The Isolator. A helmet invented in 1925 that encourages focus and concentration. pic.twitter.com/95CiSj9XrS— History In Pictures (@HistoryInPics) 22 March 2016
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Showing posts with label history. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
The Isolator.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Oh, Mother.
This past weekend I drove out to the Eastern Townships with my mother. We often drive out to see my brother and his family. We get to see the kids and get some fresh air, and then get the fuck out of there when we've had enough. I’d been dog-sitting for him for the last three weeks or so while they were on holiday down in South Carolina. I’d gotten into the habit of furry cuddles and dog-park visits, so it’s not without a twinge of sadness that I returned their dog to them.
The weekend was nice. We arrived Saturday while the family was out visiting friends, so we were able to enjoy the calm before the storm. I napped. We sat outside. We went for dinner at a nearby place my brother recommended. During dinner, my mother commented on how my new medication seems to be making a significant difference in my mood. We talked about my mental health, and my understanding of my struggles, and how things are going now. While we began making our way back to my brother’s house, I asked about whether or not she knew if either of my grandparents had any issues with mental illness.
I was driving (I'm always the one driving) and sitting comfortably. It was the end of a nice evening, and the conversation seemed to be flowing well. “Well,” she said plainly, “there was the nervous breakdown I had when I was 14.”
And just like that, the world shifted into something else.
This is new information to me. I asked my mother about her experience, and she explained that after her father died when she was 13, her mother decided to move them out to British-Columbia to be closer to the family she had out there. It didn't go well for my mother. Already distraught over the sudden loss of her father, her vulnerability was exacerbated by her being away from the friends and comforts she had left. According to my mom, she suffered from anxiety attacks and hallucinations.
When I asked if this is something that continued on throughout her adulthood, she said it was. The anxiety and panic didn't last, but her visions and loose hallucinations occurred occasionally.
This is where things get, muddy. My mom represents these things through a spiritual lens. She said she’s highly sensitive, and she’s always viewed these visions or hallucinations as being the product of a thin veil between her and something else. Another universe? Another plane? Whatever separates the living from the dead? She's vague on that point.
She does not identify these as hallucinations. When I asked her if she’d experienced any of this recently, she said yes. In the past few years she’s had experiences, mainly at night, where she feels someone sitting on her bed, or moving her sheets. She said that through conversations with her best friend (who recently died) she was able to make sense of all of this over the years. Again, through a spiritual reading of the happenings, they would discuss possible symbolism or meaning behind what was happening. She felt these things were not negative, or threatening.
I mentioned my readings on what it is to be a highly sensitive person, and how studies have found that sometimes night-terrors or waking-dreams can be associated with all sorts of pseudo-psychological phenomena. They’re the most likely explanation for alien abduction experiences and other night-time, sleep-based “unexplainable” events.
My mom seemed to stick to the metaphysical.
As we got close to my brother’s house, I asked her why she never thought to mention all of this to me. Her having a nervous breakdown as a teenager is important information for me, since I've been living in a state of mental health crisis for years. Now, granted, I feel the crisis since I live it constantly, and she might not perceive the level of pain I've been in, but this is relevant information to someone like me.
“I never thought about it,” she said innocently. “It’s not something I think about anymore.”
Within that 15 minute car-ride I talked at length about some of my symptoms and experiences, she seemed to relate to my descriptions of feeling dissociated or uprooted.
As I pulled the car into the driveway she began telling me about her more recent experiences with visions, but the kids jumped out of the house. Ready for bed, they were looking for pre-bed hugs. I asked that we continue the conversation during our one-hour drive home.
The weekend passed, as they usually do. My brother’s house is a cacophony of ipad sound effects, French television and snarky comments. In between all of that, there are laughs and moments of sweetness.
Eager to avoid Labour Day traffic and escape the irritability of the children, Monday morning we headed home. As soon as we hit the highway I returned our conversation to my mother’s experiences.
She described her anxiety attacks as fits of crying. She would cry until she slept, like a voiding of stress until the respite of sleep came about. She would see people, hear conversations, like a viewer. She’d be passive, an observer. She was medicated for a short time. She moved back to Quebec with her mother. Her visions become increasingly rare, and were attributed to the metaphysical by she and her friends.
This has been an odd divulgence. It doesn't seem to have been a secret, just an omission that’s nonsensical to me considering the last decade of my life.
I asked my mother why she didn't think to tell me this while I was having panic attacks, in front of her. She said it just never really occurred to her to make that link, and that instead, she rubbed my back to sooth me, knowing that it had helped her once, like a loose memory of another life.
