Me in another universe...

Monday morning, I walked out of my apartment building and sat on one of the benches out front. I was waiting for my mom to pick me up. I had called her thirty minutes earlier, telling her I self-harmed and was thinking about killing myself. As I was sitting on the bench, a lady I met who lives in the same apartment building walked by me and asked, "Not working from home today?" 

Over the last few months, she and I have shared some personal stories, so I feel comfortable with her. "No, I'm going to the hospital." Concerned, she walked over and asked why. I shrugged, and before I knew what I was saying, the words "I want to kill myself" escaped my mouth. She sat down, put her arm around me, and let me cry on her shoulder. "Honey, I felt the same way last week. Any time you need to talk, come knock on my door. I am always here for you. I promise."

She was late for work, so as she walked away, I stared down at my hands and wondered where the fuck I had gone wrong. I felt fine last week. What changed? My mom picked me up, and as she drove to the hospital, I said all the things out loud that I had been thinking for years: I'm stupid, I'm ugly, I'm fat, No one cares about me, No one will ever love me, I am a waste of space and everyone would be better off without me, I want to disappear. This went on for twenty minutes until I stood in front of the nurse in the ER, who was asking what I was there for.

"I'm suicidal." 

I spent the next six hours at the hospital getting meds, having blood drawn, speaking to doctors, having psychiatrist appointments set up, and crying to my mom. I knew I was where I needed to be, but I didn't understand why I was feeling so low in the first place. All I knew was that I felt miserable, and my stomach was a pit of aching depression. I felt worthless, unloveable, and so very defeated. It felt like I had fallen down an 80-foot hole, and there I was, covered in dirt and surrounded by darkness. 

Sometimes it feels like in this dimension, in this lifetime, I cannot grasp my mental health. There is another version of my life in some other universe where joy exists, where it is not just a temporary comfort. But it is not here. I have been blessed with so many wonderful things, yet I cannot appreciate them. Instead, I destroy them because of my mental illness.

My Car Accident & Resulting Fear of Death

Two years ago, I was driving with my brother when it started to rain. The temperature rapidly dropped below zero, and unbeknownst to me, there was a flash freeze on the roads, making driving conditions extremely dangerous. I didn't know this then because I was in my warm vehicle. I only found out later when the police arrived at the accident scene and told me.

I was on an exit ramp going 80km per hour when I lost control of my car. I started fishtailing, and I didn't know what to do. Everything happened very quickly, but in my mind, time slowed to a snail's pace. I looked at my brother and frantically asked, "What do I do!?" He calmly replied, "It's too late. There's nothing you can do."

In an instant, I remembered hearing once, many years ago, if you know a car accident is inevitable, the best thing you can do is completely relax your body. Car accident injuries are most likely to happen when you tense your muscles and joints. So, I relaxed my body, closed my eyes, said, "Fuck," and then prayed we weren't about to die.

I felt us skidding and sliding and then immediately heard an ear-pounding SMASH! 

Then, suddenly, like it was all a dream, we weren't moving anymore. The chaos disappeared, and the air was filled with silence.

I opened my eyes. I had taken out a light pole and guardrail on the highway. I looked at my brother, covered in glass–the passenger window broke into a million pieces all over him. The passenger door had caved in on him. The windshield was broken but intact. My brother was dazed but responsive.

I was shaken up but otherwise fine.

I started crying and apologizing profusely. My brother had some very sore muscles and terrible bruising for months afterward, but beyond that, he was okay.

Since that day, I have a genuine fear of winter driving, and I sense with 100% certainty that I will die in a car accident. My family reassures me this will not happen, but there is no convincing me. 

The first snowfall of the year occurred last week, causing my usual thirty-minute drive home from work to turn into one-and-a-half hours. When I walked in my front door, I immediately began feeling the aftershocks of the panic I now feel when winter driving, and I spent the next few hours crying.

It's almost enough to make me move somewhere that doesn't see snow.

The Sweetest of All Kittens Came Into My Life Today

Today I got a new kitten. I originally wanted to get a puppy. I love a puppy's energy. But lately, whenever I'd look at my cat, Mike, he seemed so lonely. He was sleeping all of the time. When he wasn't sleeping, he was at the window for hours, waiting for the neighbourhood stray to come and entertain him at the window for all of thirty seconds. That was his excitement for the day. I felt bad. Real bad.

