Jill Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest

It's Bell Let's Talk Day again.  It's hard to believe it's been a year since I first posted about my experience with mental illness.  And boy, what a year it was.

Today many others are sharing their experiences, or experiences of their loved ones.  In the Ottawa Citizen this past week there was a book review of a young man's memoir about his experience with depression.  As I read the article, I found myself being judgmental.  You mean, he once thought about killing himself but didn't actually make an attempt? You mean he never actually went to therapy? Why does this guy feel like he's some sort of authority on depression?!

I discussed my critical thoughts with a friend.  "There was a point in your life, Jill,  when you developed the self-awareness to realize that what you were dealing with was depression," my friend noted.  "This guy (the author) has developed self-awareness about himself.  Your paths there are different, but you are both arriving in the same place."  It was an interesting perspective.

After my relationship ended in November, I found myself lost and unable to see how I would ever find the energy to start my life over again.  I was so tired of having to pick up the pieces time and time again.

On November 12 I attempted suicide for the second time in 2015.  After 2 days in the ICU, I found myself being transferred to the Inpatient Ward at the Queensway Carleton.  At first I hated being there.  It was a combination of prison and psychiatric summer camp.  We weren't even allowed to possess dental floss for fear that we would harm ourselves, or each other.  

I remember the first time I was granted privileges to leave the ward to go outside for 30 minutes.  The fresh air had never tasted so sweet.

I met so many amazing people in the psychiatric ward.  Everyone had their own story - their own path there.  But there we all were.  Some had been there for weeks.  Some for a few days.

There was a lot of time to think.  I saw myself at a cross-road.  I could either succumb to the dark side and remain institutionalized, or I could pick up the pieces and get out of there.  Once I saw the benefit of being in the hospital, I made a daily effort to improve.

The Inpatient Ward is intended for short-term hospitalization, and they release you when they feel you've stabilized.  Every day I woke up not knowing when I was leaving.  First it was 3 days.  Then a week.  When they started discussing discharging me at the end of my second week, even after such a short stay I was admittedly scared to return to the "real world".

We weren't allowed cell phones inside the ward, nor was the tv allowed on during the day.  After awhile many of us enjoyed the break from technology.  If it wasn't programming time, we'd sit around and color, do puzzles, chat etc.  For a group of crazy depressed people, we sure had a lot of laughs.

Although my hospital stay did nothing more than stabilize me, I certainly learned a lot about other people's battles with depression and other mental illnesses.  Male and female. Young and old.  The artist.  The father.  The teacher.  The new mom.  The phd student.  We were all in there together.  Many of us you would not stop on the street and believe we had just been a patient in a psych ward.

Since I've left the hospital, the key to getting through the tough times has been keeping in touch with those I have met, or continue to meet, who have shared their mental illness stories with me.  It brings a sense of normalcy to what we are going though.

So let's keep talking.

xo

Nightmares and Daydreams

Daydreams

About a year ago, just after Christmas, Marc and I were visiting my brother and his family out of town.  My niece, Izzy, was just under 2 years old then.  Marc had really enjoyed playing with her.  I had quipped that he could stay at home all day with our future kids.  On the drive home he grabbed my hand and told me that he was really excited that I had brought up “our future kids”, because he had always imagined himself being a father.  “There’ll probably have to be a wedding in there somewhere too!”, he added.  We got home that day and started picking out our favorite baby names.  It was exciting to start planning our future.  A future, that up until then, I never believed I would have.

 

Though I was going through a major depression, I was feeling somewhat optimistic about 2015.  It was a difficult time for me, but I was grateful that I had this amazing partner to support me.  I declared this in my first post about mental health awareness back in January ’15.

Nightmares

What I didn’t discuss was Marc’s underlying drinking problem.  He disclosed this to me when we first started dating.  I had admired his strength to keep himself sober, despite not regularly attending meetings.  He had been to rehab, so he told me – though, he never wanted to discuss the details.  I was never one to press.

In 2015 he began falling off the wagon regularly.  I was already off work attending groups to help manage my own mental health, and I encouraged him to do the same.  “It’s too much work.” he would say, referring to the amount of paperwork, money, and doctor’s visits required to take work leave.  I encouraged and supported his passion for cycling, because I knew that it was the only thing keeping him sober.  Putting on his cycling kit made him feel like a super-hero.

Though never physically violent when drinking, he was irrational and moody.  I walked on eggs shells.  I was yelled at for wanting to go skating with a friend on the canal.  I was yelled at for deciding to clean the house “at the wrong time”.  I was yelled at for being in the wrong place at the wrong time when he came home from work.  The added pressure of Marc’s increasing moodiness and me desperately wanting to help him did nothing to improve my own mental health.  I couldn’t help him.  I couldn’t help myself.  Could I ever have kids? Could I ever have a future worth living? This negative thought spiral lead me to my March 2015 suicide attempt, which I disclosed in my last post.

