre-2010, I was a playwright of historic adaptations. So writing was a part of my old self that carried over into the new. I would write out conversations with my brother. I would write out alternative endings to our story set in other universes. I would write out the things I ate for breakfast, on the rare occasions I managed to eat breakfast. I just wrote. It was my private therapy. In the end I would use those diary entries and fake letters to deceased and living loved ones as fodder for a solo show about bereavement and suicide—“Everything but the Cat…”. Creating this not-so-one-woman show, dealing with all the above, was my attempt to come out of this with something helpful, something to contribute, something to say about the terrible truth of suicide.

I want Andrew’s story to continue. I hope to educate those around his age that they are not alone. My brother was depressed and needed to hear he wasn’t the only one experiencing the weight of transitioning into adulthood. He needed to hear that life can get pretty dark, sad, lonely and downright awful at times. But in an age where everything is photo-shopped, auto-corrected, and Instagram-filtered, it’s hard to remember that. It’s so easy to be tricked into believing that everyone else’s lives are so frickin’ perfect. So when yours is not, you question yourself. What am I doing wrong? I’m wrong? I am wrong, it’s me. And that can be a dangerous headspace to live in.

I want to tour my show to get that conversation out of the dark and into the open. I want people to know that failure in life is not optional – everyone experiences it. Really, failure is a gift; a gift that sucks. But the part that failure sucks out of you makes room for something else, something potentially better, something new! I want to help people embrace that dark feeling and understand that it is only temporary; it is only a stepping-stone towards something much better. And what if the embrace lasts too long or you don’t know how to let it go? I want people to know that it’s okay to talk to a therapist. It’s okay to see a doctor about medication. It’s okay to do what you have to do to get yourself back to you.

I lost my brother. I lost my self. I will always miss my brother, but I won’t ever miss who I was, because it helped me get here — to me.

Adrianna Prosser is a Toronto based actor and playwright. You can learn more about her project at  www.everythingbutthecat.net

Everything the Life is Sweet project has taught me

I wasn't sure what to expect when I announced the Life is Sweet project. I knew that I was going to produce a show to honour my mom's life and put together a month of blog posts about people's experiences with mental illness and loss. I knew that I wanted to honour my mom's memory, get people talking about mental illness and share my perspective on life. I didn't realize how much more I (and those around me) would gain from the experience. Here are some things I've learned along the way:

I have learned that given the right opportunity, nearly anyone can share their story. I have been so moved by the candor, bravery and respect that has been shown on my blog this month. I have heard from many of the guest bloggers that writing their post has changed their life and that they were grateful for the opportunity. If you haven't already, take some time to go and read their posts and share their stories. I am so indebted to them for all of their honesty and love. As a result of the show and the blog, many others that I know as well as complete strangers have opened up to me and shared how mental illness and loss has impacted their lives.  Many have asked to write next year if I decide to do the blog project again.

Curating a month of blog posts about mental illness, mental health, death, grief and many other intense subjects requires you to be an editor, confidante, friend, cheerleader and therapist. It is fulfilling, demanding and oh-so worth it.

When your very first solo show sells out ten days before the event, you will cry at your desk and then run around skipping. And squeal. A lot. And probably cry some more.

Amid songs and stories about the life and suicide of your mom, you may still make people laugh and remind them of all the good in their lives. The experience will be surreal. Enjoy every second.

I have learned that 15 years after her death, I can feel closer to my mom than I have in many years. Family members have told me the same thing. This connection is beautiful and probably something I am most thankful for.

This project has taught me that even with the dreary skies, cold days and sad feelings, February can be an okay month. It's still not my favourite, but this project made me feel happier than I have in as many Februaries as I can remember.

I've learned that after a sold out show filled with a loving, kind, beautiful audience, you may come crashing down a bit and spend a weekend feeling all the emotions you would normally feel in a whole month. This won't be easy, but with the right support system, manageable.

I have learned that those of us dealing with mental health concerns are truly not alone and how important it is to be there for those who need the extra support. A huge number of people have reached out to tell me how this project has touched them and have agreed that it is something that we need to be talking about and focusing our energies upon. This isn't a one day effort or a month long effort - it needs to be happening year round. I have gained a whole new network of people who share this belief and trust that they will help to keep the conversation going and work towards erasing the negative stigma and helping those who need it.  #letstalk

I have been reminded what incredible friends and family and supporters I have in my life. Everyone's love, kindness and generosity has been wonderful. Thank you for all that you've done to help me bring this project into fruition.

Above all else, I have confirmed that life truly is sweet.

I never doubted this fact but the show and blog posts and the support I have received from my friends, family, bloggers, Facebook friends and twitter followers has been unbelievable.  I recently fell in love with the quote "there is so much beauty that you haven't seen yet. don't give up now" And that resonated so deeply.

Sometimes we are faced with more than we think we can handle.

Persevere.
Push through.
Ask for help.

You will get through it and come out stronger on the other side.

