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.
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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.
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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).
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.
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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.
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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”.
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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.