Life is Sweet, and Full of Acceptance

As I mentioned in the intro of Shannon's post, it's been really neat to check back in with my Life is Sweet writers from last year and see how contributing to the series impacted their lives. Alexandra is no different and it's been incredible to watch (and cheer on!) her journey of growth and acceptance over the last year. 

When I look back to last February, I see a very different person- someone who was racked with anxiety, fear and general uneasiness. I’m still not sure why my panic disorder presented itself to me two years ago, when I was happy and healthy and seemingly in control of my anxiety. But it did. The past two years I have experienced the highest highs and also the lowest lows as I’ve sought to accept a difficult part of who I am.

I’ve been anxious all my life. I have distinct memories of waking up as a child from knots of worry in my stomach; I used to wonder what it would be like to not have anything bothering me. I was diagnosed with clinic anxiety when I was seventeen, and then a panic disorder when I was twenty. 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.

Last year when I was working through my anxiety, it was sometimes a challenge to even leave my house and go to school. Public transit terrified me (the thought of being trapped inside a train with absolutely no escape meant I was constantly counting stops and avoided taking long journeys whenever I could). Life became difficult and not enjoyable, even when I knew it shouldn’t be. I cried a lot for no reason. I was upset, uneasy and desperately didn’t want to feel the way I did.

There was a specific moment last year during Ashley’s Life is Sweet show when things started changing. Something shifted in me. When Ashley began talking about how mental health isn’t talked about enough, and how those who are suffering are not alone, I completely lost it because I realized that I was included in that category. For the first time ever I let myself feel sad about a part of my being that will never change. I have a mental health issue, and that’s okay.

2013 was a year of insurmountable growth for me. I learned to stop fearfully anticipating having a panic attack and learned how to accept them (they both go hand-in-hand). Whenever I feel my throat close and my heart start to beat quickly, I say hello to my anxiety and remind myself that it will pass; that I won’t faint, or stop breathing, or die and that my adrenaline will soon run out. I began to simply do things without thinking about how dreadful they could turn out, until I almost forgot about the things that scared me the most. I went to having difficulty leaving my house in February, to taking a three month backpacking trip across Europe with my best friend in June. All of these things made me feel empowered and even more accepting of my disorder. I turned to women who were experiencing what I was, and suddenly didn’t feel alone anymore. I spoke to teachers about how I was feeling, especially if I felt myself getting too stressed. It often surprises me how understanding people are when you’re open with them- in many cases, they want to know and learn more.

Alexandra sitting the cafe Hemingway frequented in Paris - Les Deux Magots- this summer during her trip, and loving life

One thing I have learned on this journey is that I would not be where I am toady without professional help. I am grateful to have a family that supports my well-being, and do not take that for granted because I know there are thousands of people in Toronto waiting on lists to get help too. When I read all of the wonderful posts for Life is Sweet Month, I am reminded that there needs to be more discussion surrounding mental health, more access to resources and a better understanding so that we can all learn to accept ourselves, and each other.

Alexandra is a journalism and photography student at the University of Toronto. She’s 22, doesn’t know where her life is going to take her when she graduates and would really like to quote the Taylor Swift song “22” in this bio but she’ll spare you. Follow her on twitter @alexandragater or www.219daysoflondon.com

A Beautiful Mess

The Life is Sweet series this year continues to amaze and inspire me. I love that given the parameters of a blog post for a series called Life is Sweet about mental health and loss, people can go in an infinite number of directions with what they choose to writer about and share. I'm so stoked to have Emily on the blog today with a whole lot of honesty. 

I'm here to tell you that it's okay to feel bad, and it's okay to be totally open about how bad you feel. Oh, and an early PS: I am one of those people who will always call it like it is.

I spent a lot of time and a few drafts thinking about what to write for this guest post: I could talk about my experiences with suicide and self-harm, I could talk about the science of happiness (I love brains and I love talking neuroscience), I could talk about the onset of my PTSD and anxiety after an abusive ex-boyfriend and getting wrongfully arrested for reporting him for domestic violence, I could talk at length about how pop culture treats mental illnesses and ply you with a bunch of quotes... in short, I am no stranger to unhappiness, or to being verbose.

After a somewhat upsetting recent experience, I decided it would be most important to do what I do best – call out something that's NOT working in our society, and once it's stripped naked for all to see, let's change it so that we can start to feel better in our own skin.

This is going to come in two (okay, maybe three) parts. First off, let's talk about what bullshit image crafting is, and why it's got to stop. I'm sure you know what I mean – those happy statuses from friends where all they ever talk about is how great their life is, how great their partner is, how great their job is... and don't even get me started on all the half-naked (or more!) photos out there, of people vying for attention and comments on how attractive they are.

When you're already down, or have put on an extra few pounds, or feel like you're unlovable and perpetually single – this kind of shit is poison for your eye sockets, heart, and brain. When you're alone on a Friday night in your pyjamas and can't stop crying, the last thing you need to see is how damned happy everyone else around you seems to be. It's so easy to believe that you're worthless or unlovable or just plain doomed when you can't seem to form the kind of friendships that you see documented on Facebook, or when people don't respond to your Tweets or texts but converse with everyone else. I have been there. Everyone has. Whether or not they have the balls to admit it is a different story.

The blunt truth is that the people who consistently indulge in image crafting are likely just as insecure and emotionally fragile as you are, no matter how well put together they may outwardly seem. Don't let their happy outward appearance fool you. Since you wouldn't knowingly eat poison, why do you let your eyes, brain, and heart consume it? The bigger blunt truth here is that you are NOT any less attractive, lovable, or worthy than these people who are indulging in their own form of insanity. Don't let yourself get sucked into a self-doubt spiral through unfair comparisons – your private rehearsals of existence versus their larger-than-life perpetual opening nights. Goddamn it, you are pretty and worthy of love. Yes, I mean YOU, who is reading this right now.

What's maybe worse than image crafters are the people who seem to think that you should only use social media to post happy thoughts. You know what? That's bullshit too. The people who want to judge you or bring you down for expressing all sides of yourself are, quite frankly, not worth your time or attention or loyalty or respect. More than once, I've been accused of being an over-sharer, or seeming “unprofessional”, or going against other people's “values” by posting personal things that were less than happy and shiny. To me, that just weeds out the people who don't understand me and my shoot-from-the-heart ways. If people are going to judge you for expressing yourself as a whole person, with varying moods and ideas and ALL THE FEELINGS – well, then it's like Marilyn Monroe said: “if you can't handle me at my worst, then you don't deserve me at my best.”

If you express “I'm sad”, the people who respond with “how can I help?” are the ones who are worth their weight in gold. As a society, we are still told far too often to keep our emotions in check, to make sure we “appear to be socially acceptable, and don't you dare step a toe across that line or we'll de-friend you.” It's utterly ridiculous. We are not robots with a default setting of 'happy' wherein the broken models have their settings stuck elsewhere. As we evolve into organisms that interact more and more via the Internet and technology, rather than in person or via paper letters or telephone calls, the way we express ourselves needs to evolve as well.

I'm here to empower and reassure you that it's okay to be open about who you are: you beautiful, tangled, complex mess of a person. I know this because I'm a beautiful mess too. It's taken me a long time to realize it and to be able to advocate for myself, but I am the furthest thing from normal-brained, at the best of days. People will tell me “wow, you're so organized and busy”. I tend to laugh at these well-meaning but misguided folks who don't know firsthand about the sleepless nights I spend, the anxiety attacks when I can't deal with doing the stacks of laundry that seem to double when I'm not looking, or how I have spent more time than I care to admit at home in my pyjamas aimlessly surfing Facebook or playing Candy Crush instead of doing the work I should be doing.

Emotions are messy and complicated. At the core, we still have our lovely lizard brains controlling the show – the part of our brain who just wants to know if we can eat, have sexytimes with, or will have to fight new stimulus (or people) that come into our lives. Emotions are volatile; just like a bundle of explosives, sometimes they can't be contained. Don't be afraid to explode if you need to. The people who are your true friends will be there to help you put the pieces back together.

It's okay to be angry, and it's okay to be sad, just as much as it's okay to be happy. It's okay to talk about what's making you feel this way – even if you don't know exactly what or why – and it's okay to reach out for support when you need it. If you want to talk about what you're feeling, please please please always go for it. Post some sad song lyrics, send a friend a text, write a screaming status update in all capital letters. Whatever works best for you. Do it when you're happy AND do it when you're sad. Blog it, vlog it, scream your feelings from the rooftops. I wish more people would.

Never censor yourself for the benefit of other people. They don't know what's happening in your heart. And, if needed, you've always got an understanding ear and a big comforting hug here.

Love,

Your Sister of Perpetual “Oversharing” 

Emily Schooley is an accomplished creative professional who loves crossing genres and boundaries. She has been known to work as an actor and filmmaker, along with offering personal coaching and a handful of other talents through her biz that make her a bonafide Girl Friday. You can check out her offerings for YOU at http://laughingcat.ca and https://www.facebook.com/LaughingCatInc, or find her performance work at http://emilyschooley.com and https://www.facebook.com/EmilySchooley.