I omitted the part about coming home from the hospital and having to nurse my heavily intoxicated boyfriend.  Bruised, weak, and freshly discharged from the ICU, there I was trying to haul his drunk ass into our bed.  As I did so many times when he was that drunk, I went to lay town in the spare room.  I listened to him moan incoherently, and my heart would race every time I thought he would try and come into the room.  I was utterly bewildered.  I laid awake all night until I had my mom come pick me up in the morning.  It was safer if I stayed at my parent’s place for a while.

After a few days at my parent’s house, I stopped hearing from Marc and began to worry.  I was driving back from visiting my brother’s new baby in Petawawa when I got a text from Marc, “I’m at the hospital.  Trying to sober up.”  Jesus Christ.  I thought.  My parents ended up bringing Marc back to their place as well.  He spent the weekend sobering up, until he was ready to meet up with his cycling team for an indoor training session.

After that he started seeing a therapist, much to my relief; however, it wasn’t long before he stopped going.  He stopped wanting to be involved with anything that got in the way of his cycling.

I was having a difficult time coping with the aftermath of my suicide attempt, so unfortunately, when he would fall off the wagon, I would join him.  Putting out fire with gasoline.

As I spoke about in my last article, my grandma passed away in the summer.  I went to Thunder Bay to be with my family.  After a few days of not hearing from Marc I began to worry.  I messaged his cycling friends to see if they had seen or heard from him.  Someone mentioned he had injured himself mountain biking.  I had a feeling that was bullshit. 

The long drive home from Thunder Bay to Ottawa with my cousin’s two sick kids was made even longer with me worrying about Marc.  Was he at home choking on his own vomit?

My cousin pulled up in front of our house and we went inside.  The smell of alcohol was strong as soon as we walked in.  Marc was passed out on the couch.  I dropped my things off and went to my parent’s house.  When I felt strong enough to go home later that day, I walked in to find Marc had vomited on the couch and in the living room.  I had just spent the last two days cleaning up vomit from the sick kids, and here I was again.

I had had enough.  I called the Detox center, but they didn’t have any beds available.  I would let him sober up at home, but he clearly needed to go back to rehab.  I went up and talked to Marc.  I had never felt so angry and so in love with someone all at once.  It killed me that I could see how much potential we had in our future if we could just pull ourselves together.  Both of us.  I was doing the hard work in therapy.  I needed him to do some hard work too.  He took it upon himself to see his doctor to get his medication changed.  We went to the Royal and he made an appointment to get an assessment.  I knew it would take months before anyone saw him, but at least he was on the list.

The rest of the summer I focused on discovering new hobbies.  Not hobbies that made me look good, or gave me bragging rights, or awarded an prizes… hobbies that simply made my soul feel good.  I spent a lot of time gardening.  I indulged in puzzles, coloring, and using my home-design program.  It pained me that this wasn’t enough for Marc.  He wanted that girl back who would be out running or cycling for hours at a time.  I tried to explain many times that “that girl” wasn’t gone… she was just needed a break.   When motivated, I would go out for short runs or rides, but that never seemed good enough for him.  He never wanted to run or ride with me because “it was too hard for him to go that slow.” 

I was excited when he told me that he was going to train for a marathon!  And then he told me he was going to yoga! I had tried our whole relationship to get him to do these things… but the answer was always “no” because they would get in the way of his cycling.  Maybe things finally were turning around for us.

One afternoon I was doing some yard work in the backyard when Marc opened the backdoor and said to someone, “oh! Here she is!”  I was shocked when a familiar face appeared.  Her name was Veronique.  A 26 year old I had met through my swim club.  I knew she was familiar with who Marc was from when they both did indoor cycling at Eurosports, but I had no idea they knew each other well enough that he would bring her to our house.  I thought maybe he was trying to encourage a friendship between us, since I had been isolating myself so much.  “We’re going running.”  He said.  I played the good girlfriend and smiled and told them to have a good time.  He never wants to run with me…

The next Sunday morning Marc was up to get ready for a cyclocross race.  I could hear a girl’s voice outside.  I peered out the window, only to see Veronique getting her bike from her car.  Why did he avoid telling me that she was going to a cyclocross race with him? Why does she even need to ride with him – she has her own car!

Again, I tried to play it cool, but the following week was filled with tension between us.  It was like I didn’t exist anymore.  It was crushing me.

 

I didn’t trust my interpretation of my situation, but I knew it didn’t feel right.  “It doesn’t sound good, Jill.”, I was told by anyone who would listen.  I didn’t know what was going on, but I knew he was pulling away from me.  I learned she was entered in the same marathon he had signed up for.  It likely explained why he had started doing yoga too.  I knew Veronique had become newly single earlier this year.  The more I thought about it, the more it hurt. 

I confronted Marc.  He went straight on the defensive and turned everything on me.  “I don’t know what your problem is!” and, “You used to do all these things… and now you do NOTHING.  You’re not trying hard enough.  You’re not trying hard enough to get better.”  It was killing me to hear this from the person I loved.  What more could I DO?! I was attending all the programs at the Royal, taking my medication, going to my doctor’s appointments, spending my time doing mindful hobbies, getting in some exercise here and there.  I felt defeated. 

“Do you want to live with me? I can’t even tell if you like me as a person, let alone love me anymore.”  I pleaded.  I never received a straight answer.