Life is sweet in spite of the challenges that come our way and I hope that this project has been a reminder of that for you too.

On the Pursuit of Happiness

Curating posts for the Life is Sweet project has been unlike anything I imagined it to be. I initially thought I would reach out to some bloggers and friends about writing and go from there. When I posted a call for writers on Facebook and Twitter, I received a lot of interest from people from various parts of my life - those I've met through social media, people from schools I've attended over the years, former members of my Weight Watchers meetings - so many people were ready and willing to tell their stories and I've been overcome by their bravery and passion for this initiative. The following post was submitted by a woman who asked to remain anonymous. It was a story that people close to her told her not to write, but she felt adamant that it be included, even if posted anonymously. It's a story that needs to be told and I am so glad it is a part of this series.

I am a daughter, a sister, a girlfriend, a friend, a scholar, a doctor’s assistant, a cook, an artist… But when it comes to being bipolar, I am anonymous… and that’s exactly how society likes it.

I could tell you that growing up I wasn’t a stranger to yelling, fighting, or even police at the door but I would be lying. I wish I could tell you that by the age of 7 I didn’t know what the phrases ‘dry alcoholic’, ‘withdrawal’, or ‘suicide watch’ was… but I can’t. Growing up, I lived somewhere in between my father’s rage and my brother’s addictions. I couldn’t bear to bring my mother any more pain so in spite of all the chaos at home, I became the perfect child –on the honour roll, part of many sports teams and extra-curricular activities; I was quiet, polite, never acted out… The truth is that I was invisible –and that’s how I wanted to be. I became overweight at a very young age, silencing my pain with food. I lived a dual existence – my home life was filled with secrets and tension while outside of the home, I was outgoing, bubbly and eager to help.

Throughout my teenage years, I gained more weight, and with the weight problems I became even more invisible. I felt ugly, unlovable and unknown to everyone around me. I withdrew even more into my own world. My music got angrier, my poetry got darker and I became a shell to the world. I started starving myself and working excessive hours. My mind became increasingly clouded with negative thoughts that I couldn’t seem to turn off. These thoughts kept me from sleeping at night, which lasted for weeks at a time. I started looking for my self-worth in damaged boyfriends, thinking that if I could fix one of them then perhaps I could fix myself too.  I was very wrong.

After 8 months of starvation and purging I realized that my behaviour wasn’t healthy. I started practicing normal eating habits and despite gaining back some of the 35lbs that I had lost over 2 months, I felt confident in my new healthy lifestyle. Surprisingly, I received comments such as “Whatever you were doing before was working! Why’d you stop?” and “you’ve let yourself go again”. I decided to distance myself from negative influences and when the time came to choose a university, I chose one that I knew nobody at – a fresh start. As part of my spring cleaning, I ended a toxic romantic relationship however it didn’t go as planned. That was the night I was raped.

That single encounter changed my life forever. Just as I had kept my family life a secret, I had also kept this relationship to myself. I had segregated myself and I realized that I had no one to turn to – I felt deserving of this punishment for all the secrets I’d kept. All alone, I suffered through nightmares, flashbacks, and extreme anxiety around men. My insomnia came back with a vengeance and the relentless, negative thoughts got worse. That began my 3 year battle with cutting myself.

Somewhere in between the intense depression, the post-traumatic stress and the anxiety, I fell in love. Let me rephrase that: Someone fell in love with me – without make-up and self-respect, I found love. Now it wasn’t smooth sailing – in fact, he had many similarities to the men in my family but he stuck by my side through the nightmares and the anxiety and loved me unconditionally. This was a feeling I had never felt before and never thought I truly ever deserved – unconditional love for me just the way I was. While he dealt with his own demons, I started to face mine. I found a way to sleep at night, started to exercise and eat healthy.

My mood swings and anxiety did not change though. I felt like two people in one body. I was on a rollercoaster ride of high highs and low lows. When I was down, everything felt like an impossible feat. Getting out of bed in the morning was like climbing a mountain. My mind was filled with endless snap shots of bad memories and feelings of worthlessness. I would avoid going out with friends because I didn’t have the emotional or mental energy to socialize. Even finding the words to hold a conversation brought on anxiety so I made up excuses to avoid the world. The more depressed I got, the more reclusive I was.

When I was in a state of mania I felt like I was on top of the world! I would wake up full of energy and go out and party until 6am. I could get an idea in my head and a simple spot on the wall would become 6 hours of cleaning; a nostalgic photograph turned into hours of sketching; an essay that I was reluctant to write would come streaming out of my fingertips without restraint. I was in my happiest state – full of productive energy and creativity. Mind would race with excitement and happy memories rather than negativity. The problem was that it was extremely short lived. Before I knew it, I was back into a state of depression, yearning for those few manic days to return. With my boyfriend’s support, I decided to seek medical help.