I'm a little stunned by it all. By the story, and by the omission.
As my mother told the story of her experience, I couldn't help but think poor little bird. My mom was a little child, and she was lonely. She gravitated towards the family of her best friend, who came from a family of seven children, and later to my father, who came from a family of six kids. Her brother left home at 17, when she was 9. Her mother, she describes as a woman who “didn't want to be a mother.” And though she speaks fondly of my Nana, there is a missing tenderness there, maybe a little bit of longing in my mother’s voice. I can’t help but see her, small, with tiny wrists and knobby knees, a little bird of a girl.
All of this also reminded me of how little we ever know about the experiences of others. Even those we came out of. I am close with my mother. I live with her. I've lived with her for 31 years. Granted, roughly a decade of the time I was barely sentient, but she and I are not strangers. We've grown closer as I've gotten a hold of myself, and as I wake up, I'm reminded of the importance of learning who she is. Yes, she’s been my mother for 31 years, but she was something else for the 32 years before that. Next year, in 2016, I’ll be the age she was when she had me. Haven’t I been dragged through the coals? Don’t I have stories to tell? If I had children wouldn't I spare them the stories of my trauma? Wouldn't I focus my energy on their new life, and the innocence and positivity that comes with their ignorance?
I don't want children. I never have. So I can also relate to my mother saying that my grandmother seemed to not want to be a mother. And that intrinsic, deep-rooted loneliness that my mother has in her, is something my grandmother gave her. I've never felt that from my mother, I've felt nothing but love and never doubted how much she wanted me and my brother. She tried to get pregnant with me for four years, and I always felt I had all of her attention, support and pride, warranted or not. Unconditional, as the mouths of mothers often state.
It often pains me that I never got to have a conversation with my father as an adult. The memories I have of him are those of a child. My brother was 21 when he died. I was 13. The feelings I have when I think of him are those of a paternal energy, of being protected, of supreme trust for him. The feeling of being asleep in the back-seat while he drives through deep wilderness. I'm always safe. My dad is here. I would like to ask him so much. To really learn about him. To challenge him. To learn from him. He likes playing chess with me. Once I beat him and he got a real kick out of that. Would he be as delighted by my challenging his bias, his fears, his prejudice? Would I continued to have been a daddy's girl? I didn't feel the need to rebel as a teenager, would that have changed had I someone to rebel against?
And what of my grandparents? My Nana was born in 1919. She lived through the second world war, for fucks sake. She lived through desegregation and the women’s movement. What would she think of the world now? How would she no-doubt offend me? How would I offend her?
I'm still letting everything I learned about my mother sink-in, but I wanted to record it here. First, because of it’s importance in relation to my mental health, but maybe more importantly because of the importance of story, and of shared history. I want this to be recorded.
Sometimes important things happen, and eventually they seem so far away. I have so little memory left of my father. What I have of my grandparents is small, and faded. I am lucky for having my mother, and I want to do her, and her stories justice. I want to remember her, and record what I know, and what I feel here, so that one day, when I'm without her, I’ll have tokens to call on.
My mother wasn't always my mother, but she will always be my mother.
The weekend was nice. We arrived Saturday while the family was out visiting friends, so we were able to enjoy the calm before the storm. I napped. We sat outside. We went for dinner at a nearby place my brother recommended. During dinner, my mother commented on how my new medication seems to be making a significant difference in my mood. We talked about my mental health, and my understanding of my struggles, and how things are going now. While we began making our way back to my brother’s house, I asked about whether or not she knew if either of my grandparents had any issues with mental illness.
I was driving (I'm always the one driving) and sitting comfortably. It was the end of a nice evening, and the conversation seemed to be flowing well. “Well,” she said plainly, “there was the nervous breakdown I had when I was 14.”
And just like that, the world shifted into something else.
This is new information to me. I asked my mother about her experience, and she explained that after her father died when she was 13, her mother decided to move them out to British-Columbia to be closer to the family she had out there. It didn't go well for my mother. Already distraught over the sudden loss of her father, her vulnerability was exacerbated by her being away from the friends and comforts she had left. According to my mom, she suffered from anxiety attacks and hallucinations.
When I asked if this is something that continued on throughout her adulthood, she said it was. The anxiety and panic didn't last, but her visions and loose hallucinations occurred occasionally.