The next weekend I asked Marc if I could go watch his race.  I had asked him in the past, but he always had an excuse why I shouldn’t go.  I began to realize this was his “bro-time” and accepted that.  Until it wasn’t just “bro-time”.

“Well, there’s no room with the two bikes.”  He stated.  This meant he was driving someone else.  “It won’t be that much fun to watch anyways.  It’ll just be me and her going around doing a relay for an hour.” 

I didn’t know what to do with my emotions.  I never trusted that the intensity of them matched the situation.  Did I have a right to feel as upset as I did?

Being “Facebook friends”, I decided to write Veronique.  I basically said that Marc and I need some space (from her) to work on our relationship, and it would be helpful if she could find other people to race with.

“Oh, I am so sorry!” I could almost hear her obnoxiously perky French-accent.  “I had no idea I was causing problems.  After tomorrow, I will find other people to race with.  And I won’t run the marathon anymore.  You really should run a race with Marc – he would really like that.  You should come meet my horse sometime – he’s really great.” I felt a sense of relief.  Perhaps my point was made to both of them, and that I would be respected.

The following week things really seemed to improve between Marc and I.  I was all set for the following weekend’s cyclocross race – my first! Marc even came out to do a practice run with me.  That weekend we were in great spirits at the race.  I was deathly out of shape, but did my best and had an awesome time.  With no Veronique in sight, Marc was attentive to me like he hadn’t been in a long time.  After his race he pressed me up against his trunk and kissed me.  “I love you”, he said.  “This is a new start for us! Our new racing career.”  Despite all our hardship and crazy ups and downs, I was still so, so in love with this man.

The Statement of the Year

The following Saturday Marc ran his first marathon in Gatineau Park.  My mom and I were there to cheer him on.  “I guess you’re going to allow yourself a break, and not race cyclocross tomorrow morning?” I said.  “No, I’m still definitely going tomorrow.”  I knew he always felt like he had something to prove to the cycling community, but I was pretty shocked/worried that he would still race the day after a marathon.  That evening things were getting steaming when he kept being distracted by his phone.  “What IS it on your phone that is distracting you so much right now!” I tried to joke.  “I have to make my plans for the race tomorrow” was his reply. 

The next morning I woke up, hearing the sound of a girl’s voice outside my window again.  Groggily, I pulled back the blind.  Vero! After everything I said to both of them, why is she here again?! Messaging her last night was so important that he was distracted from having sex with me?! EW.

All day I was pissed off.  I didn’t even know what to say to Marc when he came home that evening.

That week Marc returned to his moody self.  He was so preoccupied with his bikes that I pretty much didn’t exist again.  I was signed up to do another cyclocross race that upcoming weekend, but he had zero interest in helping me prepare this time.  “I’m going to visit my brother in Petawawa.  I’ll be back on Saturday.” I decided.

After some much needed time with my little nieces, I came home on Saturday night.  Marc was in a strange mood.  “My sister is coming to visit.”  This was nothing unusual – after all, we were living in her house while she was living in Florida.  She often had to make trip back home because of her visa.  “Cool, when?” I asked.

“Tonight.  I’m going to pick her up soon.”  This was shocking an unusual.

“Why don’t you tell me these things?!” I pleaded. 

I proceeded to get my gear ready for the race in the morning.  Marc told me he had to be there extra early, so I was driving on my own. “Is it better if you take my bike?” I asked him, since he had a roof-rack.  “It’s more convenient for me if you take your own bike,”  he said.

 

The next morning I excitedly drove to the race.  As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw Marc.  I parked and ran up to him.  He was distant, but I gave him a big kiss.  “Babe, I have to pee SO bad, but I’ll be right back!” I dashed to the bathroom, but when I returned to the parking lot, Marc was nowhere to be seen.  I looked up at his car.  No wonder he had no room for my bike.  HERS was there.

Any excitement or desire to race immediately drained from my body.  It was like a bad dream.  I went to go get my race number at the tent.  I stood there and watched the final race.  I stood there long enough that if Marc had any desire to come talk to me, he could have seen me.  I paid for this race… I’m still racing dammit.

I went off to warm up.  I saw other couples we knew warming up together.  Where the hell is Marc?  I heard them before I saw them.  Marc was with Vero.  She was practicing going downhill and he was cheering her on.  She wasn’t even on his team.  My heart sank even further into my stomach.  I made my way to the start line.

“So, you gonna win?!” Marc rode up to me and said in his chipper “cycling” voice.  I was so angry I didn’t know what to say.  “What, you not feeling well?” he asked.

“If you don’t know what’s wrong, then maybe that’s the problem,” was all I could muster.

I lined up at the start.  Veronique didn’t have the decency to acknowledge me. I could hear Marc tell someone on the sidelines “I don’t know what her problem is”.   The race began and I started pedaling, but my heart wasn’t in it.  I just wanted to go home.  I rode my bike to the tent and took off my race numbers.  “Mechanical error?” The race director asked.  “Human error.” I replied.

