A Little More Time - Part Two

This Life is Sweet post is a continuation from yesterday

The first sandwich I ate in six months was in a small room at the Ottawa General Hospital with five sympathetic women and a nurse. The Psych Ward housed not only the six-person inpatient eating disorder program – known as Symptom Interruption – but the rest of gen pop. Men and women with manic depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia and schizoaffective disorder roamed our halls, and because I was the only man in the six-patient ED clinic I shared a room with a revolving assortment of troubled gents.

I found one of my roommates standing over my bed one morning; for all I know he’d been staring at me the entire night. Another would moan and scream in his sleep as I lay awake, planning my escape. But I also met brilliant men who, after several days on the right medication, were as friendly and charming as anyone I’d met in my life. And the transformations were often startling; upon arrival, many would be inconsolable, screaming of unnamed evils and conspiracies, beating themselves in the head to alleviate the pain of intruding voices, of splitting migraines -- of their own impossible existence.

The person in charge of the eating disorder program was a charming man from eastern Europe who, like most consummate doctors, kept a professional distance from his patients. The nurses, however, all women, were my mothers, my caretakers and my therapists. I was in hospital for 10 weeks – two weeks longer than initially allotted – gaining weight and attending group therapy classes. I needed to reach a BMI of 20 – approximately 130 lbs– before they would discharge me.

The six of us, an assortment of people from across the province, each suffering from a unique diagnosis, would eat three daily meals, attend occupational therapy, cognitive behavioural therapy, dialectical behavioural therapy, weigh-ins, blood tests, movie nights and more. For over two months they were my best and only friends, my siblings and my crushes.

One of the side effects of starvation in men is a severe slowing of testosterone production. Although I have now returned to my pre-ED hormone levels, for nearly two years after my illness I could not ejaculate. For the first year I had no sexual desire, no need to masturbate or fantasize. As I slowly regained the weight I lost –too slowly, according to the doctors – I was able to recognize beauty in my fellow cellmates, but it was nothing more than an objective acknowledgement.

Though the therapy helped me gain an understanding of why people succumb to eating disorders – control, mainly – I had no insight as to how a simple diet so quickly morphed into a virulent case of anorexia. Meera was also anorexic, severely so, but most of the other women were there for more insidious and less obvious forms of disordered eating.

It was during this time that I learned about the four other types of disordered eating as recognized by the DSM-IV:

-          Bulimia nervosa: binge eating followed by purging, though the two are not always connected. Bulimics often follow a binge with a purge, but the former tends to be more common than the latter.

-          Eating disorders not otherwise specified (EDNOS): this is the newest entry into the DSM. It includes anorexics with bulimic tendencies; those who have disordered eating habits but are within a “normal” weight range; those who exhibit disordered eating tendencies of a different nature at different times such as periods of food restriction and starvation followed by periods of binging, or restriction followed by periods of binging and purging.

-          Binge eating disorder: compulsive overeating, “losing yourself” in eating food despite feeling satiated or nauseous. I later went through a period of binge eating and gained back more weight than I’d initially lost.

-          Pica: a compulsive craving for non-food items like chalk, paint, glue, etc.

Most people who entered the program were either anorexics or bulimics, but all of them, including me, landed somewhere on a spectrum. Disordered eating is about asserting absolute control over one aspect of life because other parts are lacking it. I now believe that I started regulating my eating because I was unhappy with the course my life was taking: I disliked my job and was overwhelmed by school. I was distraught moving home to the suburbs and was convinced that being thin and fit would bring me the happiness I craved elsewhere.

But it was about more than just control: anorexia can be likened to an addiction married to an obsessive-compulsive disorder. In the throws of my starvation, I rationally knew that I needed to eat in order to stay alive, but I was willing to let myself die so as not to disrupt a deeply satisfying compulsiveness. What began as a routine morphed into a regimen which became an anchor. I was no longer in control of my control; at some point my brain stopped functioning well enough to differentiate obsession from suicide. I clearly remember the point at which I gave up; I had decided to die because the way to health – nourishing myself – was a notion too unfamiliar to grasp.