This is where things get, muddy. My mom represents these things through a spiritual lens. She said she’s highly sensitive, and she’s always viewed these visions or hallucinations as being the product of a thin veil between her and something else. Another universe? Another plane? Whatever separates the living from the dead? She's vague on that point.
She does not identify these as hallucinations. When I asked her if she’d experienced any of this recently, she said yes. In the past few years she’s had experiences, mainly at night, where she feels someone sitting on her bed, or moving her sheets. She said that through conversations with her best friend (who recently died) she was able to make sense of all of this over the years. Again, through a spiritual reading of the happenings, they would discuss possible symbolism or meaning behind what was happening. She felt these things were not negative, or threatening.
I mentioned my readings on what it is to be a highly sensitive person, and how studies have found that sometimes night-terrors or waking-dreams can be associated with all sorts of pseudo-psychological phenomena. They’re the most likely explanation for alien abduction experiences and other night-time, sleep-based “unexplainable” events.
My mom seemed to stick to the metaphysical.
As we got close to my brother’s house, I asked her why she never thought to mention all of this to me. Her having a nervous breakdown as a teenager is important information for me, since I've been living in a state of mental health crisis for years. Now, granted, I feel the crisis since I live it constantly, and she might not perceive the level of pain I've been in, but this is relevant information to someone like me.
“I never thought about it,” she said innocently. “It’s not something I think about anymore.”
Within that 15 minute car-ride I talked at length about some of my symptoms and experiences, she seemed to relate to my descriptions of feeling dissociated or uprooted.
As I pulled the car into the driveway she began telling me about her more recent experiences with visions, but the kids jumped out of the house. Ready for bed, they were looking for pre-bed hugs. I asked that we continue the conversation during our one-hour drive home.
The weekend passed, as they usually do. My brother’s house is a cacophony of ipad sound effects, French television and snarky comments. In between all of that, there are laughs and moments of sweetness.
Eager to avoid Labour Day traffic and escape the irritability of the children, Monday morning we headed home. As soon as we hit the highway I returned our conversation to my mother’s experiences.
She described her anxiety attacks as fits of crying. She would cry until she slept, like a voiding of stress until the respite of sleep came about. She would see people, hear conversations, like a viewer. She’d be passive, an observer. She was medicated for a short time. She moved back to Quebec with her mother. Her visions become increasingly rare, and were attributed to the metaphysical by she and her friends.
This has been an odd divulgence. It doesn't seem to have been a secret, just an omission that’s nonsensical to me considering the last decade of my life.
I asked my mother why she didn't think to tell me this while I was having panic attacks, in front of her. She said it just never really occurred to her to make that link, and that instead, she rubbed my back to sooth me, knowing that it had helped her once, like a loose memory of another life.
I'm a little stunned by it all. By the story, and by the omission.
As my mother told the story of her experience, I couldn't help but think poor little bird. My mom was a little child, and she was lonely. She gravitated towards the family of her best friend, who came from a family of seven children, and later to my father, who came from a family of six kids. Her brother left home at 17, when she was 9. Her mother, she describes as a woman who “didn't want to be a mother.” And though she speaks fondly of my Nana, there is a missing tenderness there, maybe a little bit of longing in my mother’s voice. I can’t help but see her, small, with tiny wrists and knobby knees, a little bird of a girl.
All of this also reminded me of how little we ever know about the experiences of others. Even those we came out of. I am close with my mother. I live with her. I've lived with her for 31 years. Granted, roughly a decade of the time I was barely sentient, but she and I are not strangers. We've grown closer as I've gotten a hold of myself, and as I wake up, I'm reminded of the importance of learning who she is. Yes, she’s been my mother for 31 years, but she was something else for the 32 years before that. Next year, in 2016, I’ll be the age she was when she had me. Haven’t I been dragged through the coals? Don’t I have stories to tell? If I had children wouldn't I spare them the stories of my trauma? Wouldn't I focus my energy on their new life, and the innocence and positivity that comes with their ignorance?
I don't want children. I never have. So I can also relate to my mother saying that my grandmother seemed to not want to be a mother. And that intrinsic, deep-rooted loneliness that my mother has in her, is something my grandmother gave her. I've never felt that from my mother, I've felt nothing but love and never doubted how much she wanted me and my brother. She tried to get pregnant with me for four years, and I always felt I had all of her attention, support and pride, warranted or not. Unconditional, as the mouths of mothers often state.