She slept the whole way home

Mike has gone from having two dogs and his birth brother to being the only one around... within one year. I thought he might appreciate a kitty friend, so I've tabled the idea of a puppy until at least the spring. 

She made herself at home 30 minutes after arrival

 

So, for now, this little cutie will do. She was the most docile, playful, confident, and sweet kitten of the litter, so we got in my car and off we went. My adventures of bringing new pets home are limited, but I've never had the experience I had today. She was so chill, she slept most of the way, and when she wasn't sleeping, she was purring. 

She's a keeper.

Suicide and the Anniversary of Andy's Death

We all have that one thing that never fails to put a smile on our face. It could be a stuffed animal, a letter from your child, something you made that you're proud of, a voicemail from a loved one, and in my case... it's this: My dear friend, Andy, made a video for me weeks before he took his own life.

The second anniversary of his death is coming up in less than one month. Because of this, I am gravitating to his video incessantly. I need to be able to see him moving and dancing because it's too difficult for me to think about him being nothing but ashes in this urn.

Our friendship was deep and built over 20 years. We leaned on one another when going through periods of depression, so he reached out to me a lot in the weeks leading up to his death. But I was not there for him. It makes me sick to think about it now. I was so busy with my own problems that I didn't make time for him. 

When I look at these pictures, I see a happy guy. And he probably was happy when these pictures were taken. But if you are familiar with depression, you know how subtle and sneaky it can be. Depression floats in and out of your life, and by the time you realize you are deep in it, you often need help to climb out—it is too hard to do it alone. 

This is the lesson I am taking from Andy's suicide: If you trust me enough to reach out to me when at your lowest and darkest, it is my duty as a friend and fellow human being to listen, be supportive, and remind you of all the reasons you are needed on this planet. It's so easy to look back and see what I could have done differently, but the reality is that it will never be possible.

I am so sorry, Andy. You deserved better.

There is no shame with happiness

Sometimes life is too much. Too much stress, too many things going wrong, too many unpleasant feelings.

One of my dearest friends killed himself just over one year ago. He chose to release himself from life's pain on a chilly October evening in his friend's backyard, hanging from a tree.

I get it, I accept it, and I am happy he is no longer suffering.

It's been one year, yet I sometimes forget he's gone. But he is gone. Forever. Never again will I hear his voice. Never again will he create art or make music. Andy is nothing but a memory now. I see the impact his death has had on everyone in his life: his parents, cousins, friends, and me. When he tied that rope around his neck and jumped, he created a hole in everyone's life who knew him. No one can fill that hole. It's there now. Forever.

Losing someone to suicide allowed me to view life, death, and personal choice in a very unique way. Andy voluntarily removed himself from life. He made the decision he no longer wanted to participate in consciousness. I think it's morbidly beautiful. Still, I wish I could go back in time, grab him by the shoulders, look into his eyes and have him focus on nothing but me, and make him understand that he could get through this. That I would help him. That life is worth it, he is worth it, and there is always another option. If only he had held on a little bit longer...

And yet, I sometimes find myself wanting to do it too, however fleetingly.

The rational mind knows these feelings aren't permanent, that happiness will be felt again, that a reason to exist will present itself. But in the moments when suicide seems appealing, none of that matters. The mind has a way of making you believe that life just isn't worth it. That you aren't worth it. That even though you will be happy again... that won't be permanent either. The depression will always return. Always.

Depression will always be a part of me. I've been on antidepressants for 15 years. I've tried twice to come off them, and both times were unsuccessful, resulting in catastrophic failure on a huge scale. Turned-my-world-upside-down type of failure. I created massive messes and had to pick up the pieces with the help of those I fall on when I can't hold myself up any longer. Both attempts to live medication-free were awful experiences I'd rather not repeat. I have accepted that I will always need antidepressants, especially in the moments when I feel like I don't (that means they're working). I get that now.

Many know about my struggles with mental illness... so why does it feel so isolating? When I'm happy, I have no problem letting the world know. There is no shame with happiness. I don't feel like a burden when I am loving life. I don't worry that people won't understand my happiness or that they will judge me for it. What makes depression so very different?