In the office of a female psychiatrist, for the first time in many years, I found the courage to say the words I’d been running from for year: “I was raped.” After the assessment was over, the psychiatrist summarized her thoughts to me. She believed that under the circumstances of my assault, she would say that the word ‘rape’ was too strong a term – that it was more of a sexual assault or perhaps even misunderstanding on his part. The truth is that I didn’t know what to call it and I didn’t care - I was just proud to be able to call it by a name after years of silence. To bare my soul and receive that kind of a response from someone that was supposed to listen and not judge was a slap in the face. I was broken all over again. The nightmares came back and the cutting resumed.

At my follow-up visit, my family doctor gave me the news - I was diagnosed with type II Bipolar. Bipolar type II is characterized by frequent and intense episodes of depression however it is often misdiagnosed as moderate or severe depression. The difference is that we also experience episodes of high-energy and impulsiveness referred to as hypo mania. These episodes do not reach the severity of hyper mania that is characteristic of its type I brother. As a result of my diagnosis, I was prescribed a mood stabilizer to help flat-line my moods – it made me dizzy and nauseous. While it took away the extremity of the depression, it also took away those high episodes that I loved so much. I struggled to stay on the medication.

One day, after a huge fight with my boyfriend, I went into a rage. My emotions were so intense, the hurt so great that I couldn’t breathe. As soon as I was alone, I grabbed a pair of scissors and cut myself with more anger than ever before. I was bleeding and couldn’t get it to stop for 3 day. For the first time ever, I found it hard to conceal the wound. I was embarrassed, paranoid and scared to see how easily I could really hurt myself. That was the last time I cut myself.  

It’s been a few years since then. I have worked through a lot of my past and still have a long way to go. With the support of a new family doctor, I have stayed on my medication and started setting goals again. I have been able to lose 57lbs and completed numerous 5km runs for charity. I graduated university with an honours BA in Psychology and have a very successful and rewarding career in healthcare. Recently, I have relocated to a smaller city with my boyfriend of over 8 years and we are now talking about engagement.

But the claws of mental illness are always present; even while writing this blog, I find myself filled with mixed emotions ; pride, excitement, sadness, but mostly fear. Numerous times I have questioned whether I should even submit this piece – if I’m ready for people to see the bare truth of me. Will I be pitied or even worse, will my successes be overshadowed by the stigma of my illness? On the other hand, I have acted ‘normal’ for so long - despite my private struggles - that even some of the people that are aware of my diagnosis tend to see my struggles as a watered down version of mental illness – not truly mentally ill enough. At times, my symptoms have been downplayed. When I’ve needed a shoulder to lean on, I’ve been told that my struggles are the same as everyone else’s and that I should just deal with it. The stigmas and ignorance of mental illness is all around us and by keeping silent we are only condoning these types of attitudes. For this reason, I have decided to swallow my fear of judgement as well as my fear of not being ‘ill enough’ and share my story. I may be anonymous but I will not be silenced any more.

The truth is that yes, I am bipolar. It is something that I will never be rid of. It may hinder me in some ways – make it a bit harder to socialize or to explain the intensity of my emotions at times - but it does not dictate who I am. If you were to meet me in the workplace or walking down the street you would probably have no idea that I suffer from a mental illness. Despite the popular bipolar stereotypes, I am not out of control or any more irrational than anyone else. I hold myself responsible for all my actions, both good and bad.

In actuality, there is not one part of my life that I am ashamed of. If anything, I have become more empathetic and caring towards the people in my life – be it family, friends or patients that I come into contact with. My struggles and successes have taught me that everyone has a story – mental illness or not – and we all deserve to have a safe and caring environment to share that in. I have put a lot of effort into keeping healthy relationships in my life. My diagnosis has not kept me from having a great career nor has it held me back from having an amazing relationship with my mother. It has not stopped me from having an ever-growing relationship with my boyfriend or dreaming about getting engaged and having children. In many ways, I am just like you.

In 2002, Health Canada reported that about 20% of people will experience a mental illness in their lifetime. Most likely, if you are not the 1 in 5 that struggles with a mental health issue then you know at least one person who is. The true problem with our society is that just as I did in my childhood, we prefer to keep the messy truth hidden behind closed doors and only present the best possible versions of ourselves. But secrecy breeds segregation and when it comes to mental illness, being cut off from the world is the last thing we need. In our weakest moments, we need love and a friendly shoulder to lean on.

Friends, family and society alike need to talk openly about this topic and the stigmas surrounding it and learn to listen and not judge. Those of us who suffer from mental illness should not be ashamed or embarrassed to be ourselves around those who care about us. Instead we need a safe and welcoming atmosphere to openly discuss our daily struggles and successes. Mental illness does not automatically negate happiness, success or relationships from our lives. In truth, it makes me appreciate these moments more because I’ve seen some really dark days. We must learn to embrace our struggle and relish in those small successes that others would so easily dismiss. These successes may be as simple as submitting a blog entry, despite the fear and self-doubt that it may bring. The truth is that at the end of the day, we are all just people, battling our own demons, on the pursuit of happiness.