It often pains me that I never got to have a conversation with my father as an adult. The memories I have of him are those of a child. My brother was 21 when he died. I was 13. The feelings I have when I think of him are those of a paternal energy, of being protected, of supreme trust for him. The feeling of being asleep in the back-seat while he drives through deep wilderness. I'm always safe. My dad is here. I would like to ask him so much. To really learn about him. To challenge him. To learn from him. He likes playing chess with me. Once I beat him and he got a real kick out of that. Would he be as delighted by my challenging his bias, his fears, his prejudice? Would I continued to have been a daddy's girl? I didn't feel the need to rebel as a teenager, would that have changed had I someone to rebel against?
And what of my grandparents? My Nana was born in 1919. She lived through the second world war, for fucks sake. She lived through desegregation and the women’s movement. What would she think of the world now? How would she no-doubt offend me? How would I offend her?
I'm still letting everything I learned about my mother sink-in, but I wanted to record it here. First, because of it’s importance in relation to my mental health, but maybe more importantly because of the importance of story, and of shared history. I want this to be recorded.
Sometimes important things happen, and eventually they seem so far away. I have so little memory left of my father. What I have of my grandparents is small, and faded. I am lucky for having my mother, and I want to do her, and her stories justice. I want to remember her, and record what I know, and what I feel here, so that one day, when I'm without her, I’ll have tokens to call on.
My mother wasn't always my mother, but she will always be my mother.
Monday, May 25, 2015
Inside / outside.
I wrote part of this as a writing class exercise. I decided to post it here, because it's true, and has some interesting bits to it.
The worst of it came when my high school best friend decided to become a Jehovah's Witness in order to be with her boyfriend. I was a tattooed, pierced, vegan atheist. I attended Kingdom Hall with her to show my support. Eventually the only times I saw her were if I went to church with her. It became a battle to hang on to her, but it was a battle I engaged in willingly for longer than I should have. After losing my dad at 13, losing someone intentionally made no sense to me.
Post-high school friendships are odd. There’s just so much possibility in them. You could meet any other person and like them and spend time with them. We have cars now. We can set our own schedule. We can make our own dates and judge for ourselves what’s appropriate. No more friendships based on your neighbourhood or their geographical proximity. My high school time was spent with a few girls and a large group of guys. Good guys. Funny. Charismatic. The type of guys who could recite SNL dialogue on Monday and would stay up all night with you to study for an exam. I was a tomboy who loved our girl/boy sleepovers. A few parents understood platonic friendships were possible. We’d spend the night laughing and being ridiculous in a way hardly experienced in the self-censoring and sensitivity of girls. Boys’ll fart on your head without a care in the world.
Our movements forward lead us elsewhere. They were at bars and clubs, enjoying casual sex. I was in a basement bedroom, surviving my depression through a self-imposed hermitage. As my entrenched friendships from high-school began to decay I looked to school. I wasn't in a good place, struggling, I told myself if I went to school, at least I was doing something productive. I no longer recognized those who knew-me-when. They were filled with so much promise and excitement. I was not. I felt college was meant for me, for others. Here I could hear things I’d never heard. I could disappear into the walls and just absorb.
After university, I was navigating panic attacks on top of my chronic depression, so naturally I was loads of fun to be around. I figured the best way to avoid my life was to go back to school. A. and I met in technical college. We were both studying graphic design. She signed up for a service where a classmate acts like a sort of official nag, reminding you of homework and critical deadlines. I was that nag. We gradually spent more time together, bonding over the fact that we weren't born in the 90’s like most of our classmates.
As I got to know her, I learned her accent was from Nova Scotia and that she was new to Montreal. One afternoon after class I visited the condo she shared with her boyfriend. The condo was perched on top of a large, red-bricked building by a large public market. It was fancy. I was instantly impressed by the place. It was the nicest place I’d seen in the city for someone my age. There were no milk-crates anywhere, it had art on the walls. There was a guest room. When she lead me into the light-filled space we were greeted by two spastic jack russels. I love dogs, so though their energy was frenetic and overwhelming I was happy to pet them and babble encouragingly to them about their assumed goodness.
Over the span of the next two years we became increasingly close. Her boyfriend was rich. He had summer homes and a winter ski retreat in the mountains. We gladly trekked all over the province to babysit his family dogs in the lap of luxury while they were off, being rich internationally. We’d show up at his parent’s mansion with a menagerie of dogs and relax. It always took a few days for me to adjust to the level of comfort and grandeur that apparently had existed near me all this time. Was being rich common?
