Our stories

I think one of the hardest points of telling one’s story about mental health is being the story. Think about the stories you tell your family and friends: “You wouldn’t believe the gall of this guy at the movies last night!” “We had a lovely time at Niagara on the Lake.” “I won tickets to the Leafs game. Do you want them?”

They are all things that happen to us. We may be the stars of the story but there is an interesting plot. They are fun to tell and help us to relate to others. Do we feel the same way about stories about our Mental Health? I think most of us would say no. Sure, perhaps it is avoiding being perceived as a burden, complainer, or, of course, as weak. For me there is more to it though. I feel that this story is not something that is happening to me. It goes much deeper than that. I feel that when I manage to speak of my depression, it is as though I am telling the story of me. It’s as if I cued the spotlight at centre stage to illuminate my true form; a shell of person fraught with weakness, pain, selfishness, anger, and falsehoods.

Being able to separate yourself from your illness is the first leap.

It is here that lays the true torture of mental illness. I can’t separate myself from it. It’s not a broken leg, appendicitis, or breast cancer. I struggle with viewing it as something external to me. After all, what is it like? It is my flawed core beliefs. It is my intrusive and incessant negative thoughts. It is my emotions, thoughts, and, inevitably, actions. It seems to be from deep inside me.

So, if they say talking is the first step, then being able to separate yourself from your illness is the first leap. If I can do that, well then maybe I’m not the loathsome creature exposed by the light of my story. Maybe I can finally see myself as SICK, NOT WEAK. Then maybe sharing my story will get easier with each telling.

Here it goes, briefly:

Depression came to the forefront when I was 17 years old in the wake of my father’s death. I began to heap responsibility upon myself to ‘fill in’ for my Dad. I went to college and took a trade in which I had no interest. Got married and had a family of four at twenty one. I worked full time while getting my degree. I did everything I thought I was supposed to do. Work for others and be the rock like my dad. Then everything began to fray at the edges. I began to fall apart. In a very private and controlled way, but fall apart nonetheless. I let those who loved me down. I scared them with talk of suicide. As I began to own what was happening, I felt I was a burden. This was a ten years of pain and regret. Now I am 34 and have officially been depressed for half of my life.

I have an amazing wife and three beautiful children. I have a HUGE extended family. I have a full time job. I have great friends. I am physically healthy. I have a degree. I own a home. I am not riddled with debt.

Yet still, in the quiet moments of the day, I will catch myself staring off at something in the distance, lost in the thought that I should end everything so that everyone can finally be happy without me. Then I won’t have to open my eyes each morning in the middle of a negative thought and feel the weight of the day upon my chest, pinning me to my bed. So I don’t have to grow absolutely exhausted by waging constant war with each and every thought that crosses my mind. It is all so painful. It is all so tiring.

I’m working on it. I am using every tool that is available to me. I am an outpatient at a Mental Health facility. I’m in therapy. I take medication. I try and avoid alcohol and caffeine. I eat fairly well. I exercise. I meditate. I write. I socialize. I even tried a transmagnetic stimulation trial. There’s been so much more. I am fighting with everything I have.

I need to fight every day, and not let depression blind me to what I do have.

Still, just as I fell apart very privately, so too have I attempted to recover. Perhaps sharing it will not only help others, but also prove to be another tool to help me to see that I am not my illness. I need to fight every day, and not let depression blind me to what I do have. Like those Leaf tickets. I gotta get rid of those.