Writing Her Own Destiny

In addition to posts about mental illness, I'll also be featuring posts about loss and grief this month. Lindsay has been a huge supporter of the Life is Sweet project and show from its inception, which I am so thankful for. I was really proud when she told me that she wanted to write something for the blog and I am grateful for her support and willingness to share. 

Ever since I was little, I’ve known that I was adopted at birth. The easy explanation came when I was really young: “You came from another mummy’s tummy.” And the more complex explanations came over the years: “She wanted a better life for you than she could have given you.” And “We couldn’t have our own kids and we were so lucky to be able to love you.”

Whenever I tell people that I’m adopted, one of their first questions is always to ask if I know my biological mother. The short answer is no. And the longer answer is a little more complicated.

Back when I was in high school, it was really important to me to know where I came from. We all define ourselves based on elements of our genetic code. People always ask me where I got my musical abilities from, my mum or my dad. I’d say that there was always a lot of music in my house growing up. And they’d ask if I looked more like my mum or my dad… well, I just don’t know. My friends could say they had their dad’s nose and their mum’s eyes, and their grandmother’s passion for painting. But it was impossible for me to define myself like that.

I felt like I was incomplete as a person without an explanation of what genes I’d inherited. I was intrigued to find out more about my biological parents, but couldn’t legally until I was 18, and so put it aside.

And when I went off to university, I had more important priorities, and so I waited to find out more.

In May 2008, Ontario legislation changed around adoption. Our government passed a law that allows adult adoptees to request their original birth certificates, which would indicate the names of their birth parents. I applied for my original birth certificate, so I could find out the names of my birth parents and then do some research before deciding whether or not I wanted to meet them. Once I sent off the letter, there was going to be a wait. So I waited. And waited. And waited.

On Christmas Eve, I received a letter in the mail – and I knew just what it was without having to open the envelope. So I sat down with my partner, and opened up the letter. Inside was the name of my birth mother and her date of birth! It was exciting and scary, and wonderful.

And of course, curiosity got the cat. So I typed her full name into Google, and immediately saw the result: a memorial tribute page to her after her death in 2005. She had passed away suddenly from ovarian cancer.

The memorial site was full of photos of her, and for the first time in my life I looked like someone! It was the most bizarre thing to me to be able to look in the mirror and see someone else’s lips and eyes reflected in my own face. So fascinating, and because of what had happened, so sad.

And so I lost someone I had never known. I was grieving for someone I hadn’t even met, and for the potential of ever meeting her.

Throughout the years, I’d had daydreams about introducing my biological mother to my one-day-husband and one-day-children. I’d dreamed of telling her all about my career and hobbies, and seeing what had come from her and what I’d developed on my own. I wanted her to be proud of me, and the choices I’d made, and what I had become. And I really wanted to be able to define myself based on those genes I’d inherited from her: I know from some information from the adoption agency that she loved knitting, and I love knitting. She loved music, and I love music and have even made my life’s work around it.

But there are things I do that I’ve come up with on my own. I love cooking and baking with a fiery passion. And I have recently fallen into cycling, running, and weight-lifting, and am getting so much joy from these activities. Would she have enjoyed them? Because she passed away, I can’t ask her that.

But what I can do is work to define myself based on my actions and my experiences. I’m going to do the things I love and that I am passionate about. I’m going to sing, teach, knit, drink tea, run, read, bake, and travel. It’s what makes me the person I am – and writing my own destiny allows me to spread love and joy to others.

Lindsay is a singer and voice teacher, with a passion for food. You can follow her adventures by visiting her blog or by following her on Twitter. 

Left Behind

I've been lucky to see Graydon James and the Young Novelists play numerous times here in Toronto. The first time I heard their song Left Behind, I kinda lost it. Anything related to suicide often has a deep impact on me, and the emotion in this song was no exception. The next time I saw the band play, they opened the set with the song and I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. Following that reaction, I felt compelled to talk to Graydon about his inspiration for writing the song. I appreciate that he was willing to share this song's story for Life is Sweet month.

 

Lisa told me about John's suicide, shortly after New Year's Eve a couple of years ago. I didn't know John very well -- I had been at his wedding with Lisa, mainly because she needed a ride and I like to dance at weddings. His suicide was a shock to both of us, but the main thing that I understood, as Lisa told me the story, were the gamut of emotions that she felt at John's passing. Sadness, of course, but also frustration that she hadn't seen it coming. And anger that John had given up, especially without truly discussing it with any of his friends.

I was transfixed by the idea that these huge, bewildering, and sometimes conflicting emotions among all of John's friends were the collateral damage from one person's decision to commit suicide. When I wrote "Left Behind" I tried to capture and convey all of those emotions, although any one of them is too much to really fit into a single song. I hadn't thought of suicide in terms of the life-changing event that it would be for all those who knew the person. It reminds me of the impact, often unknown or unforeseen, that we have on others.

John died alone, in his basement apartment bedroom, after blocking the door with towels and opening the valve on a helium canister. He went to sleep and he didn't wake up. I have no idea if it was a peaceful death or not, although it seems that John took pains to make it peaceful. The next morning his best friend got a priority delivery by courier. It was a note, written by John, explaining that he had committed suicide and that he would need his friend to make all the necessary arrangements for the disposition of his body and assets. I can only barely imagine what it would be like to get that note, or to be in John's position, with all the careful planning that it entailed.

It's hard enough thinking about the hardship, emotional turmoil, and personal pain that goes into the decision to commit suicide. If people could be reminded, somehow, that their actions will have ramifications for everyone they know, hopefully it would make them think twice. Or reach out and talk to someone, and realize that they have something that is worth living for: people who care about them.

Left Behind was included on Graydon James and the Young Novelists' third album, in the year you were born. 

Like Jackie Chan or Chuck Norris or something

A friend introduced me to Marianna after I put out a note asking for writers for the Life is Sweet project. She writes candidly about depression on her blog and I love that she isn't afraid to put it all out there. This post originally appeared on her blog in May 2011. 

I'm at home right now. 

At 11:36 on a Wednesday. 

I know what you're thinking.  "Score!"

But no.  I'm not home for a good reason.  Not because I took a vacation, or because I'm sick (necessarily), or because I'm playing hookie.  But because I just couldn't go.  I couldn't do it.

Which is not the same as didn't want to.  Although it's true, I certainly didn't want to.  But ultimately I guess I did want to - if the thought of it didn't induce vomiting. 

And it's not the same as wouldn't go either.  Because I would have.  If I could have.  It wasn't a refusal, really.  It was more of an inability. 

And it's not even the same as shouldn't go.  Even though for sure you shouldn't go to your office and interact with your colleagues if you're doing it with a scrunched up crying face and clutching your chest.  It scares people. 

So that leaves me with couldn't.  Couldn't go. 

I tried to get up.  I really did.  But I was paralyzed by... by... what?  Fear?  Yeah.  Anxiety I guess.  I got dizzy and my heart picked up speed and my chest started to hurt. 

I know what you're thinking again.  "Oh my god! Go to the hospital! You're having a heart attack!"  It isn't a heart attack.  I'm 27 for godsake.  If I was having a heart attack at age 27 I would have bigger problems than this. 

But I don't have bigger problems than this.  This is my biggest problem.

An unidentifiable, indefinable, seemingly insurmountable Anxiety and Depression that kicks my ass whenever I think I might have beaten it. 

Me:  Well, I've been feeling ok. 
A&D:  Yeah, you got me... I'm done for. 
Me:  I know you're there, but I can work around you.  You're not so tough. 
A&D:  GOTCHA! *unexpectedly hits me with a giant roundhouse kick to the head*
Me:  F-ck.  Ow.  That f-cking hurt, you asshole. 
A&D:  Don't call me names.  You're the crazy one.

So here I am, on my couch, nursing my roundhouse kick wound.  

About Marianna: My name is Marianna, and I live in the Great White North.  Eh? I'm in my mid-twenties (with "mid-twenties" defined loosely as "denial"). I love chocolate, cats, The Tragically Hip, the twitter, and late-night living room dance parties. Yeah. I write about Depression. Not all the time (that would be miserable for all of us), but when I feel like it.  Sometimes it's heartfelt, sometimes it's messy, and sometimes it's a goddam laugh riot.  But I write about it.  Because it's part of who I am. And now?  Now I live very mindfully, and very cautiously - in nearly constant fear of being abducted by that Asshole once again.Watching my every step, waiting for the bottom to fall out. So I write about it.  Because I refuse to feel ashamed.  And because I want others to know they're not alone.  

Discovering her True Self

"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is an anxiety disorder characterized by reliving a psychologically traumatic situation, long after any physical danger involved has passed, through flashbacks and nightmares". In today's Life is Sweet post, Marilyn shares her journey to healing through a wide variety of means en route to discovering her true self. 

My mental health or lack thereof, only became apparent after years of childhood abuse and trauma, being stuck in a high-pressure brokerage sales job (which didn’t fit my introverted personality), two divorces and subsequent alcoholism, which all resulted in a major melt-down and hospitalization in 1986.

Thinking I was safe in the hands of one of Toronto’s top psychiatrists and a therapist who appeared caring at the onset; I settled in and did was I was told…confident that my recovery was imminent. This was NOT to be the case.

First of all, I was not diagnosed properly nor medicated properly. I staggered around like a zombie for 10 years. My family barely recognized me and were appalled at the many bottles of meds I toted around with me. I also wasted four hours per month in “talk therapy” with a therapist who frequently fell asleep during our sessions.

A.A. solved my booze problem but I was still socially maladjusted. My trusty laptop and the Internet brought me to the site run by an expert in her field of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, where I found out what my real problem was. I suffered from panic attacks, depression and flash-backs…all treatable with guided imagery therapy and music therapy.

I joined Weight Watchers and lost 77 pounds. I saved my money and got a new set of dentures; which did wonders for my self-confidence. While at Weight Watchers, I discovered that I was gluten-intolerant and with the support and encouragement of my Leader became a gluten-free vegan. WOW!! Energy! Goodbye dermatitis & itchy skin. Goodbye junk food and laxatives!!

My next challenge was to find a new Doctor when my psychiatrist “retired” without warning. A local pharmacist referred me to a GP who has just opened a clinic in my neighborhood. The doctor was a quiet, devout Buddhist who wasn’t afraid to incorporate spiritual practices into his “prescriptions”. He helped me safely eliminate and reduce nearly all the drugs I had been on. However, as my brain chemistry had been altered, minimal doses of two drugs will continue for my lifetime but I was at last, alert and awake. He also prescribed a regular routine of yoga (purely as exercise) and that I return to my childhood faith.

I was fortunate to find a loving and supportive church family (also in my neighborhood) and returned to regular prayer and meditation on a daily basis. I was encouraged to help out at church and soon found myself back “working” after 27 years on disability benefits.

I am now able to recognize my “true self” that had been buried for years under a ton of emotional junk. I’m able to care for myself and put my needs first. I eat properly, sleep well, stay away from toxic people and negativity of all sorts. I check in with God throughout the day and conduct a “wellness inventory” weekly, just to make sure I’m staying on track. I now have lots of reasons to get out of bed in the morning, smile and, yes, even laugh. Because I love God, I am able to love myself and love others my life has meaning and purpose. That lack of meaning, purpose and a sense of value and loss of hope is the real mental illness. People are dying out there for lack of these essentials.