One summer we headed out to the coast to a sea-shore house that was over 100 years-old. We brought my brother’s discerning schnauzer Jack along for the trip. Every-time we sat quietly, appreciating the ocean air and breeze and A.’s frenzied dogs would run into the room Jack would look at me worriedly and sigh audibly. On the drive home the dogs were relegated to the back seat with A., Jack—over the span of 20 minutes or so—slowly squeezed himself between the driver-side door and driver’s seat in order to eject himself from the undesirable company. Jack was onto something.
Having enjoyed this mystery boyfriends many vacation homes, I was glad to finally get the chance to meet him. A. and I walked into a small café near her condo. It was small and familiar, seemingly filled with regulars. We were the only women, and I read the space as being a popular hangout amongst gay men. I made my way to the counter and was met by a smiling barista. He was slender and blonde, well coiffed and at ease, flicking a towel onto his shoulder as he pushed a coffee over to A. We all exchanged pleasantries until I received my order, at which point he pointed out how happy he was to finally meet me.
I was faced with an interesting dilemma. How to discuss with a friend, the seeming gayness of her partner. As we walked I made it clear that relationships take all forms. Sexuality is a spectrum, as is gender. People want and need different things. Monogamy isn't for everyone. When I broached the subject of her partner, she confirmed he was gay and that his family disapproved so she felt he asked her to move in as a beard. She casually talked about how she slept with whoever she wanted, and how she was seeing some of his married friends I felt for both of them, he for needing to lie to his family, she for being away from hers, desperate for a tribe of her own. I was uncomfortable with all the lying though. Seeing married guys, knowing their wives, not caring about outcome or after-math. She was so nonchalant about all of it.
A few weeks later we went for drinks. A. got very drunk very fast and left with a stranger. On Monday she asked what happened, casually referring to her propensity towards getting black-out drunk. I filled her in the best I could, and worriedly asked her if this happened a lot. She laughed it off and told me not to worry. I did anyway.
She eventually left the red-brick condo with good light, and I helped her find a place and get situated. The following few months involved a lot of sex with guys, while dating other guys. I was constantly worried and dreading her phone calls. She eventually got pregnant and it was unclear who the father was. Her drinking started and ended that problem.
It was at a friends wedding where her drinking lead to an early night in for her, and an enjoyable, joy-filled night for me. I reflected on that afterwards, friends pointing out they would rather I be present for various social events since she couldn't be trusted alone. She wasn't my drunken baby. I began resenting her. I had a lot of guilt about this. She was kind and very sweet, but she was so comfortable lying and putting herself in harms way, I was perpetually worried for her in ways she would never worry about herself.
One day I received a call from A. while driving. I let it go to voice-mail. Safety first. I listened to it once arrived at my destination. It was an easy going message about this one dirt bag and then there was this other dirt bag. I rolled my eyes. I didn't return her call. I texted her and told her I needed some space. That summer, I pulled away from A. Shortly afterwards she moved back to Nova Scotia.
I don’t like the way things ended between she and I. I guess I also don’t like that it had to end at all. I don’t regret the split - but I regret the indirect route it took. Sending a text message was lame. I don’t really see what I could have said that would have suitably answered any question she might have had whilst making it clear she’s free to her life and the way she wants to live it. It just became very hard to watch. She is everything I am not, and it’s always very hard to let go.
I often dream about her. They’re always nightmares. When I heard she had a baby I dreamt she showed up at my house with it in hysterics. I still have good memories about her, but usually, when I think about her, it’s with anxiety in my chest.
Lately I've chastised myself for the way I've thought about her. Sure, she’s a hot mess, but so am I. With her, it’s all on the outside. It’s evident. Externalized. She lets it out, and lives her life. With me, it’s all internalized. It’s all still there, it’s just recycled within me. I'm constantly in pain, I just don’t know how to let it out. I look at her with a hint of envy because at least she has that release. I long to cry. To sob. To completely spend myself through tears and gasps. To yell and scream. To slur curses. I don’t do that. I sit. I dwell. I remember. I fret. I long. I romanticize. I hate myself. It hurts. Nearly all the time.
I don’t know if it ever really gets better. I'm in my early 30’s now, and it just seems like I'm getting a knack for the language of it all, but that’s about it. Nothing is getting better. The struggle continues. I'm constantly disappointed by life's refusal to get any easier. What’s the old cliché, life, nobody gets out of it alive. I don't want to get out of it alive, but I'd like to live it as something more than as the walking cursed.
A. is very sweet. She’s good hearted and has a helpful nature. A. can also be a hot mess. She doesn't own the term. I've worn it for a while. My late teens and early 20’s were a cacophony of ugly-crying and deferred decision-making.