Today it’s difficult to imagine going back there; even at my lowest, when I’m convinced things will never get better, I rarely consider restricting my food. But food controlled my life for nearly three years, as a functioning anorexic, as a non-functioning anorexic, as an inpatient, as an outpatient, as a binge eater, and finally as a survivor. The spectre of ED is so large, only my closest friends know what happened. That I am a man who went through and recovered from anorexia does not dictate whether I tell people, though it certainly complicates the situation.

Anorexia, and subsequently binge eating disorder, was about more than control. I was deeply dissatisfied with my life – both its present and its potential future. My parents had recently gone through an insipid, damaging divorce and my GPA had suffered as a result. I wanted to be a writer but was certain of failure. I hated my moodiness, my awkwardness, my inability to make friends. I was jealous of everyone, even the friends and loved ones who supported me as I lay dying.

Later, when I attended outpatient support groups at Sheena’s Place in Toronto, I was told never to refer to the disease as ‘my eating disorder’. It wasn’t something I willed, nor was it something I could fix on my own. But to this day I wonder, had I been more aware of what was happening to me, better educated about the disease and its effects, could I have prevented it? Does someone develop an eating disorder as one catches a cold? Or is it more insidious: was I predisposed to the disease, and depression, in conjunction with environmental factors, set it in motion? How much does one’s family history of mental illness play into the development of an ED, and why was it that I developed anorexia over manic depression or schizophrenia?

I am no neuroscientist, nor do I pretend to understand the correlation between genetics, environment and culture. I do know that I wanted to be thinner and found myself, six months later, nearly dead on the floor, a wasted mess, refusing to eat the apple I knew would save my life.

It took until 2009 before I stopped thinking about food all the time. It took falling in love to normalize my eating. And though I no longer restrict, I still evaluate what I eat in a way that many would consider disordered.

I want to refrain from judging the insidious culture that leads millions of women and men to certain self-hatred, but it should not escape unscathed. Though I am a heterosexual male, a member of the demographic least likely to develop an eating disorder in North America, I am one of a rising number. This disease in treacherous: it starts off as a meek cough and overnight turns into pneumonia. It kills people. It killed Meera.

Meera was one of my favourite people. She was so, so kind. When she was happy her laugh was infectious. When she hugged, it was with everything she had. I lost touch with her when I moved back to Toronto and re-entered the life I worked so hard to undo. I spoke to her a year before her death and she sounded as she always did – as we all did when we lied to ourselves – tortured by the certainty that she was out of control, and so painfully, mercifully, ready to die.

A Little More Time - Part One

Eating disorders are a range of conditions involving an obsession with food, weight and appearance. This obsession negatively affects people's health, relationships and day-to-day living. The two main types of eating disorders are anorexia nervosa and bulimia nervosa. Eating disorders are a category of their own in the mental health spectrum and they are a huge concern in our society. When discussing the Life is Sweet project with some people I know, a young man offered to share his journey through recovery from anorexia and I will be sharing his story over the next two days. 

Meera died in early January, the victim of a disease few people think about and even fewer understand. Her heart stopped during the night, unable to continue pumping blood for which there were no more nutrients. She had been starving herself for over half her life, assured in the faultlessness of her endeavour.

It wasn’t that she needed to be thin – Meera, even at her heaviest, was barely more than a wisp – but that she knew of no other way to gain control. She asserted it with authoritarian power, over the food she ate (sparingly), the exercise she engaged in (vigorously) and the company she kept (occasionally).

I met Meera in February 2007, when I was admitted to the Ottawa General Hospital’s Mental Health Ward. By the time I walked through the doors of Ward Four North I weighed 90 pounds; my Body Mass Index was under 14.

A person of my height, five-foot-ten, should weigh between 140 and 160 pounds. With a BMI of between 20 and 24. In August of 2006 I weighed slightly more than that, perhaps 170, after a summer of heavy indulgence, living with three university friends in a Victorian house in the Annex, a tree-lined neighbourhood in downtown Toronto. It was between third and fourth year and I was single, frustrated and moody. I worked as a teller for a national bank and slept with my windows open; I chased mice out of my room and spent too much on red wine at the LCBO.

I looked at myself in the mirror one day and declared myself fat. That’s more or less how it started, but it quickly progressed into calorie counting, food restriction, over-exercising and obsessive compulsive tendencies. I lost nearly half my body weight in less than six months. I moved back with my mother, took leave of my job, bowed out of my last year of school after four weeks of hell and spent the months of October until February on the couch eating between 500 and 800 calories per day, drinking untold litres of coffee and slowly, assuredly killing myself.