The whole drive home felt like a bad dream.  I got back to our place to find that Marc’s sister, Tanya, was awake.  I told her about what had happened.  We started talking and comparing notes.  We started talking about Marc’s drinking.  She said that he told her that he had been sober all year, except when she came to visit for two days while I was in Thunder Bay and he showed up drunk to the airport.  She said she was angry and sick and tired of spending her whole life trying to keep him sober.  “And he didn’t even stay in rehab”.  She went on to explain.

That last statement hit me hard.  There he had been, telling ME that I wasn’t trying hard enough to “get better” when he didn’t even have the guts to do the work himself.

I had to leave for a family dinner.  I still hadn’t heard from Marc.  He didn’t seem to know/care that I had dropped out of the race and went home.  “I’m going to stay at a hotel for a couple of nights, but I’m going to have a talk with Marc when he gets home.  I’ll keep you posted!”  It felt good to have her on my side.

That evening I got a call from Tanya.  “I confronted him on everything.  His drinking.  Veronique.  As usual, he has an answer for everything and it’s never his fault.  He’s on the defensive.”

That night I went home with my parents and my cousin to confront Marc.  And his sister was right – he was defensive had an answer for everything.  I told him his sister had told me that he didn’t go through rehab.  “Well, my sister is crazy!” Was his response to that.  My parents chimed in.  “Do you even love Jill? Do you want her living here? Give her something to work with here.”  He couldn’t answer.

Then I confronted him about the way he had been treating me.  “I’m on an ELITE cycling team.  I don’t have time to babysit YOU.” He replied defiantly.

The statement of the year.

Jesus, had I known he was so “elite” then I would have stepped aside.  I didn’t realize I was getting in the way of his Tour de France training.  I didn’t know he was getting paid to do this – all along I thought he worked for the government- silly me!

I spent the next night and day in our spare room.  He came to me when he got home from work, “you want something to eat for dinner?” trying to keep playing house, like apparently he’d always been doing.

“No.”

Slow-Burning House Fire

That night I crawled back into our bed, but it felt foreign to me.  That feeling where you are inches away from someone, yet miles apart. 

Around 6 a.m. next morning I heard a loud noise in the house.  Marc was still asleep beside me.  Was it his sister making that racket? Marc stirred and went downstairs.  And then the yelling between them began.  Yelling so loud the whole neighborhood had to have heard it. 

“I want you and Jill out of my house!!! On top of my own shit, I’ve got Jill bitching because she thinks you’re having an affair… I’ve got YOU lying to me about your drinking and you bitching at me that YOU CAN’T GET JILL OUT OF THIS HOUSE – “

My heart almost stopped.  My whole world collapsed in that moment.  It was my nightmare coming true.  I sat sobbing and paralyzed.  The yelling stopped and I heard shuffling around, banging, and eventually a door slam.  I guess that was Marc leaving.  Coward.

I went down stairs to check on his sister.

“Are you okay?” I asked.  She had tossed the contents of her suitcases around the living room.  She was holding a pair of scissors.  I was legitimately frightened.

“NO!” She yelled.

I spoke calmly to her.  “This is YOUR house Tanya.  I’m going to pack some of my things and then I’ll be out of your way.”

It was like being in a slow-burning house fire.  I went around the house and collected several items that were the most important to me, if I was to never return here again.  I had a friend who had offered up her condo – I could live there if I needed to.  I had to grab a few remaining things from my closet, but Tanya was in the room using the computer.

“Tanya, I just need to come in the room to collect some things, okay?” I was still frightened of her temper.  As soon as I entered she turned around and apologized.

“I’m so sorry about all this Jill.”  She went on to explain how she was stressed and overwhelmed with issues in her own life.

I asked her, “I just need to know what you meant when you said Marc can’t get me out of this house.”

She took a moment.  “I’m not going to sugar-coat it Jill.”  She went on to explain that he had been talking to her for months about wanting to “get rid of me”.  How when Marc picked her up drunk from the airport he wanted her to call me in Thunder Bay to break up with me.  But it was financially convenient for him for me to stay.  What a fucking selfish coward.

"I'm leaving.  I'm going to live at my friend's condo."  I told her.  We talked a little more.  She told me that this was exactly how his last two relationships ended.  He simply discards the people who try and love him and never speaks to them again.  She felt that me leaving was probably in my own best interest.  Marc was only holding me back.  

Before leaving, I made sure to leave Marc a Christmas Card.

Merry Christmas - I'm leaving.

That morning I showed up at my parent's house with my suitcase and some belongings.  "It's over."

The next day I conveniently had my PTSD group at the Royal.  Beforehand I went in and spoke with my social worker.  I confided that I wasn't confident I was handling this sudden upheaval very well.  I was scheduled to return the next day for sessions with her and my psychiatrist.

It was Remembrance Day morning.  I planned on going back to the house to get more of my belongings, and hopefully speak to Marc in person before heading to my appointments at the Royal.

I got to the house.  Marc was eating breakfast, so I went upstairs to started packing my things.  I went out to the backyard and got my bird feeders.  I was overcome by a wave of emotion.  I was dismantling all of my hopes and dreams.  It was too much to process.  I finally found Marc in the basement with his beloved bicycles.  He tried his best to pretend I wasn't standing right in front of him.  