The worst of it came when my high school best friend decided to become a Jehovah's Witness in order to be with her boyfriend. I was a tattooed, pierced, vegan atheist. I attended Kingdom Hall with her to show my support. Eventually the only times I saw her were if I went to church with her. It became a battle to hang on to her, but it was a battle I engaged in willingly for longer than I should have. After losing my dad at 13, losing someone intentionally made no sense to me.
Post-high school friendships are odd. There’s just so much possibility in them. You could meet any other person and like them and spend time with them. We have cars now. We can set our own schedule. We can make our own dates and judge for ourselves what’s appropriate. No more friendships based on your neighbourhood or their geographical proximity. My high school time was spent with a few girls and a large group of guys. Good guys. Funny. Charismatic. The type of guys who could recite SNL dialogue on Monday and would stay up all night with you to study for an exam. I was a tomboy who loved our girl/boy sleepovers. A few parents understood platonic friendships were possible. We’d spend the night laughing and being ridiculous in a way hardly experienced in the self-censoring and sensitivity of girls. Boys’ll fart on your head without a care in the world.
Our movements forward lead us elsewhere. They were at bars and clubs, enjoying casual sex. I was in a basement bedroom, surviving my depression through a self-imposed hermitage. As my entrenched friendships from high-school began to decay I looked to school. I wasn't in a good place, struggling, I told myself if I went to school, at least I was doing something productive. I no longer recognized those who knew-me-when. They were filled with so much promise and excitement. I was not. I felt college was meant for me, for others. Here I could hear things I’d never heard. I could disappear into the walls and just absorb.
After university, I was navigating panic attacks on top of my chronic depression, so naturally I was loads of fun to be around. I figured the best way to avoid my life was to go back to school. A. and I met in technical college. We were both studying graphic design. She signed up for a service where a classmate acts like a sort of official nag, reminding you of homework and critical deadlines. I was that nag. We gradually spent more time together, bonding over the fact that we weren't born in the 90’s like most of our classmates.
As I got to know her, I learned her accent was from Nova Scotia and that she was new to Montreal. One afternoon after class I visited the condo she shared with her boyfriend. The condo was perched on top of a large, red-bricked building by a large public market. It was fancy. I was instantly impressed by the place. It was the nicest place I’d seen in the city for someone my age. There were no milk-crates anywhere, it had art on the walls. There was a guest room. When she lead me into the light-filled space we were greeted by two spastic jack russels. I love dogs, so though their energy was frenetic and overwhelming I was happy to pet them and babble encouragingly to them about their assumed goodness.
Over the span of the next two years we became increasingly close. Her boyfriend was rich. He had summer homes and a winter ski retreat in the mountains. We gladly trekked all over the province to babysit his family dogs in the lap of luxury while they were off, being rich internationally. We’d show up at his parent’s mansion with a menagerie of dogs and relax. It always took a few days for me to adjust to the level of comfort and grandeur that apparently had existed near me all this time. Was being rich common?
One summer we headed out to the coast to a sea-shore house that was over 100 years-old. We brought my brother’s discerning schnauzer Jack along for the trip. Every-time we sat quietly, appreciating the ocean air and breeze and A.’s frenzied dogs would run into the room Jack would look at me worriedly and sigh audibly. On the drive home the dogs were relegated to the back seat with A., Jack—over the span of 20 minutes or so—slowly squeezed himself between the driver-side door and driver’s seat in order to eject himself from the undesirable company. Jack was onto something.
Having enjoyed this mystery boyfriends many vacation homes, I was glad to finally get the chance to meet him. A. and I walked into a small café near her condo. It was small and familiar, seemingly filled with regulars. We were the only women, and I read the space as being a popular hangout amongst gay men. I made my way to the counter and was met by a smiling barista. He was slender and blonde, well coiffed and at ease, flicking a towel onto his shoulder as he pushed a coffee over to A. We all exchanged pleasantries until I received my order, at which point he pointed out how happy he was to finally meet me.
I was faced with an interesting dilemma. How to discuss with a friend, the seeming gayness of her partner. As we walked I made it clear that relationships take all forms. Sexuality is a spectrum, as is gender. People want and need different things. Monogamy isn't for everyone. When I broached the subject of her partner, she confirmed he was gay and that his family disapproved so she felt he asked her to move in as a beard. She casually talked about how she slept with whoever she wanted, and how she was seeing some of his married friends I felt for both of them, he for needing to lie to his family, she for being away from hers, desperate for a tribe of her own. I was uncomfortable with all the lying though. Seeing married guys, knowing their wives, not caring about outcome or after-math. She was so nonchalant about all of it.