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.

Every Day

Tonight is The Life is Sweet Project; it feels surreal. There are still tickets available and would love to have a full house come 8pm. Teresa wrote two incredible pieces for Life is Sweet last year and I'm so glad she's back. 

I should have went and got groceries yesterday. I should've rallied myself after the 14 hour journey to the Olympic Peninsula in Washington, which was comprised of a 2 hour drive to the airport in Buffalo, 8 hours of planes and a 4 hour drive back down winding roads. I should've turned down the dinner invitation from my friend Kyle, should not have spent the precious 2 hours left in my reserve of energy eating Mexican with him and his friends, locals who are all mechanics and hydro workers, men who have permanent grease under their fingernails and refer to me only as 'Canada'.

Because if I had went and got groceries yesterday I would not have spent today being exposed to the never-ending siege that occurs on Mothers Day. The day when it seems the entire world celebrates what I don’t have, the only thing in the world I can’t find or meet or buy myself. At lunch, the waitress tries to talk me into the special, a chicken cordon blue sandwich 'inspired by mom'. If I had went to get sustenance the day before as planned, I would have been able to just hide in my oceanfront cabin, the one I rented expressly for the purpose of hiding out from the world for a few days to write and be alone in one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. 

But I didn't, so it was off to the supermarket to stock my little kitchenette. Forks is home to 3500 people, and the grocery store is comprised of a traditional grocery and hardware/outdoor outfitters shop, to save time in the event you want a garden hose, some overalls and a pint of milk. Today, it is my personal hell. Even fertilizer is on sale to honor Mom. Everyone in here has flowers in their cart, pink and lavender cards tucked in between plump hams to make dinner for their giver of life. Me? I've got mangoes and vegetable crackers. The stuff best eaten alone, over a sink.

Women in here walk proudly down the aisle, everywhere they go today they are reminded of their achievements in procreation. They all recognize each other and say 'Happy Mothers Day' over the displays of teddy bears and balloons. These Women purposefully pick out their groceries; they scrutinize melons and load up family size boxes of foodstuffs according to their children's age and preferences. I follow one woman around the store who has an overflowing cart of child-sized snacks and a ring with different colored birthstones; this is obviously someone’s mother. She walks with a sort of serenity that I don't know if I will ever have. It looks like she knows her purpose, even if it's just to buy snacks and braid hair and kiss scraped knees.

I hit the check out after wandering aimlessly for an hour, and decide at the last minute to buy a 59 cent red carnation. It looks so lonely and hopeful and I decide I will bring it to the ocean. I would have preferred a red rose, her favorite, but I can't really be that choosy an hour before closing on the most popular day of the year to buy flowers. The teen clerk loads up a big paper bag of my purchases and hands me the flower, carefully, like she is about to ask me to the dance. I take it and walk out of the store, proud of my decision to do something symbolic outside of my usual yearly tradition of bring angry and hiding in my apartment.

Just outside the store there is a huge native man. He wears a grey tracksuit, and has a shiny, jet-black braid that hangs to the middle of his back. His chest is expansive, kind of like bitch tits Bob from ‘Fight club’. Tribal tattoos dot his upper forearm and his skin is the color of burnt butterscotch. He doesn't intimidate me like some of the other men out at the reserve where I am staying, his huge size seems protective as opposed to scary. He spots my hopeful flower and me and calls out 'Happy Mothers Day, especially if you're a Mother!!!!' and shoots me a wide, toothy grin. I almost lose it right there. I want to shout at him 'ACTUALLY, I DONT HAVE A MOTHER SO DON’T ASSUME THINGS!’ I want to dissolve into his huge caramel arms, collapse into his bosom and have him stroke my hair and tell me I will be okay. I just know he would comfort me and have some sort of wisdom on how to heal a 20 year old broken heart and I'm certain he would smell like leather and pipe tobacco.