Long gone was the man who once wanted to marry me and be the father of my children.  The man who only a week before was still saying "I love you".  I didn't really know who I was talking to in that moment.  

"I hope you're still going to your appointment at the Royal when you get it,"  I begged.  I had no idea who was going to look out for him now when he slipped.  He had discarded anyone who got too close.  Now even his sister was tired of being there. I had no idea if his cycling acquaintances truly knew him, and if they were people he could go to in a time of need.  He seemed so hellbent on impressing them. 

"Well, a lot of my stress with be gone with YOU out of here," was his response.

I tried to pack up some more things, but the things just didn't matter anymore.  Marc appeared in his cycling kit and tried to hug me.  Maybe part of him still had a soul?  "I'm going out for a ride.  I'll be back in a while." And that was the last time we spoke.

I wanted to wake up from this bad dream.  I had just lost everything that was important to me.  I felt discarded and unwanted.  Why did this always happen!?!? I started blaming myself.  I realized I would have to start over again.  I was so, so, SO tired of constantly starting my life over again.  I didn't know if I had the energy or the willpower to do it.

At my appointment with my social worker, I emotionally collapsed.  She suggested that it might be a good idea for me to voluntarily stay in the hospital for the night or two.  I agreed.  She didn't know how the process worked, but my psychiatrist would be able to help.

I went down to see my psychiatrist.  She was late and rushed as usual.  I tried to convey my emotional distress.  "Well, you can't stay here.  We don't have any beds."  She stated.

An oh-too familiar sentence I've heard before.

"The best I can do is refer you to the Mobile Crisis Unit.  They will call you within a day or so to check-up on you." And then, as so many times before, I was left on my own.

The drive home, I probably shouldn't have been driving.  Overcome with despair and frustration and I let out several long primal screams.  I went home and drank whatever been was left in the house and went to bed.

The next morning I woke up early.  It was grey and dreary outside.  I wondered how I was going to make it through the day.  I didn't want to feel what I was feeling anymore.  I just wanted to lay down and go to sleep.  And I knew what worked.  I would just have to try harder this time.

To be continued...

The Meaning of Life: A Short(ish) Story on Cereal and Death

Back in January on Bell Let’s Talk Day I shared a story of my own struggles with mental illness and my most recent breakdown.  Today marks World Mental Health Day, and I thought it would be a good opportunity to fill you in on the past 8 months of treatment.

We live in a society that is results driven.  The insurance company that manages my LTD regularly contacts my care-providers to see what results my therapies and medications have produced, hoping that the answers will fit neatly into their standard insurance forms.  This would be much simpler if I was dealing with a physical injury.  “Can now lift 50 lbs instead of 20 lbs” is the kind of quantitative result that these forms are designed for.  In that context, the results of my therapies and medications have produced few results.

But that’s not how I see it.  The kind doctors and social workers I see on a regular basis emphasize how recovery is process oriented.  Changes are subtle, to the point that you may not immediately recognize them.  Starting when I was a teenager attending therapy for the first time, I would often hear “the doctors will fix you.”   This established in my psyche that a) I was broken, b) that the ability to be well was in someone else’s hands, and c) doctors were a superhuman class of people that had all the answers.

As noted in my January blog, in my teens and twenties I tried different medications and different therapists.  During sessions with one particular therapist I attended, sometimes we would sit in complete silence.  Perhaps she was writing out her grocery list.  “Is this working?”, I would ask.  “Do you think it’s working?”  She would reply.  “Is there anything tangible you can give me, like homework or exercises?”  “What kind of things would you like me to give you?” She would say, not offering any suggestions.  Perhaps she was running out the clock.  We played this game for years.  I am clearly not being “fixed”; however, she is the doctor, so who am I to question her methods? I must be really, REALLY, broken.

In January I began attending my first psycho-educational group at the Royal Ottawa Mental Health Center.  It was a DBT (dialectical behavior therapy) based program called “Working with Emotions”.  I had set my hopes high for this program.  THIS is what I’ve been waiting for.  THIS will “fix” me.

What did being “fixed” look like to me, exactly? As I understand now, being fixed had a lot more to do with what others wanted for me.  It meant having a career, financial security, emotional stability.  It meant “grown-up” things like having a family, owning a house, being a productive and active member of society.  It meant that I would be that girl who always says “yes” to invitations out.  That I would fit neatly into Western society's idea of what it meant to be a woman in 2015 (i.e. everything to everyone).

After about a month into my program at the Royal, I began feeling discouraged and frustrated with myself.  Why wasn’t I getting better? In hindsight, I realize how incredibly impatient this was of me.  It just felt like the other women in the program were showing signs of improvement (this was subjective, of course), where I wasn’t.  It’s worth reiterating that my mental health issues are complex, and have biological, environmental, and experiential origins.  There were many factors influencing my slide into an even deeper depression.

The winter, which I don’t deal with particularly well, was especially long.  It didn’t help that I spent most days in bed.  It didn’t help that I wasn’t exercising or eating properly.  It didn’t help that it was starting to take a noticeable toll on my boyfriend’s own mental health.  It didn’t help that I felt pressured by the insurance company to show “results”.