A few weeks later we went for drinks. A. got very drunk very fast and left with a stranger. On Monday she asked what happened, casually referring to her propensity towards getting black-out drunk. I filled her in the best I could, and worriedly asked her if this happened a lot. She laughed it off and told me not to worry. I did anyway.
She eventually left the red-brick condo with good light, and I helped her find a place and get situated. The following few months involved a lot of sex with guys, while dating other guys. I was constantly worried and dreading her phone calls. She eventually got pregnant and it was unclear who the father was. Her drinking started and ended that problem.
It was at a friends wedding where her drinking lead to an early night in for her, and an enjoyable, joy-filled night for me. I reflected on that afterwards, friends pointing out they would rather I be present for various social events since she couldn't be trusted alone. She wasn't my drunken baby. I began resenting her. I had a lot of guilt about this. She was kind and very sweet, but she was so comfortable lying and putting herself in harms way, I was perpetually worried for her in ways she would never worry about herself.
One day I received a call from A. while driving. I let it go to voice-mail. Safety first. I listened to it once arrived at my destination. It was an easy going message about this one dirt bag and then there was this other dirt bag. I rolled my eyes. I didn't return her call. I texted her and told her I needed some space. That summer, I pulled away from A. Shortly afterwards she moved back to Nova Scotia.
I don’t like the way things ended between she and I. I guess I also don’t like that it had to end at all. I don’t regret the split - but I regret the indirect route it took. Sending a text message was lame. I don’t really see what I could have said that would have suitably answered any question she might have had whilst making it clear she’s free to her life and the way she wants to live it. It just became very hard to watch. She is everything I am not, and it’s always very hard to let go.
I often dream about her. They’re always nightmares. When I heard she had a baby I dreamt she showed up at my house with it in hysterics. I still have good memories about her, but usually, when I think about her, it’s with anxiety in my chest.
Lately I've chastised myself for the way I've thought about her. Sure, she’s a hot mess, but so am I. With her, it’s all on the outside. It’s evident. Externalized. She lets it out, and lives her life. With me, it’s all internalized. It’s all still there, it’s just recycled within me. I'm constantly in pain, I just don’t know how to let it out. I look at her with a hint of envy because at least she has that release. I long to cry. To sob. To completely spend myself through tears and gasps. To yell and scream. To slur curses. I don’t do that. I sit. I dwell. I remember. I fret. I long. I romanticize. I hate myself. It hurts. Nearly all the time.
I don’t know if it ever really gets better. I'm in my early 30’s now, and it just seems like I'm getting a knack for the language of it all, but that’s about it. Nothing is getting better. The struggle continues. I'm constantly disappointed by life's refusal to get any easier. What’s the old cliché, life, nobody gets out of it alive. I don't want to get out of it alive, but I'd like to live it as something more than as the walking cursed.
Tuesday, March 31, 2015
Found: A Mental History.
I found this while going though old documents. Original date for this is around this time of year in 2011, so 4 years ago. I believe the intention was to send this to someone taking me on as a psychiatry patient.
The more I think about it, the more I realize I have a crazy history, and it's kind of dawned on me that as of being a teenager I have instances of being "weird" or of playing things off as "oh that's just me, and the way I am," that are probably all linked to anxiety and possibly bigger issues. This document is for me to explain things to the best of my ability, and to document my memories of certain examples and events.
From an early age (roughly around 16-17) I started having issues with crowds. I didn’t like parties or being in places with a lot of people. Including new people. I always thought this was me being anti-social, and later on (recently) I’ve been more likely to call it “social anxiety” although for the longest time I just pinned it on my character / not being good with people.
I have issues with foods and alcohol. I have to be careful when I eat out because I have a sensitive stomach, but the biggest issue for me is alcohol consumption. Ingesting even the smallest amount of alcohol generally makes me paranoid about being physically ill, and I’ll often start having severe anxiety and make myself sick. I’ve never been a drinker. Not since I was a teenager. I was always the designated driver. But, as an adult, I still can’t have a glass of wine unless I’m in the safety of my own home, because alcohol in public places / away from home usually leads to anxiety that then leads to my being sick.
