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.