Growth doesn't happen when life is easy

Growth happens when life turns to shit. We have to dig deep and find the strength we didn't know was there. When something awful used to happen to me, I'd avoid, ask for help, and cry, "Why me?" Now when something awful happens, the first thing I tell myself is, "You will get through this. You've made it through worse."

That seemingly simple mindset shift didn't happen overnight.

This past year-and-a-half has been one shitty situation after another. That's life, right? It sometimes feels like I don't have the chance to breathe, though, because the next obstacle presents itself so soon after I've overcome the previous one. I've gone through divorce, the loss of friends as a result of my decision to leave my marriage, living in my car, four moves, the suicide of a dear friend, the loss of a great job, a broken foot, wrote off my car by taking out a light pole on the highway in icy conditions, a car accident with my new car, and the unexpected death of my best friend/dog. Yet somehow, I am always grateful when I've made it through something shitty. I reflect back, and I can appreciate the situation for what it was: a chance to improve myself, to add depth to my character, to learn, to grow. 

But, I am exhausted. I've wanted to throw in the towel so many times, but every time something happens, I know the only way my situation will improve is to keep pushing forward. I somehow find a way to persevere. There is no other option. 

The last time a new shitstorm rolled in, my mom said, "This last year has been brutal for you, but Dad and I are so proud of how you've handled it." That was enough to keep me going. 

I look back at my decision to leave my marriage, and while it caused a lot of hurt for my ex - as well as his family and mine - it was absolutely the right decision. Leaving my marriage was the first really difficult thing I've knowingly put myself through. I'm sure I'll go through worse in my lifetime, but up to that point, I knew it was going to be the most difficult. Studies show that going through a divorce can be as devastating as many of life's other traumatic experiences and often results in PTSD. Thankfully, that wasn't the case for me. My ex and I remained amicable throughout the entire process, and when we last spoke, we apologized for any hurt caused and wished one another the best in our respective futures. 

Divorce gave me the chance to become a better person. A chance to live authentically, have greater empathy for others going through difficult situations, the ability to recognize that I truly can't know what's going on in anyone's life, and the opportunity to redefine myself and carve out a new life - a life that is mine.

Even though life has been hurdle after hurdle this last year-and-a-half, I wouldn't change a thing... because I am who I am today as a result of all of it.

RIP to my best friend, Charlie

The nightmare: withdrawals from antidepressants

I'm no longer taking Celexa, and I thought that meant I was home free. I hadn't swallowed the little white pill in a full week and I felt perfectly fine... until I didn't.

Three days ago it got really bad.

Chris and I spent Saturday afternoon with his dad and grandma, and then the evening with my dad and brother. The entire time, my mood got worse, and worse, and worse. By the end of the day, I was escaping to the washroom every five minutes so I could cry, because the tears were uncontrollable. Everyone else was having a good time, and I should have been too, but I couldn't. I sat there quietly, for hours, and felt numb.

When Chris and I got home, I wouldn't sit near him, or look at him, or let him touch me, and when he asked what was going on, I'd brush away my tears and say, "I don't know!!" 

I said: "It feels like I'm going through waves of being happy, and then being the saddest, most depressed, and most irritable I've ever been, all within a matter of hours... it comes and goes and comes and goes."

In the good moments I feel like myself. But slowly, I feel a disconnect happening between my consciousness and body, if that makes sense.

I Googled "antidepressant withdrawal waves," not knowing it was actually a thing until I stumbled across this amazing post that puts into words exactly what it feels like: Waves and Windows in SSRI Withdrawal. 

 

In the good moments, I feel like myself. Happy, connected to what's going on around me, able to be part of conversations, aware, human.... but the bad moments are terrible, hands down the worst emotional pain I have ever felt. I think about hurting myself. I think, "Chris, my family, my dogs... they'd all be so much better off without me." In those moments, I feel I'd be doing them a FAVOUR by disappearing. When I told Chris this, he said, "Don't you understand how much it would devastate everyone?" And in those moments, no, I don't understand. When I get sucked into those places, I can't see the future, I don't take anyone's feelings into consideration... all I think is that "This is my life, and it will never end, and I can't live like this." At one point, Chris mentioned us having a family one day. I was like... a family? I can't even look passed the next 30 seconds and see a future, the idea of a family is absolutely out of the question.

There's this huge, thousand-mile distance between my thoughts and my body. I feel like my consciousness is trapped inside a room that's in the middle of the desert, while my physical body is far, far away, hanging out with other people. I am trapped inside my own body and I can't communicate the thoughts I am having.