Looking back on it now, I have no idea how I developed such a severe case of anorexia so quickly. I’d never experienced disordered eating before, and although I was rarely satisfied with my body as a teenager, at 21 years old I never expected to lose myself to an eating disorder. Until I met with a specialist I hadn’t a clue what anorexia was.

To any impartial observer, the treacherous slope began innocently. In addition to cutting out fried foods, I eliminated starchy carbs – rice, bread, crackers, etc. – and began going to the gym three times a week. I would use the stationary bike for an hour while listening to music, then lift a few free weights and call it a day.

When I wasn’t dropping weight fast enough after a month on this regimen, I started counting calories. By this time I had moved out of the shared space downtown and back in with my mother, and had access to a car for work and school. By mid-September I had a full schedule at school, worked three days a week at the bank and was regularly going to the gym. I cut my daily intake to around 1200 calories, a number I believed sufficient to maintain my energy levels while living a very structured life.

I dropped weight precipitously, absurdly. Between early September and mid-October I fell to 130lbs. I had also lowered my daily intake to between 800 and 1000 calories and was not only energetic but joyous; I was going through what I now know to be the first stages of starvation. In order to keep my brain, heart, lungs and kidneys functioning properly, my body upped its metabolic rate and exponentially increased its adrenaline production. It wasn’t euphoria; it was malnutrition.

I maintained, even once my weight dropped to under 120lbs, that I was fine. Everyone at work, at school, told me I looked great. And I did: I was fit, trim and confident. For a time I was more energetic and outgoing, and though I wouldn’t drink alcohol (again, calories), I was participating in social events at school and work.

But there is a very thin line between control and chaos, and though I’m not sure when exactly I crossed it, in November I was no longer able to regularly perform my daily responsibilities. I was obsessing about what I was eating, what was in my food and how much exercise I would need to do to run off that piece of cake. Not that I ate cake.

I was so cold. I wore my parka at work; I was rude to the customers and ignored my start times. A customer told me off and I crumpled to the floor, weeping. My muscles were beginning to atrophy and my legs were 100 pound weights dragging behind me.  My poetry assignments were all to do with food, fantastic recreations of the meals I wouldn’t let myself eat. I refused to go out for meals, uncertain what kinds of spices they were putting on my plain-no-oil-no-sauces-no-rice-no-anything salmon. I once entered a restaurant’s kitchen to supervise the making of my filet. When the restaurant manager returned me to the table like a wayward toddler, I tried to pass it off as a joke, but I felt so intensely anxious that I spent the entire meal with my eyes closed.

I stopped eating anything with refined sugars. Soon afterwards I stopped eating anything with natural sugars. I wouldn’t touch fruit or sugar-dense vegetables. By mid-December I was subsisting on roasted vegetables and the occasional piece of chicken, cooked by me or my mother under strict supervision. I stopped drinking milk, even in coffee; I refused to put oil on anything, even salad. By January I was eating fewer than 500 calories a day.

It was towards the end of 2006, a few days before New Years, that I was home alone. I was always hungry, my stomach groaning like the shrill whine of an eardrum. I couldn’t concentrate: I would sit at home, my wasted body barely filling the outlines of child-sized pajamas, watching show after show on The Food Network. The hosts were my only friends – I had stopped answering calls, and then friends stopped calling – and they were ebullient, lively, healthy. I was obsessed with food that I would never allow myself to eat.

That night, I was chopping a cauliflower – I would eat an entire one, uncooked, because it was low in calories and high in volume – and sliced severely into my thumb. It took a moment to register what had happened as by then my brain was out of sync with what was left of my body. Shortly, I woke up, cauliflower florets strewn about, stained red. In my fall I had knocked over a basket of apples and in a moment of clarity bit into one, understanding that the sugar would give me strength. Immediately my head cleared, limbs loosened and mind sharpened. I stood up, cleaned the floor and returned to starving myself. The apple, despite its life-saving properties, was thrown away.

Another time, in a moment of crazed determination, I decided to make a pot of tomato soup. The recipe was from one of those Italian Food Network shows, and involved roasting and macerating several dozen tomatoes in a food processor. By then I could barely walk, my atrophied muscles begging for sustenance. I struggled to climb the stairs to my room; I barely had enough energy to keep my foot on the gas on the way to the grocery store.