But I just smile at him and walk to my car, will myself to drive back to the ocean and be miserable in peace without fantasizing about paternal-type comfort from big Indians. When I get back I put on my rain gear and grab my flower and head down the short path to the ocean. I watch the swell and waves for a while, take a picture of the carnation resting on the sand, and think of my mother. Finally, I walk a little toward the tide and throw the flower as hard as I can. But the head of the flower is so much heavier than the stem, and since I am holding the end of it when the wind comes in, a part of the bottom breaks off. I pick it up and try again and it finally hits the water and disappears below the angry white water. I watch its red petals bob up and down a few times and then come swishing back out, landing about 10 feet from mine. I retrieve it and try again, but it comes back again. I keep trying and trying, getting madder each time. DO YOU NOT WANT MY FLOWER MOTHER?! I want to yell. I MISS YOU SO MUCH AND I’M SO SORRY THAT ALL YOURE GETTING FOR MOTHERS DAY IS A 59 CENT CARNATION THAT IS BECOMING MORE RAGGED WITH EVERY ATTEMPT. I AM AWARE THIS IS NOT A FLOWER THAT IS BECOMING OF WHO YOU ARE OR IN LINE WITH WHAT YOU DESERVE. 

Finally, I give up. There are hot, angry tears are streaming down my face and the cold rain and wind are turning my cheeks to stinging red. I leave the flower sitting where it came back the last time at the edge of the surf between two shiny rocks dyed bone china white from the constant salt. I stalk off, angry at myself for trying, angry at my mother, angry at the rain, the ocean, and the world. 

I get to a piece of driftwood and sit down and try to not freak out and collect my thoughts, my back to the traitor body of water that won't accept my offering. I end up thinking of Stephanie Ratza. When I was a kid, after my mom died, a couple of her friends would take turns taking me on outings. They were well meaning, but I always took them as pitying. However, they usually ended up being afternoons of them buying me things, so I tolerated them. Once, her friend Stephanie Ratza asked me 'Do you miss your mom?'  and I quickly and defiantly answered 'No!' for I was already full into my 'I am so tough that I do not need a mother' phase. Already at 8 I was not okay with vulnerability, I had a father that was falling apart, I had to be a stoic rock.

As I sat on that driftwood I thought of Stephanie Ratza and how I am still afraid to miss my mother sometimes. I mean, as much as I've practiced it over the years, its not entirely true that you can't celebrate Mother's Day if you're mother is not here. I mean, I DO have a mother. I got here, didn’t I? She is no longer here in front of me and I can’t ask her for advice on clothes or love or how to iron linen safely, but that doesn't really mean that she doesn't exist. Maybe that's all people really want when they miss someone who has died. They just want them acknowledged; they don't want people to forget someone so integral to their being existed. Just because my mother can't meet my new boyfriend or like my new haircut doesn't make the fact that she was here any less real. 

I have a mother. Her name was Palma. She liked red roses and Bruce Springsteen and long nails and short hair. She was kind to everyone and she is still the most beautiful person I have ever seen up close.  She smelled like vanilla mist, had the faintest accent when she pronounced her 'B's and was so wonderful that 20 years later I am only now beginning to understand what it means to lose her. If I saw that Stephanie Ratza tomorrow and she asked me again if I missed my mother, I would say without hesitation, 'Everyday'.


When I finally got up and looked back, the carnation was gone. 

Teresa is a writer, traveler, nutritionist, tour manager and hula hoop champion.  She likes bukowski, the ocean, holding hands, Roswell reruns, and long, romantic walks down the organic produce aisle. Her blog (www.dancesinthedark.com) is currently under construction, but until then you can find her on twitter @thebandiswithme 

What's Happening to Me?

I think everyone has had some sort of anxiety from time to time, but for most of us, these experiences are short lived and only happen under extreme circumstances. For some (like Shaun yesterday), anxiety can be relentless and severe and negatively impact one's life. In today's Life is Sweet post, Anne-Marie shares her experience with anxiety disorder after growing up in a household that was already familiar with mental health concerns

What's happening to me? That’s the question that I asked myself as my anxiety slowly set in and then took over my life. It started with moments of my heart racing and it would happen sporadically, so I didn’t think much of it. But it started to increase.

Interestingly at that time, I had a few friends that had just started to see psychotherapists so I asked them for a referral. I didn’t do anything with that referral for a while though. I didn’t want to take that step to start seeing a professional about problems that I didn’t think I had, yet. Plus, it might be admitting that I had a problem that might run in my family.

Let me back up a bit. Why I think mental illness and anxiety runs in my family is because my mom had a few breakdowns or ‘nervous breakdowns’ as they were called back in the 60s/80s. She was hospitalized when she was 21 years old. She had a very tough home life when she was growing up. I won’t get into that, as we would be here all day or month. Let me just say, that I was lucky enough that mom realized that she was never going to treat her children the way that her mother treated her. So she gave us more love than any children could imagine. It was fantastic. But my mom always had this need to please her mother and hoped to receive for the love that she deserved. Those demons bothered her for her entire life.

When I was just in grade 5 and again in grade 6, my mother had to be hospitalized for what was thought to be another ‘breakdown’. It was definitely part breakdown, but also a misdiagnosis of early onset extreme menopause. Not until her second bout did a doctor final realize this and start to treat it. After that we had our mother back. She still had those demons of her up bringing and dreams of love from her mother, but she dealt with those as she could.

This mental illness was definitely in my mind when the anxiety attacks began for me along with bouts of depression. Was I going to have to go through what my mother did?

My story has another element to it. In January of 2000, when I was just 27 years old, my father passed away after a 3 year fight with leukemia. He was my best friend and had been for most of my life. We spent so much time together. We even shared an apartment when I returned from university. So I was there for every moment of his illness. It was a year after he passed that my symptoms began.

One of the reasons I felt that these began was because I was able to talk to my dad about most things, but when he passed, those things that I might have spoken to him about just built up. My analogy for this is, I always had a glass half full of problems/issues, but it was by talking to my dad that I could keep that glass from over flowing. So when he was gone each little issue or concern started to fill that glass until it over flowed and that’s when the anxiety began.

With all that on my mind and completely over thinking every moment of my life, the anxiety attacks grew and grew in intensity and frequency. This finally drove me to making an appointment with a psychotherapist, definitely a good first move. But results did not come fast enough for me, as things were getting much worse.

I would start my day off with such anxiety in my gut that the only way to relieve it was to dry heave. That would release the tension and give me some relief to get my day started. I wasn’t going to let this take over my life. I couldn’t not work, so I had to find a way through it no matter how many times I to ‘deal’ with it in a day.

I was afraid of medication, as I could remember what my mom was like when she was on it. And that was not for me. Plus, when I was in this state I did far too much research on the medications (which I don’t normally do on other meds) and the side effects scared me. Or at least the ‘me’ in the mind space I was in at the time. So I tried many other ‘cures’ along with my weekly sessions with my psychotherapist, who was and still is awesome. I tried drops that I could put on my tongue. They kind of worked for a moment or two. Then I decided I would try seeing a naturopath and see what they could do without the crazy drugs. I’m sure that what they had suggested might have worked, but they were telling me I might see results for 6 months or so. Wow, I would have to live with these crippling attacks until then. Didn’t think I could do it.

These attacks made me feel like I was going to die. Right there and then. No matter where I was - at the hairdresser, in the drug store, at work, in a food court, anywhere. But I didn’t want anyone to know so I figured out how to put on a façade so no one could tell. Which made for very hard work. My only true down time was with my therapist or at home.

I must say that one good thing came out of my mom’s breakdowns and that was she truly understood what I was going through. I can remember being at the hairdresser one day and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I told them I wasn’t feeling well and just left. I called my mom as I left and she was already at my apartment by the time I got home. And she knew that I all needed was to feel safe and not to be questioned. Just to be loved, like only she could do. I wish that she could have had that during her time of need when she was young. But I was lucky enough to have her and her understanding. It made it all that much easier.

The attacks were just too much at that point, so I had to take the big step and go on medication. Why didn’t I do that sooner as it changed my entire life. Paxil was the best thing that happened to me at the time. It helped to level me out which gave me the opportunity to truly understand why this was happening. I could really work with my therapist, which I’m still doing today, to get to the real root of the problem. Which I will say is not my father dying, but much older and deeper issues.

I do know that I needed to go through all of that before I went on the medication, as I learned so much about myself and what I can truly deal with. Also, I understand and know how to deal with the anxiety attacks that might and do happen every once in a while now. I know that they won’t kill me. It is just a moment in time, but also a reminder that I need to take care of me.

I can say that I started meds in December of 2001 and was able to come off of them by the Spring of 2003. And I’ve never needed them again. However, the psychotherapy I will always need. Maybe not as often as I once did, but I know that’s the place I go to work towards truly finding the root of my issues. I look forward to finding out what they are and dealing with them one day. But it is a process I know I have to go through and might have to forever.

This may sound odd, but I’m glad that I went through this when I did, as it taught me so much about myself and started me on the path to better understanding of who I am.

About Anne-Marie Marais

I run my own media business, LongLegs Productions. I work with clients on social media strategy and management and video production. Plus, I’m always working on coming up with the next great TV show, webseries or screenplay through my writing. One of my strongest passions is travel and I do as much of that as I can. I have my own travel blog I would love for you to check out. Feel free to follow me on Twitter at either: @atmarais and/or @LongLegsTravels