Over the last few years, I’ve become increasingly drawn to daily rituals. When I’m stressed, I often use little things to placate my desire to be effective. Sometimes these are simple things. But often when I get something in my head, like “I have to take a shower before going to bed.” I know I have to take a shower, or else it’ll bug me to an increasing amount until I do it. But, sometimes this can be the case with organization, or with occupying physical spaces as well. Like where to sit on a bus. I often feel like certain things make me more able to be “out in the world” without being overwhelmed.
Overall, for the last few years, I’ve identified my anxiety as a type of fuel cell. So, if I’m tired, or exhausted, and I’m at about 20%, I know I can’t go into the city. The driving in, the parking, the people, being so far from home, all of it is too much. If I’ve had a few days off, and I’m relaxed and well rested, going into the city isn’t a big deal. This is recent. While I was in University this was never an issue.
When I was around 16-18 I was bulimic. This started when I became sexually active, and ended around the time my first relationship ended. After which I became very depressed. This depression lasted years. In the last two years (2009-2010) things have been getting much better. But, depression has been replaced with anxiety. Anxiety that seems to be getting progressively worse.
My first clear memory of a panic attack was during my last year of university, while I was working on my thesis, when I was supposed to do an interview for CBC radio. I was unable to get to the radio station and had a massive panic attack at home.
I then had a panic attack in November of 2010, while attending an event where industry professionals look at our portfolios. I left and did not attend the majority of the event.
I had purchased tickets to see a show with a friend last fall, and had increasingly severe anxiety until I got to the venue, at which I begged that she drive me home because I couldn’t take being there.
Recently, they’ve become more frequent, and intense. Over the Christmas break I was extremely anxious throughout an entire screening of Harry Potter because of the amount of people in the theater.
Two weeks ago, my brother offered to drive me into the city, and I had severe anxiety in his car while stuck in traffic. I had to ask him to let me out of the car so I could walk to a nearby metro station. That day I made an appointment with a local doctor, a few days later I saw her and she gave me a referral to a psychiatrist, and a prescription of Celexa and Ativan.
This part Saturday, I was suppose to help one of my best friends move. This was a big deal to both her and me. This was to celebrate her new condo, one she purchased herself and which is a huge accomplishment. I had a major panic attack on the 40, and had to take a random exit, take some time, and then get myself home. I then took an Ativan, and was useless for the rest of the day. I slept and was just physically spent, my chest was tight and I was anxious for the rest of the weekend.
I know that I am in a period of a lot of stress when it comes to school, this is my final semester and there is a lot riding on it. And, I’ll have to be making a lot of decisions and commitments in the next little while where my career is concerned. But it seems to me that over the last year my anxiety has been getting worse. Exponentially so in the last two months.
For the last year I’ve known not to plan two things on one day. Meaning if I have school, I can’t drive somewhere / make plans that evening. I know not to work more than an 8 hour day, because it’s too much (my part-time job is with customer service so I get yelled at all day). I don’t go out after-dark with friends in the city. I don’t drive, or often cancel plans when I feel I’m anxious to begin with. Or else, I make plans, start going and then have to turn around because on my way my anxiety gets progressively worse.
With bulimia my focus was to stop throwing up. With depression it was just getting through one day at a time, and I was still functional, I was just sad as hell and thought life sucked and I’d just ride it out until I died. But this anxiety is overwhelming. And it’s taking over my life. It limits me daily. Some days I wake up with it, and it’s heavy. This past Tuesday (the 8th of February) I almost didn’t even get on the bus to head to school, all I wanted to do was stay home.
The truth is there are probably tons of rules, and superstitions that I have that have become so ingrained in the way that I function that I’m probably not even aware of them.
Things have been coming to a head now, but they’re clearly part of something that’s been present since my teens.
I see a therapist, and she helps me with my emotional issues, but I just feel this is beyond it. This is the first time in a long time, that I feel insane. Before I felt emotionally broken. Now, I feel paranoid and dysfunctional. And usually I have a “wait it out” mentality. But the physical pain of it, the increased heart rate and the tight chest and feeling of “panic” throughout a day, I can’t bear it. It’s no way to live.
The truth is there are probably tons of rules, and superstitions that I have that have become so ingrained in the way that I function that I’m probably not even aware of them.
Things have been coming to a head now, but they’re clearly part of something that’s been present since my teens.
I see a therapist, and she helps me with my emotional issues, but I just feel this is beyond it. This is the first time in a long time, that I feel insane. Before I felt emotionally broken. Now, I feel paranoid and dysfunctional. And usually I have a “wait it out” mentality. But the physical pain of it, the increased heart rate and the tight chest and feeling of “panic” throughout a day, I can’t bear it. It’s no way to live.
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