This is Hell. 

If I start taking Celexa again, I know I will never again attempt to come off of it; it's that hard. Happy moments are fine... I love being drug free. But the lonely and sad moments that feel like they'll never end... in those moments, I find myself reaching for my little white antidepressant pills. It's such an easy solution. I can be happy again, simply by taking one little pill every day.

Chris gently says, "How about you give it two more days?" and then two days later I feel great. But two days after that, and I'm back in this nightmare. 

I wish my doctor would have warned me. This is why it's so important we take our health into our own hands... but aren't doctors the ones who are supposed to know this stuff, warn us, and guide us? Aren't they the experts? On the one hand, I'm really pissed off that I was totally blindsided and didn't expect any of this, but on the other hand... it is my life and my body, and I should have researched what I was putting into it.

Remembering a friend...

Today was the 11th anniversary of my friend Jimmy's death. He was walking across a marked crosswalk when a drunk driver hit and killed him.

So much has happened in my life since then. I was 17 then, and I'm 28 now. Looking back to eleven years ago, I am an entirely different person. As much as I have grown over the years, if I allow myself to go back to that time, I'm raw and still very much there.

Life has gone on for me while Jimmy is frozen in time. It's a reality, and it's not something worth getting sad about because as much as I wish I could make it different... I can't. So I live my life, and from time to time, I remember Jimmy and smile.

I love cows. They are my favourite animal. Jimmy knew this. One day he called my house phone (cell phones weren't a thing like they are today), and when my dad passed me the phone, Jimmy excitedly said, "Beth! I'm at this garage sale, and I found a cow couch! Do you want it!?"

I said of course... and that evening, Jimmy and his step-dad delivered it to my house.
Three weeks later, Jimmy died.

As physically uncomfortable as that couch was and as cheaply made as it was, I held onto it for years after Jimmy's death, because it was a tangible item from him. It was a physical object that I could remember him by.

Eight years after Jimmy was gone, I told my dad we could finally get rid of the cow couch. We smashed it to pieces, and it broke my heart with every smash, but it was also so therapeutic. I needed to move on. Not forget, but let go. It was simply the destruction of a cow couch, but it was also an oddly beautiful send-off to a really great friend.

NFJS

Never Forget Jimmy Shelstad

I was just thinking about Jimmy, a close friend of mine. 

The summer before grade 12, my friend Jimmy was walking home from a party when a drunk driver hit and killed him. His body landed 40 feet from where he was hit. He died instantly.

I went online on an early Saturday morning. It was July 31, 2004, and a friend messaged me, telling me that "Jimmy died last night." I refused to believe it. I thought it was a cruel, mean-spirited, totally not funny joke. I called Jimmy's house, and when his mom answered the phone, I said, "Hi, is Jimmy there?"

All I could hear for what felt like forever was breathing on the other end of the line, and then she said with the deepest sadness I've ever heard, "Oh, sweetie, he was hit by a car last night."

I paused and then replied: "Is he okay?"

She inhaled deeply, then exhaled, and said, "No. Beth, I'm so sorry... he didn't make it."

That afternoon, my then-boyfriend, two friends, and I drove to Jimmy's house to offer support to his family. Jimmy's mom and dad invited us in. We sat around the kitchen table, in shock. We didn't say much. We shared a few memories and laughs, but mostly we cried. 

I would never hear his voice again. I would never again hear his infectious laugh, hug him, skip school with him, or share our deepest thoughts and secrets. Jimmy was gone, and I couldn't understand why. He would never graduate high school, become an adult, or have a wife and children. Jimmy's mom and dad lost a son, and Jimmy's younger brother was now an only child. It was so unfair. 

In the coming months, I combed through the newspaper each day: I cut out every article about Jimmy, slipped it into a plastic sleeve, and put it in a binder. I would read the articles over and over, pouring over the words and telling myself I would never forget and never let him go.

A week or so after Jimmy died, 100+ people showed up at what came to be known as "Jimmy's Corner", the intersection where he was killed. We hugged, laughed, cried, and when the clock struck the time that he died, each of us lit a candle and walked him the rest of the way home. 

My life has moved on, while Jimmy will only ever be the memory of a 17-year-old boy.