The glimmer of hope that I would ever be “fixed”, or at least feel better, was fading.  I desperately wanted to escape being me.   (Or atleast escape the frozen shithole of a city I lived in - but there was no money for that).  Most days I couldn’t stand to even catch a glance of myself in the mirror.  Showering became a rarer and rarer occasion.  My long hair was often hidden under a toque or sat in a top-knot on my head.  Some days I would joke to myself, I should just shave it off.  Soon it became less of a joke.  The idea of actually doing it gave me a rush.

I felt a lot of pressure to be “my old self”.  I may have still looked like her on the outside, but on the inside I didn’t know who that was anymore.  Cutting my hair would surely symbolize that.  At least I could escape looking like me.

This girl looks pretty normal to me.
How could she possibly be suffering on the inside?

It was March by then.  I intended on going to a salon that specialized in shaving and collecting hair to make wigs for children suffering from cancer.  That seemed like a noble idea – and they would cut it properly and use the hair for a good cause.  I contacted the charity via email.  A week passed and I hadn’t received a response.  I was impatient.   I wanted this done.  I needed this done.  I woke up one morning, hair in a top-knot, with the compulsion to cut my hair.  I quite literally jumped out of bed, grabbed the scissors, marched to the bathroom, and started hacking off my top-knot.  Wow.  I did it.

What was left was a disastrous mess.  The only option was to keep going.  I grabbed the vacuum cleaner and my boyfriend’s beard trimmer.  The actual shaving process was mindful and therapeutic.  The buzzing of the razor.  The suction of the vacuum on my bald head.  When all was done, I looked in the mirror and saw someone else.  Result achieved.

Cool for the summer.

But changing how I looked on the outside wasn’t enough to change how I felt on the inside for very long.  I remember a few days later when I spent the day curled up on my bathroom floor, shaking and exhausted from dry-heaving the previous night’s “refreshments”.  Most of us have had that hangover where we tell ourselves I’m never drinking again - I want to die! But I was saying it, and meaning it.  I was done.  Really done.   I was no closer to being “fixed” than I was as a teenager.  I was no closer to returning to work and competing in Ironmans again.  My soul was devoid of any drive to do anything.  As far as I was concerned, my bucket-list was pretty much completed.  The highly-anticipated program at the Royal didn’t seem to be changing anything.  I felt guilty that I was letting down my loved ones by not getting better faster.  There wasn’t anything that led me to believe that there would be an end to my suffering.  I was ready to lay down and go to sleep forever.  I don’t believe I was ever more at peace with this.

I can remember the first time I wished I was dead.  I recall I was in grade 3.  I had a nasty cold-sore.  I remember hiding face-first in a corner outside of my public school.  I was so overcome with shame about my cold-sore that I didn’t want to go inside, lest I be ridiculed by the other children.  I wanted the earth to swallow me up and take me and my ugly cold-sore away forever.  Then at age 12 after my parents informed my brother and I that we would be moving to a new city, suicidal ideation became a little voice in my head that would snowball in amplitude as I grew older.

Perhaps I had been planning to kill myself for months.  It was only then that I was ready and at peace with my decision.  I had been aggressively paying off my debts, as I assumed my co-signers would be responsible for them in the event of my death.  I had written out all of my banking information and passwords, making it easier to access my accounts and tie-up my “loose ends” in the event of my death.  I even left my bike lock combination, so it could still be used, for some reason.

It was a Saturday night.  I sat sobbing uncontrollably in the bathtub.  Perhaps my one last cry for help.  My boyfriend came in and sat on the edge of the tub and patted my back, not really knowing what to say.   I had been doing a lot of crying lately – why was this time any different?  “I’m done.”  I think I said out loud.  Perhaps I only said it in my mind.

It was March 15 – a Sunday morning.  My boyfriend had left for his regular winter group ride (yes, on a road bike in the middle of winter!).  My parents were in Petawawa visiting my brother, whose second daughter had been born two days earlier.  (Having another niece was certainly a happy moment for me; perhaps on a subconscious level it only fueled my own complicated emotions about motherhood and my ticking biological clock).

I was feeling irrelevant to the universe.  Making an exit seemed like the only option.  It would “fix” everything for everyone..

And just as I had jumped out of bed one day and shaved my head, that morning I jumped out of bed and prepared to kill myself.  I laid out my important documents and my list of passwords by my computer.  I left my cellphone so I would not attempt to call for help.  I then proceeded to attempt to end my life.  I began to lose consciousness.  I didn’t fight it.

A day later I hazily came out of a medically-induced sedation in the ICU of a Quebec Hospital.  There were figures standing around me.  I tried to talk, but had been intubated.  I felt like I was choking on the breathing apparatus – I wanted to pull it out but I realized I was strapped down to the hospital bed.  I remember panicking and kicking, causing the people around me to tighten my straps.  It was a nightmare, actualized.  A doctor told me to calm down and he would remove my breathing tubes, which he did.  Boy my throat was sore.  It felt like someone had taken a fillet knife and slit it all the way down to my vocal chords.