In the car, on my way to purchase tomatoes (a fruit that barely made it on the quickly-diminishing list of “good foods”), I dozed off for a moment and ran onto the sidewalk. The streets were empty and no one saw it, but when I came to, my car was leaning against a fence and was slowly toppling over the boards. As I reversed, I realized that I was endangering my life and others’, but was determined to buy those tomatoes and that was that.

The second half of this post will appear on the blog tomorrow

The Silver Lining in Healing an Incurable Disease

Thank you to everyone who bought tickets to Life is Sweet, Even in February. Tickets are now sold out and I'm over-the-moon thrilled and overwhelmed and generally just really excited! I can't believe the show is a little over a week away!

The Life is Sweet project is about a few things for me: honouring my mom, getting people talking about mental illness and loss and also spreading the message that life truly is sweet, in spite of the challenges we face along the way. One of the people who most embodies that message for me is my dear friend Meghan who has been a great supporter of my journey and this project. I love Meghan's perspective on life and she continues to inspire me to keep pushing forward throughout any challenges that come my way. 

Are you always so happy?

This is something get asked more than anything else. It is a strange question as I can’t say that I wake up thinking- wow, am I ever happy today, or aren’t I lucky to be this happy?

My disposition isn’t something I think about, but I guess it’s the same with our physical health. We don’t give either much thought until something breaks, or begins to fall apart.

I definitely haven’t always had a smile on my face. In 2006, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, a condition that is commonly believed to have no cure. I was given the options of surgery and medication for the rest of my life, without the potential of a cure. My doctor told me that diet would have no effect and that I would have to learn to live with it.

Not one to play by the rules, I decided to create my own rules and UnDiet my life. I chose a natural route that included meditation, yoga, acupuncture, rest and a diet comprised of whole, unprocessed foods. Within one month I was symptom free and remain so to this day.

What I realized in going through the process of getting my body healthy, was that my mind- my thoughts had to follow. The body is rarely in a state of illness without bringing the mind and spirit along- and vice versa. It’s all part of the same system. I realized that if I were to become truly healthy, happiness would have to be part of it.

I decided that getting well would have to be the most fun I’ve ever had. I continue everyday to work at being happy. I meditate, I exercise, I sleep well, I maintain and work to have healthy relationships in all facets of my life and I work equally hard to find happiness, joy and reward in the work that I do. Healthy food is part of the equation but no salad will heal our woes if we spend 12 of our 14 waking hours hating what it is we have to do and who we have to spend our time with.

I am firm on the fact that getting sick was the greatest thing that ever happened to me, and getting well has been the greatest adventure.  In overcoming and healing from my illness, I learned a lot. My mom calls it my PhD in life.

Five of the key lessons I learned that continue to support my health and my happiness are:

1. Take other opinions with a grain of salt.

It is just ourselves and our current situation that really matter. I received the opinion that I had an incurable disease and nothing I ate or did regarding my lifestyle would have an effect. I was called “crazy” for attempting to do what I was told was impossible. We can allow others opinions to offend, maim and harm us, but how does it serve us to to believe the negativity of others?

2. Yoga is more than twisting yourself into a pretzel.

I used to be one of those before-work workout nut heads who rolled into the gym at 6:00 a.m., kicked my own bottom for an hour until I felt drained and depleted. When high-impact workouts were no longer an option, I turned to yoga. Yoga is a gazillion times harder than climbing a stair master or doing crunches until you want to puke—because it makes you actually look at yourself from the inside and address what may not be working.

3. Wait out the storms and the sunshine and rainbows will appear- if you’re looking.

I have been accused of always seeking the silver lining, or not being realistic in my hopes and dreams for my life. That’s not to say that challenges don’t continue to drop on me. The change though is how I have learned to better cope and trust that something good will come from it- even if that good is just a wicked tough learning experience.

4. When something goes wrong in our body or in our mind— fighting doesn’t help us heal.

They greatest way to promote our own suffering is to continue resisting what is and the way things are. When we can learn to feed and nourish and give ourselves what is needed to work with the challenge rather than against it, that is how we heal.