Finding Sweetness in Panic

Today marks the first of February which means the beginning of the Life is Sweet project. I met Alexandra, my first guest blogger, about 10 years ago when I was the assistant manager of a local youth choir. I'm so proud of the woman she has become and honoured that she would share her story for Life is Sweet month

It’s a Sunday night and I am standing on the Eastbound platform at Yonge station. This is nothing new; I’ve been here, standing in this exact spot, hundreds of times.

My heart starts pounding-thump-tha-thump-tha-thump. It feels like it is expanding, and I wonder in sheer distress if it will burst. Breathe. My throat starts to close, and I am getting hot. The train doesn’t come for another six minutes. I feel trapped. Everything is going to be okay. I can see my heart beating through my shirt. I look at my hands, which have gone numb. It feels as though someone is pressing down on my chest, and I try to breathe the weight off but my breaths are shallow and get caught in my throat. There is just enough room left for me to breathe; it feels like I’m choking. Calm down. I’m convinced this is what it must feel like to die. The feeling of complete lack of control over my body terrifies me. I make my way up to the payphones. “Mom? I’m having a panic attack, I want to let you know if I’m not home in half an hour I’ve probably collapsed somewhere.”

I’ve suffered from anxiety most of my life, and last October was diagnosed with panic disorder. Anxiety changes the way you think and is based on perceived stress; the brain thinks there is something wrong even when there isn’t. Similarly, a panic attack occurs when the brain senses danger that doesn’t exist. Sometimes panic attacks occur once. Other times panic disorders develop, in fear of having another attack. It becomes routine to avoid certain situations or public spaces in fear that they will trigger an attack, or not offer an escape if an attack occurs.

I first sought help for my anxiety when I was seventeen and my worrying began taking over my life. I worried about everything, and my mind would jump to extreme and bizarre conclusions. I learned how to control my thoughts and began to change the way I thought. Then panic knocked on my door unexpectedly, as it usually does, when I was feeling healthy, happy and as though I had complete control of my anxiety. I had never experienced panic before, and suffered with it for a year before seeking help a second time.

The year in between was really tough. There were days when I didn’t leave my bed and when I cried for absolutely no reason. Going places became an event I feared because I didn’t want to have another attack in public and away from the comfort of my home. I felt helpless, overwhelmed and fearful. It was hard to imagine it would ever get better. It was a mistake not to seek help right away.

Staying positive is something that really helps me stay healthy. The key to any anxiety disorder is becoming aware of how the brain thinks, and learning how to challenge its anxious thought patterns. I work everyday at counteracting my anxious thoughts. That may mean thinking everything is going to be okay over and over, or realizing that my brain senses fear and recognizing that this fear is perceived before I begin to panic.

Eating regularly and getting a full night sleep are things I strive to make routine. When I eat regularly and am rested my body feels healthy and in turn, my mind does too.

Even with a panic disorder, I feel enormously grateful to be on this earth, and to be the person I am today. Sometimes I miss the person I was before the panicking started, until I remind myself that I still can be that person. I still accomplish the things I want to and I will never let anxiety take that away from me.

I strive everyday to find the balance between not letting anxiety take over who I am and accepting its presence in my life. I often wonder who I would be without anxiety. I do think I would be different, but I’ve tried to stop dwelling on what I’ve lost. Instead, I try to focus on what I’ve gained.

I find enormous strength in knowing I am not alone in dealing with anxiety. I hope talking about my experience will encourage others to do the same.

This isn’t a post coming from someone who has fully recovered, and to tell you how to do so. But what I am here to tell you is that healing is a process. And what I know for sure is that healing is possible. Some days are harder than others but I have learned to face these days, for life is much too short to stay under the covers in fear. It is also much too sweet.

Alexandra is a journalism and photography student at the University of Toronto. She is passionate about creative writing and telling others’ stories through words and pictures. She hopes to one day publish a novel, empower others through photography and take a master’s degree in photojournalism. Be sure to visit her blog or follow her on Twitter @alexandragater