As I came around, a young doctor visited my side.  “You almost died.”  He said.  “We were worried about you.”

I was still mildly sedated when my boyfriend and father came to the room.  I was still trying to figure out what was going on.  I was fascinated by all the tubes and wires attached to my body.  At some point I believe I flashed my dad while trying to show him all the electrical heart monitors stuck to my chest (sorry, Dad).

“Sorry, but the paramedics had to move your plant from the front door so they could get in the house and get into the kitchen.”  My boyfriend, Marc, mentioned (the plant had been growing up the wall).  Then something occurred to me.  The kitchen.  The KITCHEN!?  The last thing I remember was dying in the bathtub upstairs.

Marc explained to me that he came home and found me lying in the kitchen – there was apparently cereal and spilled milk on the floor.  This was after he came home early from his bike ride after receiving an offbeat text from me.  Text message?!  Now I was even more confused.  Evidently he received a text from me that simply said “love always”, or something to that effect, which seemed strange enough to suggest he should come home.

I tried to make sense of it.  If I understood correctly, after I went unconscious, my primal urge to remain alive kicked in.  Somehow I managed to crawl out of the bathtub, go into the spare bedroom and locate my cellphone, send Marc a text message, make my way down a flight of stairs (and judging by the bruising on my body, this was not done with elegance), and go into the kitchen to attempt to make myself a bowl of cereal.  (Somewhat ironically, it was Life cereal).  I was angry that my brain had been making decisions without me – and had vetoed the original plan.  How can I be so shitty at life that I can’t even kill myself properly.  To this day I’m still trying to make sense of it.

So delicious, even the unconscious can't resist it! TM 

I asked a nurse if they had any magazines or crossword puzzles.  She returned with a bunch of French tabloid magazines featuring scandals of Quebecois celebrities that I had never heard of.   I was highly anxious, sitting in the ICU with nothing to do except eat Jello and stare at the ceiling.  I just wanted to go home and crawl in my bed and figure out where to go from there.  I asked the doctor if I could go home.  “We’d prefer if you stay another day,” he replied.  “I’d like to go home.” I stated.  He did not protest.  I had the standard visit from a resident psychiatrist, whose report officially read, “Recommendations: None.”   They removed my IVs and monitors.  My parents came and picked me up.  Administration had closed for the day, so I literally just walked out.

I had never felt so glamorous, as I shuffled out of the hospital that evening.  Shaved head, bra-less, shoe-less, commando in shabby pajama pants, in desperate need of a full-body shave.  I had to laugh at all those years I spent worrying about being in an accident wearing bad underwear.  Dear paramedics and medical staff who saved my life – sorry I didn’t clean up for you better – I didn’t realize we would be having a date.

My parents dropped me off at my home with Marc – and life proceeded as it had been.  The Quebec hospital sent me a bill for the fun ambulance ride, but there was no follow-up.  It was also March Break and all of my caregivers were on holiday with their families.

I felt pretty alone in dealing with the aftermath and navigating all the emotions surrounding it.  I hope that other survivors have had much more positive experiences.  When I heard about people who were admitted to in-patient treatment after an attempt, I wondered, what made them so special? It only contributed to my sense of irrelevancy.

The first week I was home I went to Petawawa to visit my new niece, Evelyn (Evey).  It struck me how I almost never met her.  Her big sister, Izzy, was 2 years old now.  Spending time with her reminded me that I was still capable of feeling joy.  Izzy didn’t think I needed to be “fixed”.  She seemed to think I was pretty great just as I was, shaved head and all.

I hope when she's older she'll understand how much that visit meant to me.

I was allowed to continue my program at the Royal as long as I didn’t discuss my recent attempt, lest it trigger one of the other women.  I agreed to start trying medication again, since it wasn’t possible to feel any worse.  It was worth a shot.  After a year on a waiting list, I was able to have regular access to a psychiatrist at the Royal who was more qualified to manage my medications than my GP.

My DBT program ended, and I began another program called WRAP (Wellness Recovery Action Plan).  There was so much pressure (external, as well as internal) to regain my athletic prowess that this new program, in a sense, gave me permission to explore different activities that would reduce stress.

It was there that we would often sit around and colour as we talked.  As much as I disliked that adult colouring was considered a “trend”, it was extremely therapeutic.  One day I was buying some new markers and a Dora colouring book from Shopper’s and the cashier remarked “ooooh, someone’s going to be very happy!”  Yeah…. ME! I smiled to myself.

In addition to colouring I rediscovered other long-lost joys, like jigsaw puzzles, video games, gardening and landscaping, interior design, and watching birds at my bird-feeder.  I rarely miss an opportunity to spend time with my nieces.

Now, it would be a lie if I said everything has been going uphill.  At one point this summer I found myself sitting on a curb in downtown Detroit, drunk out of my gourd, stuffing my face hole with White Castle, smoking cigarettes, and subsequently peeing behind a dumpster.  I’m 35 and this is what I’m doing with my “gift” of life.