5. I am better off happily creating than creating to be happy.

We think that if we work now, even if we hate it, that the benefits or payoff will bring happiness to the future version of ourselves. When I think back five years to the life I thought I was working towards, it is definitely not what would make me happy today. Wouldn’t it be a waste of precious time to take on misery now and try to achieve something that is only serving to satisfy and bring joy to a future version of myself? I would end up disappointed for a good portion of my life.

Things can change in an instant, with a diagnosis, a disaster—anything! The greatest gift we can offer ourselves is to wake up happy, excited about the day ahead, and go to bed pleased with the job that we did, accepting that the process itself is the outcome, and that we did our very best at every given moment.

Meghan Telpner is a Toronto based nutritionista and sought after media personality thanks to her refreshingly humorous, engaging and real approach to healthy living. Her online cooking courses and health programs are improving the health of people around the world. Meghan’s book UnDiet, Eat Your Way to Vibrant Health will be released North America wide in April, 2013. Join Meghan’s community on twitter @MeghanTelpner, or on Facebook at Meghan Telpner Nutritionista. For more visit MeghanTelpner.com.

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.

I Want you to know that Life is Sweet

Today, February 12, is Bell Let's Talk Day. For every text message sent or long distance call made by Bell subscribers, Bell will donate 5 cents towards mental health initiatives across Canada. Not a Bell subscriber? Bell will also donate 5 cents for each tweet using the #BellLetsTalk hashtag or Facebook share of their Bell Let's Talk image. Visit the Facebook event or Twitter account for more details. I think this is an amazing initiative that is totally in line with my objective for Life is Sweet month of getting people talking and raising awareness. 

In today's post, Shannon talks about her experience with SAD and depression and is absolutely in line with Let's Talk Day's mission to get the conversation started about mental illness. She has been an amazing supporter of the Life is Sweet project and I'm so proud that she bravely took the leap to share her story and promote her belief that life truly is sweet. 

Life is sweet.

I truly believe this—no matter what life brings my way. Some may tell you that I tend to embrace the positive, sometimes with great enthusiasm and excitement, and so of course I would say such a thing. But, I tell you this as someone who once upon a time wished life away. I tell you this as someone who lives with depression.

Yes, I try to embrace the positive even when it is really, really hard. I have a wonderful life. I live in the heart of vibrant downtown Toronto. I’m independent. I have a career that has blessed me with countless opportunities for growth and travel. I dabble in theatre. I have a truly wonderful, beautiful family with whom I am blessed to have a close relationship. I am surrounded by beautiful, talented, inspiring friends. I dance through the grocery store when a great song comes on the radio, and I make up crazy little songs when out on adventures with friends. I believe life is sweet…I believe life is sweet even when there are times in the year where it is really hard getting out of bed to face the world outside of my apartment. As the seasons prepare to change and do change, something shifts from deep within and during that time mustering the energy to be social with those I love, or doing something that I am passionate about, is a challenge. The smallest of tasks feels hard. The smallest of problems feels magnified. I just want to shut down, hibernate in bed, sleep, or watch something mindless. There are times where tears are inevitable and times where I want to forsake all food except for the potato chip—my body’s carbohydrate craving of choice. I am fairly open to sharing that I live with, what all indicators point to as, Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD). However, I realize that I am not always open to sharing the details of what it is like living with depression and I never talk about the time where I wished life away.

I decided to open up and share this part of my life after Ashley sent out the invitation to be part of Dancing Through Life this month. I have admired her honesty about the loss of her mother and think that Life is Sweet, Even In February is a fantastic opportunity to celebrate her mother’s life, raise awareness about depression, and raise funds for the CAMH Foundation. And so, it is with a giant breath that I share with you what I do not talk about.

It feels like I have lived with depression on and off for a long time. The depression I live with now feels very different from the depression I experienced growing up. I know now that what I experience is a chemical imbalance brought on by the shortening of days and lack of sunlight, and that the depression comes and goes with the changing season. I also have a better understanding of how to deal with the depression when it is present. When I was younger, I struggled with this—whether what I was experiencing was SAD or growing pains. This struggle brings me to the part of my life that I do not talk about.

Two months shy of thirteen, I tried to commit suicide. I do not talk about this and rarely revisit the memory of that time because the decision I made then is so incredibly painful to the 33 year old woman I am now. My heart physically feels like it is ripping apart when I think about what I put my parents and brother through that day, and of all the wonderful moments in life I could have missed with them—including having my step-father and sister-in-law in my life. I have such an awesome and loving family. I had a good childhood. Yet that morning I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and I wished life away. I remember not being able to process how I was feeling. I lived in a painfully small town. I am a PK (Preacher’s Kid) and that used to result in sometimes relentless teasing from kids.  It also resulted in outside pressures to be perfect, but never pressure from my family. I was bullied. My family was struggling with something at the time and while I did not know what it was then, I must have sensed it. I felt sad. And in that moment, I did not know how to handle all of this. For some reason, I thought suicide was the answer and I hate that this is a part of my journey. Some details of that summer’s day have been forgotten and some have not. I prefer not to dwell on that time, but focus on what I have learned and the woman I am now. Not who I was then.

In January 2006—after a period of feeling sad, angry, like a different person, and apparently being increasingly difficult to deal with—I decided it was time to speak with my doctor about what I was experiencing. Throughout the years I have been to therapy and in that safe space openly talked about how I was feeling and my family’s history with depression.  It was through the conversation with my doctor that I realized I showed signs of having SAD and began taking an anti-depressant. It was also at this time that I unfortunately learned why some choose to keep their struggles with depression silent. As I went through the challenges of finding the medication that was right for me, I began a two year relationship with someone who through words and actions made me feel as though something was wrong with me for how I was feeling. It went like this: What is this medication for? Why are you taking medication? Why can’t you be okay with diet and exercise alone? This book says that you can cure depression through diet and exercise. How are you feeling today? The latter is a loaded question that I grew to hate. I began to feel like something was wrong with me, that I was broken. I wish I could go back to that time, give myself a comforting hug, and tell myself to dump that boyfriend ASAP. There is nothing wrong with me. I am not broken. I am not defined by my depression or my actions all those years ago. I believe this goes for anyone, even if they have a hard time seeing it. I believe we should have open conversations about depression and mental illness, and honestly not judge. Every time I see advertising with this message, I feel uplifted. I also believe that how we choose to treat depression is personal and that we shouldn’t fear seeking help. I also believe that my experience is not everyone’s experience, that I am not an expert, and that what works for me may not work for everyone. I believe that if you need help, reach out and hold onto hope. Please hold onto hope, even if there is just a glimmer of it.

While I am being honest, I will share with you that this past fall was an incredibly hard time for me. I was stressed with something in my life, life felt hard, and I was depressed…my bed became my best friend when I wasn’t on the go and, okay, I ate potato chips—a shameful amount at times. At 33 years old, I have learned to acknowledge how I am feeling and to remind myself that it will pass. I have learned that sometimes I just have to be with how I am feeling, but that I also need to breathe and take it a moment at a time as I put one foot in front of the other.  No matter how bad it feels or if I can’t quite see light at the end of the tunnel, thoughts of suicide never pass my mind. I know that I will get through it somehow, someway.

This month I will begin exploring my depression a little more—something I am excited about. That sounds like a crazy statement, but here is the deal: while medication as a form of treatment has helped me, I will begin discussions with a clinical nutritionist on ways to treat depression naturally and will begin implementing that. I am also going to explore light therapy. While medication has worked for me, I now feel that this is more of a match because of my increasing interest in clean, wholesome living. In the past year I have discovered that what I put into my body impacts how I feel. Even with sometimes rampant potato chip cravings to cure my carbohydrate need, which I am sometimes successful in ignoring and sometimes not, I know that my winter and spring blues are lessened by clean, wholesome eating. For me, this is an incredible realization and in recent weeks has become non-negotiable. As we approach another change in the season, I want to remember this—even when it feels like the biggest challenge in the world.

This is my story of my experience with depression. I would like to reiterate that if you are reading this and feeling lost within your own depression, please know that life is sweet. Please remember that and know that there are so many wonderful things in store for you that you do not yet know about. If you need help, please hold onto hope and reach out to someone.

Life is sweet. I want you to know that. 

Shannon works in the not-for-profit fundraising sector while dabbling in theatre on the side. With a growing interest in health, wellness and nutrition, you'll find her sharing her discoveries on Twitter at @ShanDMC