Not much later we lost my grandmother in Thunder Bay.  She had known it was the end.  A week before she had written her own obituary and asked that there not be a funeral for her.  The doctors gave her some morphine and she never woke up.  Though naturally saddened by our loss, I was relieved for her.  Perhaps in a morbid way I had experienced the same tranquil sensation of drifting off.  I knew her suffering was over.  Despite being at peace with her death, I was still experiencing the emotional grieving process.

I opted to catch a ride back to Ottawa with my cousin, her two young children, and her beagle.  I hadn’t made the Thunder Bay to Ottawa drive since I was a teenager, so I was looking forward to it.  I was getting better with young kids, so I was prepared to spend 2 days in a car with a 1 ½ year old and a 4 year old.  What I wasn’t prepared for, was dealing with a sick 1 ½ year old and a sick 4 year old.  Just hours after our 5 am departure, we had our first vomiting incident.  Not much later, the other child began vomiting.  The children were extra miserable having to be strapped in a car seat while they weren’t feeling well, and cried, understandably.  After 16 hours of driving, we arrived at our hotel in North Bay.  I admired my cousin’s patience with her children.

The next day my cousin dropped me off and I was faced with a partner who had clearly been suffering from his own mental health issues and had hit, what appeared to me, his bottom.  Just when I thought life couldn’t throw anything else at me, I had to become strong for someone else.  It was in that moment that it occurred to me how much more resilient I was.  The “old” me might be completely falling apart right now in this situation.  Maybe I was changing.

In September I began two new programs at the Royal – one being “Writing as a Wellness Tool” and the other being SELF (Safety, Emotions, Loss, and Future) which is a psycho-educational group which helps us understand how overwhelming experiences/traumas affect our brain and emotional states.  My boyfriend calls this “going to school”, and I like to think of it that way too.  It certainly sounds a lot more dignified than “going to the mental hospital”.

I figured this journal was pretty appropriate for my writing group.

On my first day of the trauma program, I met an entirely new group of women who had never taken a program at the Royal, and were overcome with anxiety about being there.  It was that day, listening to the other women talk, that I realized just how much I had changed.  How much stronger I was, since I was that nervous, tearful girl attending her first program back in January.  At the end of the group I was compelled to make a sort of “it gets better” statement to the other women.   Me - the girl who couldn’t muster the energy to make that statement to herself just months ago.

So does this mean that I am “fixed”? Are my therapies and medications producing results?

What I’ve learned is that the road to wellness is a process that can’t be rushed.  And for me, being well is entirely different than being “fixed”.  “Now spends more time coloring Dora than contemplating suicide” doesn’t fit neatly into an insurance form.  Of course, such things as being financially successful and owning a house aren’t the worst goals to have; but they are not the be-all and end-all of this battle.

I’ve learned that I’m not “broken”.  My biological, environmental, and experiential influences have perhaps wired my brain differently than others.  With medication, training, practice, and time certain brain functions can hopefully improve.  I am still a worthy human being (which I still need to remind myself of daily).

I’ve learned that doctors are not superhuman.  Shockingly, they are people too!  I’ve learned that try as they might, they don’t always have the answers.  (This was made especially obvious one time I sat with a doctor as we Googled things on her laptop).  I’ve realized that the more you educate yourself, the better equipped you will be to discuss treatment options and not leave everything in their often over-worked hands.  (That being said, I love all of my doctors and am extremely fortunate to have them!)

I’ve learned that the ability to be well does not come in a magic pill nor does it come by taking a few actions.  Practice gratitude! Meditate! Exercise! It is those few things and so, so, so much more. Things I haven't even discovered yet.

Fancy Epilogue

I’m fortunate that I walked away from my suicide attempt relatively unscathed.  After 3 months of persistent laryngitis, an ENT specialist discovered that I did indeed suffer trauma to my throat during the emergency intubation, resulting in a sizeable granuloma above my vocal chords.  Surgery is scheduled for the end of November.  Yay sedation!

I still struggle with hopelessness, lack of motivation, and suicidal ideation, among other things.  My psychiatrist says it’s still the depression causing this.  I’m on the maximum dose of Effexor, and also take Latuda to help with my insomnia.  The difference is now I have a voice that chimes in and reminds me to be patient with myself and to practice those little activities that bring me a sense of calm – as well as a brief escape from the painful thoughts and feelings.

My hope for the future is that all the negative thoughts and feelings will eventually be outweighed by positive ones.  I hope to return to racing with a newfound sense of balance.  To be able to run and bike for fun, and to train again with enthusiasm.  To be the best girlfriend and Auntie I can be.  To experience life without suicidal thoughts.  

I hope that I can enjoy life, and not spend every waking moment managing my emotions.   I hope that, somehow, I will figure out my purpose in life, and what I should do next.  That I will again feel motivated , inspired, and driven.  Basically, to give a fuck.

Where Your Funds Go When You Support Mental Health Campaigns - My Story

January 28 is Bell Let's Talk Day.  For those of you who don't know, it is a mental health awareness campaign.

Where do your funds go when you support such initiatives? They go to people like me.

People like me? But I'm that quiet girl you worked/went to school with who had a nice smile and seemed to have a lot going for her.

Why would I need to access mental health services?

My story: