I am a film / video director and editor by trade. My focus is primarily the music industry and documenting its stories. A couple of years ago a friend asked me to help her put together a film about a family singing group from the 1960′s known as the Cowsills. Working on the film would become a great focus of my time for two to three years and would change my views on life, parenthood, fatherhood and families in general.

Getting right to the point, despite his ability to recognize and encourage so much of the talent that oozed from his home, Bud Cowsill was an abusive father. He was incredulously manipulative and selfish. And his children, in turn, feared him to the point that they never spoke to each other about what went on within their household. Truth be told, they didn’t live their childhoods, in many ways they survived them. In building the story of “Family Band: The Cowsills Story” Louise and I both wanted people to see the whole story, not just the success and the ride to the top, but the crippling affect that Bud’s controlling and abusive nature would have on both their careers and their lives as adults. With the support of Bob Cowsill and the rest of the family, we were able to to do just that. Along with demonstrating the affects of abuse on a family, our goal was for the film to help families recognize the power of sibling bonds and that no matter how dark the past, a brighter future can be found through love, communication and forgiveness.

The story of the Cowsills, I’ve learned, is not an unfamiliar one. And all too often the story is shared long after the affects of abuse have become rooted in the minds and hearts of the abused. It is a stark reminder that people often project one persona for themselves and their family, when in truth their world is nothing like what people see. For many kids, they really have no idea that their life is any different from others and that the abuse they’re engaged in is normal. It’s not until they’re older that they realize, “hey, you mean most dads don’t assault their kids?”

For me personally, the story of the Cowsills is a wake up call to any father. Louise worked much closer with the family over the eight to nine years it took to capture all of the footage, and has a much broader appreciation for the relationships between the family members. But in the short time I got to work on the film the shear impact of the role that abuse played in the development of each kid is still deeply ingrained in my own head. It speaks volumes to the impact a dad can have on his children both good and bad. Whether or not you’re abusive to your children, how you interact with them and how you approach them over something as simple as putting their shoes away, can create a pattern that will define your relationship with them throughout their lives.

We as fathers have opportunities to provide our children with so many amazing gifts. How we decide to do that will greatly affect their hearts, minds and souls as they grow into adulthood. As I watch the finished film now and reflect on my own childhood as well as the first several years of my time as a father, it’s obvious to me that working on the film changed my life and how I view my fatherhood. It’s why I wanted to invite you to watch the film. While you do, ask yourself, “how will my kids view me ten, twenty, thirty or forty years from now?” If you’re like me, it may cause you to take a step back and adjust a few things and to see your children as even more fragile than you already do. It may cause you to recognize that we’re not just here to protect their bodies, but their minds as well.

I’ve said this before and it bares repeating. We are building our children’s memories, today. Each experience has the potential to be one that they look back on as a defining moment. It’s up to us to be aware of ourselves, our actions and our reactions knowing that one day our children will reflect and react in life based on those specific times and how we handled ourselves. What our children remember about their childhood is not 100% up to us. But as dads (and moms) we are held accountable for a great deal of it. I believe that regardless of the type of father you are today, there is always room for improvement. Working on the Cowsills film did two things for me. It told me overall I’m probably a better dad than I gave myself credit or. At the same time it showed me that every day I have an opportunity to improve.

“Family Band: The Cowsills Story” is currently airing on Showtime through the month of March and into April and is also available on Amazon.com. If you happen to watch it, I’d love to hear what you think so be sure to share your comments.

Peace.

The year that followed was a time of personal reflection, of watching Six Feet Under reruns and bursting into uncontrollable tears at the slightest sign of blood in CSI episodes. I simply didn’t have a filter to protect me and everything set me off. I retreated into my own world, barely stepping out of my apartment, fearing the stares of strangers on the street. I felt like a recovering burn victim – everything hurt and I couldn’t handle anyone touching me.

When I signed up for the self-employment program I knew I wouldn’t be able to start my own business. I hardly had any money and, besides, I wasn’t any good. But being in a classroom at least distracted me from the spiralling depression I faced at home. In class I could pretend to be someone else, someone better. I kept to myself as much as I could. I was shy and quiet and desperate for change.

Enter D—-.

D—- didn’t look his age. His hair wasn’t grey and just being near him made me feel more alive. It wasn’t just me – everyone felt it. He had an energy that could bowl you over if you weren’t careful. It was intense and dangerous and, yes, erotic. Maybe if I wasn’t in the vulnerable place I found myself in I wouldn’t have succumbed so easily. As it was, his presence cut into me like an exacto-knife.

Years later I wrote to him that I wasn’t sure whether he saved me or nearly killed me. Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. When I was near him, the unbearable pain of my father’s death, of my best friend’s suicide, subsided into a dull ache. No one else had that effect on me. I became desperate to connect with him, wrote him long emails about my life and about the pain I was in. He seemed to listen; to care. This confused me. No one in my birth family had shown much understanding for what I was going through. My father died rejecting my transgender identity. My mother disowned me. My sisters simply avoided me. And yet this man, this teacher, took the time to listen to my pain.

I wasn’t used to the attention. I became tongue-tied and fell even more deeply under his spell. He was a magician and I was his rapt audience. I would have tried to be a woman for him if he’d asked. I might even have had his babies. Who I was shifted like the wind. My steps were uncertain, tentative. Only my obsession with this man seemed to give my life any stability. I thought if I just stayed close to him, I would be OK. Every day I sent him long, painful electronic missives on my life. Sometimes he’d answer and when he did it felt like someone stroking my entire body softly. It was a gentle wave that washed over me, engulfing me. I couldn’t say no.

It was all wrong, of course.

When I finally confessed my lust to him, he told me he was flattered, but the feeling wasn’t mutual. His boss, N——, called me in to meet with her and D—– in her office. She asked me how I was doing. My body seemed to act without my consent. I began to shake, my hands trembling, my right hand rubbing my forehead uncontrollably. I felt the sheer terror of being exposed rise up in me and I just wanted to get out of there. She said that they were looking for someone who could support me, someone to meet with on a regular basis.

Two days after the meeting D—- emailed me to say that he had found three people for me to contact. And he indicated that he could not let our business relationship interfere with my getting the help I needed on a more personal level. He was cutting ties with me. I wasn’t prepared for this. I blamed myself for telling him I loved him; for telling him the truth; for trusting him. Why, oh why, had I let down my guard? But it was too late. It was over. Though I tried to stay in contact, our relationship never recovered.

I did seek out one of the people on the list he provided. They gave me as much support as they could, but it wasn’t the same. The pain of losing D—- ran so deep I thought I would die from it alone.

Even though I have, in the intervening years, rebuilt my life, I still miss him. I have a job that challenges me, a partner I love deeply, a pug that fills me with joy. Sometimes that dark time of my life, more than six years ago now, feels more like a bad dream than reality. I know that I can never go back to that mental place. My constitution can’t handle it. But I’m grateful for it too – for what I learned about myself, for the vulnerabilities it exposed. I like to think I’m stronger for it. It’s part of the story behind the man I am today.

The first post for this component can be found here: A Theory of Bipolar

My 30 Day Mood Chart as recorded by the Tracking Software on my iPhone.

Well one week ago today I had my first follow-up appointment with Doctor Z on how my new treatment is going, an enhanced lithium regime. According to the blood tests that were run, I have reached our first target amount of lithium in my blood stream.

And I also have numbers now too, the daily logging in of my mood which you can see above in the chart. This chart covers the preceding thirty days from today.

It’s generally quite spiky, although generally within a band on the top half of the chart.

There’s also the big dip, albeit one that I bounced out of fairly quickly which was a relief given that such dips before have usually led to periods of several weeks of low moods.

According to Doctor Z I’m now reaching the point where the medication (if our bipolar theory has validity) where I will start to see the effects. Hopefully, future versions of this chart will be a bit more even and fluctuations less pronounced.

If they aren’t, well then we’ll have to consider increasing the dosages or changing strategies. But the great thing now, is I have some real data to provide insight.

One change that I am going to make from here on in is to start a daily log. I’ve tried journals and diaries and the like before and I’ve never been good at them. But a basic log of the major events of each day would be very helpful.

It might help me to better understand what some of my triggers are and what situations or problems continue to recur with negative impacts on my mood.

I’m also attaching the PDF report for those whom might find it interesting. It covers from the start of this component on February 4 up till today. One interesting note: the overall trend line appears downward but for individual indicators it appears upwards.

I’m not quite sure what to make of that right now, but I hope to have a better idea when I next report in on this component in about 4 to 6 weeks.

View the PDF of the Mood Tracker Report Here.

The website for the mood tracker can be found here: T2 Mood Tracker

This will be the third time I have done this, although this stay is for a shorter period. Removing myself from my living situation and being alone for a time has become very important to me. I wish I could do it with more frequency but the rarity of it makes the time away intense and precious.

In the past when I have gone on a self-directed retreat I have composed “Retreat Writings,” some of which I have posted here. I hope to do more of these spontaneous takes of my mind-state and surroundings when I go away. If you are curious what I mean by Retreat Writings just search “Retreat Writings” in the search form on this page. Some are boring. Some say something important to me.

I am appreciative that my family is supportive of me going away for a brief time alone. They understand and accept that I cherish the solitude and respite from hassles of daily life. Even if it is just for a night and a day, these brief retreats keep me sane.

One person’s sea otter is another person’s pot-smoking dog-mermaid (this graffiti was photographed near Lake Washington, Seattle, WA).

“Just get over it”, they said. And really all I wanted to do was crush their toe with my foot.

Maturity comes with time.

Nowadays I understand the impulse behind the statement. The sheer terror of witnessing someone you care about descend into the turbulent darkness of their own minds. The horror when you realize that you are not in control; nothing you do is good enough; and this might not end well. Nobody likes to feel powerless.

“Just get over it,” they said, because they were afraid. Wouldn’t it be such a relief, they thought, if that person over there, me, with the filthy clothes, and the stench of sweat, just decided to get their life together? It would mean not having to look at their – my – suffering. Suffering is what happens when you give in to your base impulses, letting your mind wander without self-restraint into places it wasn’t meant to go, like depression. Giving in means it’s a choice. And if it’s a choice you can change it. Right?

I remember going to see the doctor and filling in a questionnaire about my mental state. I was a 21-year-old university student and suicidal. The psychiatrist diagnosed me with major depression. He explained that I was experiencing a chemical imbalance, or a deficit of happy chemicals and that if I took antidepressants, we could get my chemicals back under control. Think of it like someone with diabetes, he said. A diabetic has to monitor insulin levels but once the levels are balanced they can live a satisfying, rich life. I so wanted to believe that, but it just didn’t feel right. Or rather, it didn’t make me feel much better.

I mean, diabetes (at least, Type II) is also the result of certain life choices. My grandmother was diabetic. She was also overweight and loved sweets. She died young as a result of diabetes, my mother told me. Would I die young because of my depression? If she was unable to balance the chemicals in her body would I have any more success balancing the chemicals in my brain? What if I didn’t have the will power? I felt weak and hopeless and incapable of anything good.

Besides, maybe I was better off dead. If I was born with a chemical imbalance, as the doctor seemed to think, then maybe I was a failure of evolution and should be weeded out of the human gene pool.

But something else was bothering me. Everybody experiences low moods. Some people are able to bounce back from those dark moods much more effectively than others. Why? Was it their brain chemicals? Was it will power? Didn’t the media proclaim: “If you want something badly enough, you can get it”? Even the Bible said so: “Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.” (Matthew 17:20). Why, then, was I not able to overcome my so-called chemical imbalance through faith or will power? It must mean that I am a bad, weak person.

Telling a depressed person to “get over it” is a little like telling an amputee to just get up and walk. In both cases you are likely to face an angry response.

I tried the pills – and overdosed on them in an impulsive attempt to kill myself. I liked the irony of dying by anti-depressant. I survived and realized that pills alone were not the answer to my problems. The thought of death, too, brought little comfort. What if all that happened was that my energy, my suffering would leave my earthly body and float like a ghost through time for all of eternity? Around this period I discovered writings from people who belonged to my tribe. Like me, they struggled to fit in and lived between genders. This blew my mind. I started to explore gender and, more specifically, my masculine side. I cut my hair short and didn’t correct strangers who addressed me as “he”. It was nerve-wracking and exhilarating.

I started appearing publicly as a man and got a job at an on-demand publishing company that seemed to barely notice my gender expression. That I could live comfortably in my skin, be employable and feel optimistic about my life was a mental revolution for me. I stopped taking antidepressants altogether and focused on transitioning to male full-time. This meant testosterone injections bi-weekly, a more masculine wardrobe and informing friends and family. Some accepted it more readily than others. The depression lifted despite some particularly painful family interactions which saw me ostracized from my parents.  Despite the pain, I saw hope at the end of this dark and stormy tunnel that was my life. I didn’t yet know what my life’s meaning was or what I had to contribute to this world, but I was beginning to understand that my life had value.

I was not weak, or depraved, or a waste of earthly space. I had some say over my life.

It’s ten years later now. It’s hard to remember how it felt in that place my mind went, where the darkness ran so deep it felt like I was rotting from the inside out. I understand now so much more of the dynamics of the illness that gripped me, the “major depression” that in the eyes of the doctor was simply a chemical imbalance that needed pills thrown at it.

Healing is a life-long journey, and perspective is the ocean we sail along. It’s constantly shifting. Today-me would tell then-me to not listen to the critics who have nothing better to offer than “just get over it”, because today-me understands that while the expression is perhaps well-meaning and inspired by fear and love, it isn’t helpful. Instead, healing only comes when you get “into” something, deeply, completely. And once you’re in, you get to rearrange the puzzle-pieces of your life the way you want. I got into my depression, alright. Deeply, painfully. It nearly destroyed me but it didn’t. I survived. And that makes me strong.

My tortured history made me the person I am today, and I like that person. Many people do. Today-me values then-me and thanks them. Because of you, today, I’m building the life I want – one puzzle-piece at a time. Thank you.

The delegate march on Queen’s. 200+ students fighting for change.

I’ve had the sheer pleasure of spending the last two days at the Unleash the Noise summit in Toronto, an initiative of The Jack Project. Organized and run entirely by students, the goal was to get 200+ students from every province in Canada to chat about the going-ons of mental health in our lovely nation.

When I received the email, waaaaay back in February, that I had been selected to attend as a delegate of the summit, I may or may not have began shrieking and running around my wee apartment in total glee. Now that I have actually attended and participated in the summit, that glee is hanging on strong.

Being granted the privilege to speak in front of hundreds of fellow students whom possessed the fire for mental health that I do, geeze, there aren’t words to adequately capture how that felt. But I’ll tell you this, it was really, really good.

Myself, speaking at the Unleash the Noise summit.

Despite loving public speaking (for some odd reason), I’m a shy lass. I talk big with my ideas, and can share those with (relative) ease. But to make friends? Oh hell no. I’m just plain terrible at that. Years of being bullied can do that to a girl. But here? Here was different. I met people with whom I connected instantly. Bonds built with just a couple words. I found myself connecting with people I would never have otherwise met – and now that I have, I’m unequivocally grateful. To all of you who spoke, chatted with me, and reached out, you’ve helped impact my life in a truly profound way. We came from literally all over Canada, for the exact same reason. While our differences were many, our similarity was undeniably clear. We were there to change the world.

Canada is ready. Canada is hungry for change. Mental health equality, awareness, whatever it may be that you call it – it’s on the brink of boiling over. We’ve gone to long neglecting the need for a real, open conversation about each and every citizen’s mental health. This is the breaking point, and now is when change can and will occur.

I want to extend a massive, MASSIVE thank you to everyone who made this possible. From the incredible organizers of the summit, to the sponsors, to the amazing new friends, to my supportive pals and amazing family. You’re the reason living a life with bipolar disorder is one unhindered by negativity, and prevailing with utter joy. Thank you.

But the truth is that if I had not lost this thing (which as it is obvious now I won’t divulge what it is) I would not have fought so hard to make something out of my writing; to make a life that has purpose, a life of living true to myself and of which I could be proud.

In the dream, I was also stripped naked and left on the streets. I was trying to make my way home without being seen by cars and people on the street. I was utterly humiliated, crawling through ditches avoiding the eye-line of passersby. If I were ever to go back and ask for that thing I once had and valued, I would be exposing myself to ridicule and vitriolic judgement. I know this.

The realization also came to me that in my waking life, while I may share and bravely show you my metaphorical nakedness, I am the one controlling the level of exposure within my calculated comfort level. Or, sometimes I just put it all out there because I have to, to express.

So, I think about hope today, after my morning tea and a hard-boiled egg, after I came to my senses and examined this fretful dream. Hope for a meaningful path forward. Hope in myself, in my abilities and ambitions. I wish you hope and give you the following poem to consider for yourselves.

I wrote it for you.

I invite you to buy Eating the Heart First, my debut collection of poetry in which this poem first appeared. 

DO NOT LET DEATH CATCH YOU

or the ocean take you
into spiraled caverns

where no living
thing sees light.

Fill your lungs.
Rise from this,

the darkest water.
Let the wind

carry you
on ethereal bones.

Be of the grass,
of dreaming birds.

Be of the last unforgiving
stone of the silent earth.

Fire scatters your wish.
Burning petals of ash

drift to your cheek—
Remember

when your mind was keen,
when the hope

which possessed you
rose to the stars.

© 2012 Clare L. Martin

Problem is, sometimes that part of the brain is activated even when we are not in danger, or when we only perceive ourselves to be under threat. The result is that our reactions are not in proportion to the difficulty we face. This is common with people who suffer from complex PTSD, for example, where a relatively minor incident on public transit might trigger flashbacks of a childhood warding off the unwanted attentions of a violent parent. The result can be debilitating and re-traumatize the individual.

As someone who lives with complex PTSD, I am getting better at noticing when my brain acts up in weird ways. I notice myself shutting down, or when I feel the panicky emotions as they bubble to the surface. In that moment all I want to do is hide. The trick, for me, is to realize that the lizard brain is taking over and focus on feeling the discomfort, examining it like a curious child, realizing that it is something that is not part of me. Sometimes visualization exercises can help: I can put the feeling on a mental conveyor belt and send it away from me, at least for now. At a later date, when I no longer react so strongly to it, I can take the time to really look at what it was that set me off. But knowing when that moment is, doesn’t come easy.

To be with discomfort and not try to change things immediately is a challenge. It’s what meditation is all about for me. It’s how I keep my sanity.

It’s hard to say when my PTSD first started. I think it happened when my family moved me from a relatively peaceful neighbourhood in Prince George, Canada to one of the most violent countries in the world: South Africa. While I was not personally assaulted, I was emotionally neglected as a child and lived in terror that I would be cast out of the family house to fend for myself. I believed I was evil and that I caused people only pain. This was what I was repeatedly told by a mother who had long since lost the ability to communicate love and affection. I learned to mistrust people, especially my family. As a result, I retreated emotionally into myself, sharing little with anyone and erasing myself as best I could. If nobody noticed me, I told myself, then they couldn’t hurt me. For years, that strategy worked pretty well. But I wasn’t able to live like that forever. I think we all need to feel a connection with another human being to survive. I tried to reach out to a sister, and to handful of friends, but my attempts were clumsy and only partially successful.

Slowly, I lost hope of ever experiencing happiness. I thought: if this is as good as it gets, then I’m better off dead. Living with major depression for more than 10 years will wear a person down. But even at my lowest points, something inside me wouldn’t die. I made a few half-hearted attempts at killing myself. Then, I stopped. I reached a precipice, only it was backwards: if I stayed, clinging to the side of the mountain I would most certainly die. But if I dared to jump into the unknown, I stood a chance of living.

The turning point came when a close friend, A— decided to end her life. Witnessing someone follow through on an action that I had contemplated more than once myself, watching the pain engulf her family and the friends she left behind, recognizing the ugliness that is suicide, I realized that I wasn’t ready. Maybe some day I would be but I wasn’t there yet. That’s when I made a choice to turn my life around.

It hasn’t been a straight road out of the darkness – I still have off days, occasionally – but every day is a new opportunity for me to face new challenges and seek out connection with the life energy all around me. I’m still learning.

Vancouver’s Burrard Bridge, the Sun Run crosses False Creek here. © Ramunas | Dreamstime Stock Photos & Stock Free Images

With about six weeks and change to go before race day I’m starting to feel a sense of anticipation about a trip to the West Coast. The race itself is, obviously one of my  bigger goals for the year, although in keeping with yesterday’s post I’m also looking further afield to what comes afterwards.

I’m also starting to think about what it will be like to spend a significant chunk of time back on the Coast, the place that I’d prefer to be living versus where I am actually living. In a way, it’s going to be taking a holiday with my life rather than from my life.

Still, I’m trying to keep my mind on the here and now and my more immediate goals, the things that will make resuming life out there possible.

In terms of training, I’ve decided to start tort… erm, strengthening myself by setting steeper inclines on the treadmill for the shorter runs. This stretches out my times but it also strengthens my muscles.

What I really need is some good weather and a lot less snow on the ground. The running inside staring at the television is starting to drive me around the twist.

Treadmills aren’t the most accurate way to measure the distance a person can run and you can see a marked drop off in the distances I can run in a given time on the treadmill versus those tracked outside using RunKeeper.

A couple of runs outside in half way decent weather (where I don’t run the risk of hitting a bad icy patch and breaking my neck) is exactly what I need right now.

Hopefully, I should be able to conduct of few of those in the next couple of weeks.

A few weeks back while I was out driving some errands I happened to catch ‘Tapestry with Mary Hynes‘ on the CBC, the weekly radio show about religion, philosophy and the latest in pop-spirituality. Not usually one of my favourite CBC productions.

Nonetheless I found this episode to be quite interesting. It was entitled ‘Lamenting the Road Not Taken‘ and the first portion is an interview with author Adam Phillips.

For those interested (and I recommend it highly) here’s the podcast.

In particular one of the phrases Phillips used during the program was ‘marooned in the possible’ discussing the state of being unable to move from possible to actual.

The phrase has stuck with me, prompting me to re-listen several times.

The quote above is from a novel from my favourite science fiction series (written by my favourite author) and encapsulates a moment when possible goes to actual.

The hero of the series, Hari Seldon, in this moment makes a choice that will shape the rest of his life, even though he believes that he will fail. He is taking a leap here, without understanding why and with ramifications far beyond what he can imagine.

This passage very much encapsulates to me this idea of choosing one of the multitude of possibilities open and deciding to make it into something real in the character’s life.

From that moment forward the path for the character of Hari Seldon was set.

The Myth of Our Potential

According to Phillips we live in a culture that encourages to believe that we have infinite possibilities. The culture does this in spite of the fact (and without acknowledging) that the resources in this world are finite which places limitations on us.

Phillips contention is that many of us are suffering because we’re focused on what could have been instead of finding ways to take pleasure in our ordinary, un-special lives.

It sounds like it’s a big downer and depressing but somehow it really isn’t.

For one thing, Phillips speaks with such passion about the possibilities for happiness that may lie in these “ordinary un-special lives.”

It also has something else: the clarion call of truth.

We have been raised in cultures that have tried to impart the limitless potential of every person, perhaps with benign intentions but often just to feed consumerism.

Every human is unique and one of a kind, just like a snowflake. This is the ordinary condition of both human beings and snowflakes.

The Age of the Extraordinary Ordinary

Yet here is where I part ways with Phillips in at least one sense and that’s perhaps in just taking a different perspective. Phillips speaks very convincingly about the pleasures of these ordinary lives but in doing so he misses something important I feel.

Perhaps this comes from being raised on Star Trek then graduating to Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov but I see our current world as an extraordinary place.

This is the age of everyday miracles.

We often forget that because we’re still caught up in all of the usual triumphs and struggles of being human or otherwise despairing over the state of the world.

That’s not to say that the world doesn’t have problems. It has huge ones.

Yet at the same time, human beings have accomplished amazing things, wiping out viruses or going to the moon. Or heck, even the fact we create more literature in a year now than we did in a century or even a millennia past.

For those of us fortunate enough to be living in the developed world and even in much of the so-called developing world, our ordinary lives are filled with things our ancestors could never have imagined.

Perhaps this is one of the pleasures of the ordinary life that Phillips was referring to, but if so, it’s a relatively recent one, being able to appreciate just how amazing our ‘ordinary’ is.

Puts the un-special life into perspective.

Recovering Potential and the Possibility of Painful Choices

Even if our possibilities are not infinite and endless we still all have a potential that we can possibly fulfill or not fulfill.  However there are things that interfere, things that can be beyond our control, such as a major physical or mental illness.

Depending on the nature and severity of the illness this can ultimately take from us whatever remaining potential we may have in our lives.

But then for those of us fortunate enough to recover, we gain new potentials.

I think for many of us recovering from a major illness we experience this sensation of being marooned in the possible as our new potentials open up.

For a while I believed I was going to die. For a while I believed any future life I would have would be severely curtailed. For a while I believed that I would never be “normal” or functional again.

The idea that my future life might actually be better than my past was, and at times still is, overwhelming. Life for a long time has been exactly the opposite.

A long downward spiral, getting sicker and sicker.

Finally reaching a point in which it seems like the only possibility is that life will come to an end in the very near future and all that was possible is reduced to that one fate.

And then to come back from that and to have all those possibilities re-opened.

It’s easy to become lost in all the renewed possibilities, especially if it has been a very long time since all the possibilities of the world were open.

And perhaps this is where some of my recent troubles lay.

Being marooned in the possible is actually an enticing experience. You have, what feels like, all the choices in the world open to you. Why rush in making them? Especially when you’ve experienced the feeling of losing your possibilities.

Why rush to collapse down all these wonderful potentials, all these interesting directions down to a path that will be shaped by just one?

It’s one of the most comfortable traps a person could be in.

For me, someone who has often looked to the future, it’s been overwhelming. I’ve enjoyed the feeling that almost anything could happen now.

And why shouldn’t I after what I’ve been through?

But now it’s become a feeling of aimlessness, of drifting. Where am I going? What am I doing? How do I start moving forward again?

My 2013 Plan has been in large part in response to this and to the need to set a direction, at least for my immediate future. My first reports on this project I’m going to start posting next week, with generally good outcomes.

As my plan has brought more of my immediate life into focus, now I need to start thinking about what I’m going to do with the rest of my life.

Today is the one year anniversary of my blogging here on Beyond Depression. One year ago today, I published my first post, ‘Letter to a Friend Who’s Not Here,’ a letter to my friend Terry. My blog started out through these letters

Since then it’s grown quite a bit and become about much more than just a plaintive cry for a friend I missed. It’s become an important instrument in my healing.

So it seems appropriate that I would be reaching this turning point now.

A Very Nice Paradigm

To help bring this post to a close, I’d like to share with you (thanks in part, to the miracle of Google, since my copy of this book is currently MIA) this passage.

It’s from the novel ‘Leaping to the Stars’ by David Gerrold, noted author and most famous for writing the classic Star Trek episode ‘The Trouble with Tribbles.’ Leaping to the Stars is the third novel of a trilogy.

In this passage, Charles “Chigger” Dingillian, the thirteen year old protagonist of the series is having a discussion with HARLIE, an AI lodged in a robotic monkey.

 HARLIE said: “What is different or unique about you, Charles? What is it that you represent that no one else does? Work this through-”

“Okay-I’m not the stuff that I know. Because anybody can learn what I know. So I’m not that. I might be the unique combination of all the stuff I know and all the stuff that I’ve experienced-but that’s still stuff, isn’t it? That’s all stuff….that happened in the past.” I felt a sudden rush of energy. “I just got something, HARLIE. I’m not the story that I tell about myself, am I? That’s what all that stuff is. It’s just storytelling.”

“Go on….”

“You’ve figured this out already, haven’t you-?”

“Keep going, Charles.”

Suddenly, everything seemed to be fitting together-Douglas, J’mee, Whitlaw,even HARLIE. I started working it out aloud. “So, okay_so my history is part of me, but it’s not me. It’s just more of the stuff that….I used to get my bearings. This is about telling right from wrong. I need my history and my stuff and all the other context as a way to tell which way I’m facing. So that stuff is useful. But it’s still stuff. And if I’m looking in the past-’cause that’s where all that stuff is found-then I’m looking in the wrong place because that’s like looking in the rear view mirror….instead of out the front window.

“So I’m not in the past, and the now is always happening too fast- so the only place to change things….is in the future!” My brain was starting to hurt. “Because-” I almost had it now. “It’s all in the plans you make.”

“Very nice paradigm,” said HARLIE. “So who you are is what you’re planning….?”

“I guess,” I said carefully. “It’s what I’m committed to, isn’t it? Who I am is my commitment.”

from the novel ‘Leaping to the Stars’ written by David Gerrold

First Book in the Series

The Starsiders Trilogy, as it’s known, is actually a youth oriented book that took off with adult fans as well, similar to Harry Potter although on a vastly smaller scale.

The series is about the highly dysfunctional Dingillian Family trying to escape an Earth that is about to experience a drastic economic and social collapse. It’s an excellent family drama set in a very plausible future of unrest and chaos.

But aside from its literary merits, the series imparts many interesting philosophical nuggets, such as the above’s forward-looking way of seeking identity.

We are what we commit to.

And every commitment begins by making a choice, by taking one of the possibilities and then making it an actuality.

And then sticking with that choice, even when it’s uncomfortable and difficult.

I don’t know whether my potentials and possibilities and choices are leading me towards an ordinary life or an un-ordinary life.

So far, my life until now has a decidedly un-ordinary feel and I would like to keep that.

But I do know that in order for me to have a life where I can enjoy the good and happy things I will need to start choosing some possibilities. Make some commitments.

Everyone’s inevitable fate is still out there, we will all face a time when all that once was possible in our life will come down to its inevitable conclusion. But between now and then, our choices are what will determine what goes from the possible to the actual.

For additional information about some of the materials used in writing this post follow the posted links:

David Gerrold’s Homepage
Asimov Online (Be Warned, Dates from the Early Web)
In Lieu of a Webpage (He doesn’t seem to have one) a Review of Adam Phillips

And for everything else you do for me too Charlotte (not her real name, but she knows who she is!).

First time on beyonddepresion.ca? Or been here since the start? Comments are always welcome. Let me know what you like, what you didn’t like and what you thought was just plain crazy! 

Looking forward to hearing from you.

On the day he died, March 15th, 2004, he was going into surgery to have a medi-port put in so that he could have anti-viral medications administered. It had been determined that he had a “super bug” virus that was rare and difficult to treat. His doctors tried their very best to keep him alive, even though he was really dying for weeks.

The image of my child so worn out, so feeble; in delirium, pain and wrestling with death is always with me, but I hold to the memories of his laughter and the times when he was resting in comfort. I am posting two poems today that were written for Adam. Both are collected in Eating the Heart First.

“Premature” was written when Adam was alive and “Ice to Water” was written within weeks after his death. I officially mark the beginning of my commitment to The Writing Life at the time of Adam’s death.

Adam was a grace in my life. Who I am today is because of him. When he died, I poured myself into writing to assuage my grief and to make something beautiful out of my sorrow. I think of him today and every day. I am at peace with his passing and grateful for his tremendous being.

Rest in peace, beloved child.

PREMATURE

The fetal body breaks loose
becomes a little boat
tethered to a harbor of machines.

Doctors say the hearts
of these children whisper-tick
like doll hearts: inconsistently.

Death can come as a whisper
blown across the cheek.

He will always be frail.

He has his father’s
un-feathered skin
and the bones of birds
that were my visitors
during a trimester of sleep.

Born to fit in my purse,
he is one singing coin
among many.

First published in Literary Mama, “Desiring Motherhood” series October 2010

ICE TO WATER

The hospital room is cool.
There are moths in your breath.

Circled in ice, you’re enwrapped in white fire.
Coffee-colored urine drains in a bag.

I swab your lips with lemon glycerin.
Your pulse beeps loss. I buzz a nurse out of the void.

I cannot watch you die.
The doctor scowls at my cowardliness.

Stunted from birth, plucked too early—
You were wingless.

It took me years to believe it wasn’t my fault
you despaired in an infant’s life.

I choose blue for the burial
like the thunderhead in your eyes.

The undertaker powders the fine
hairs of your face, seals you in secret.

First published in The Dead Mule, April 2008

The game goes like this: One person gives the other player five or more words and the next person writes a complete sentence using the words and other words. Simple. My girl and I took turns giving each other five random words and writing creatively.

I am a poet. I have always identified as a writer, from way back in my early school days. My girl has not, but she is supremely talented and would be a great writer if she embraced it. My girl is inclined to visual arts—she paints and is very focused and visionary. I think it may be the fact that I am so fiercely pro-writing that she pulls back from it, but she is good—really good at it.

What was so wonderful was that we “played” together and enjoyed each other’s company. The game is fun and I know she wants to play again. Let me show you how a turn may transpire.

Grass
Smoke
Snake
Alive
Rain

“Smoke snaked, as though it was alive, through the rain as I walked barefoot on the grass.”

See? My sentence is pretty straight forward but we got really silly with some of our play. I love getting silly with my girl. She has a killer wit and makes me laugh all the time. I think she might get that sense of humor from me and my side of the family.

I cannot divulge here what has transpired in the last year in my family, but I will say that we have had a few near-tragic moments that made us question everything and our own survival. To be able to sit in a café enjoying my girl’s company, playing and laughing is a miracle for which I am immensely grateful.

The Doodle Tag game goes like this: One person begins a doodle. The next person can call “Freeze” and take over the doodle. This goes on until the players feel the doodle is “finished” or they tire of the game. It was fun to play with my girl and make a wild and mysterious doodle with her.

I love being creative with my girl and I hope she and I make this a regular thing.

Related articles

• Soul Food for Friday: Quotes to Leverage and Let Go of Stress (richardburkey.wordpress.com)
• The Healing Power of Restorative Yoga (rightmindprograms.wordpress.com)
• “Don’t Stew… Do;” How to Create a Stress Relief Strategy That Works For You (prweb.com)
• Doodling a great way to Relief Stress! (stressrelief101dotcom.wordpress.com)
• The (Only) Seven Spiritual Principles We Need to Succeed (psychologytoday.com)

This week I thought I’d share ‘NYCE 2 Know Ya’ by Canadian rapper K-OS. Based in Toronto, K-OS was one of the artists that performed at the closing ceremonies of the 2010 Winter Olympic Games in Vancouver BC. The video was also filmed in Vancouver, although its doing what it so often does, playing Anytown, North America.

I find the lyrics very apropos given my last post and also from a mental health experience. I think a lot of us can relate to the experience of living inside our heads and being the new kid in town.

I’m super excited for this weekend to take these workshops with Chelsea Roff at VIRAYOGA. Chelsea has dedicated her teaching practice to helping students use yoga to heal from eating disorders, unhealthy body image, and learn to finally fall in love with their bodies.

So, in preparation for what is sure to be an emotional + incredibly healing weekend, I’m going to get real witchyall. And in doing so,  I’d like to start a conversation about Chelsea’s notion that yoga is a “double-edged sword” for students struggling with body image and disordered eating. While yoga can be profoundly healing and empowering, a vigorous practice can still encourage maintaining low body weight, image obsession, and comparison with other students’ bodies.

I know this to be true. Why? I’ll tell you:

As you all know, I became very very ill a few years ago with a mysterious autoimmune disorder that reared its head when I came down with a stomach flu and left me with a tremendous amount of food allergies and a severely depleted immune system.

It was this illness that sparked my (second) love affair with yoga. And while yoga was helping me find my strength and space to heal, it was doing next to nothing in terms of helping me gain necessary weight I lost while struggling to recover immune strength and properly absorb nutrients.

But here’s where it gets tricky. I’ve never had a truly healthy body image. I’ve never had a truly healthy relationship with food. I secretly and sometimes not-so-secretly desire to be stick-thin. I value thinness and the women I admire most all happen to be little waifs.

I’ve have held this belief for as long as I can remember. I don’t know where exactly it came from. My not knowing, I’m sure, contributes to this mentality. I’m sure I will find out more about these root beliefs in this weekend’s practice with Chelsea.

Because when my immune system collapsed and I could no longer digest food and all of a sudden I was 80 lbs and doing yoga and running every day….do you think I was really that mad about being so thin?

No. Of course not! Twists were so easy. Arm balances were a breeze. Clothes looked great. I didn’t have to wear bras. I loved being thin. But I was in tremendous physical and emotional pain due to the conflict within me: I so desperately wanted to heal, to be be vibrant and thriving…but I loved being (truly painfully) thin.

Because I strived for it for years. I don’t want to claim that I’ve ever had any specific eating disorder. I don’t find these classifications helpful. But I will say that throughout childhood and especially high school I had extremely obsessive and unhealthy patterns around food, and an achingly self-depricating conversation with myself around body image that was on loop 24/7.

So do you really think that it is such a great coincidence that after years of restricted eating and self-depricating body image my body’s immune system decided to rebel in a way that kept me from being able to digest food properly for years?

I don’t think so.

I think I taught my body to reject food. To not know how to nourish itself.

And this is why I find this topic so fascinating. Because the body listens. The mind rambles on and on but the body knows. And one of the largest personal struggles I have encountered in the last year or so is how to be okay with my weight.

Yes, I am a yoga teacher and a grand motivator and a health nut and a wellness writer and I still struggle every day to love my body and accept my weight. And I don’ t know what “normal” is for me. And I fear my capacity to restrict my eating and say horrible, hurtful things to myself. I struggle trying to figure out how much body fat I really need. I struggle staying in a positive mindset while trying to lose weight. I struggle not taking every. damn. chaturanga. And I have still kept all my size 00 jeans that were at one point, shockingly, too big for me.

I don’t have it figured out. And some days are harder than others. But it is part of my dharma to figure this out and learn to teach and lead others through their personal struggles like mine. To, as my teacher Elena Brower says, “use my beauty to serve others in finding their beauty.” And to use my heal to help others heal.

After my first teacher training (which occurred one month after my dad died), a fellow trainee wrote to me once and said “it is no coincidence that you were healing when you learned to teach.”

I always thought “if only she knew how true her words are.” Well now you do, too.

I’m always healing. In one way or another, my life has been a constant series of healings. Everybody’s has. The question is: how do we, as practitioners and teachers of yoga turn our struggles into teachings? How do we use the healing of our own bodies to heal the entire planet?

It is a struggle that may never fully end. But this is what we learn from: from the moments that challenge and confront us the most.

We don’t need to be perfect. We just need to by honest.

And this is why I teach.

{ sat nam + namaste }

xo

G

Related Posts:

Why Calorie Counting Is The Devil

Let Go Or Be Dragged

Open Letter to My Students

Where Is Your Self-Esteem Coming From?

I had heard this argument before. And I believe it. I may not be a psychiatrist myself but I do feel that I am at least somewhat qualified to proclaim an opinion on the matter. I come from a family of physicians. My father, my uncle, my cousin, my grandfather, my sister are all trained physicians. Two of these are trained psychiatrists: my father and my sister.

Aside from my pedigree, I have personally struggled with mental illness since childhood. I can trace the beginnings of darkness back to the tender age of 11. Five years later, my father would prescribe me anti-depressants. In my early twenties I attempted suicide. I was briefly (and voluntarily) hospitalized. At age 26, I experienced a nervous breakdown that left me incapable of working and barely able to do basic activities such as bathe, eat or leave my basement suite.

My road to recovery has been gradual and often painful. I no longer suffer from depression, at least not to the same degree, but I take my mental health very seriously. Every two weeks I see a therapist. Every month, my partner and I consult with a couple’s therapist. I’m doing everything in my power to ensure that the black dog doesn’t bite me again. And by choice, I am doing it medication free.

I am not here to claim that no one needs medication. For those with severe mental disorders such as schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, medication may mean the difference between life and death. Even in my own case, when I was severely depressed, I cannot prove that the pills I took did not, in some way, prevent me from successfully killing myself. But I also acknowledge that I regularly overdosed on those self-same pills, sometimes to feel better and other times to wipe myself off the face of the earth. For me, they were not the solution. They were just another complication.

Especially as a long term strategy, I think we are wrong to rely on psychopharmaceuticals to heal us. They do not.

It shocked me to discover how quickly doctors reached for their prescription pads when they found out my diagnosis. This primary focus on medication as the solution to mental illness must stop. We are teaching people to become dependent rather than take ownership of their own healing. Other solutions do exist. Meditation, for example, was much more successful in my own life than any pill I ever took. But practicing it wasn’t easy. Part of my illness involved a severe case of anxiety. As I sat on the floor, trying to focus on my breath, my mouth would salivate as I struggled to keep calm. Sometimes the emotions would simply overwhelm me and I would burst into tears.

I credit meditation with helping me regain my composure and my sanity after my father passed away when I was 26 years old. Meditation, rather than medication, made all the difference to me, because it returned the power to me. By simply observing my own reactions, impulses and truly experiencing my emotions, however uncomfortable, I slowly learned to steer myself, like a sailor learns to sail along the ocean.

But back to the DSM. My own experience has been that psychiatric labels too easily become pitfalls and life sentences. At various points in my life I have been labeled with: major depression, agoraphobia, generalized anxiety, borderline personality tendencies, obsessive compulsive tendencies, and gender identity disorder. The latter is currently a topic of heated debate and is set to be re-labeled in the DSM-5 as gender dysphoria. But how much do these labels become a kind of self-fulfilling prophecy? As we seek to name what we struggle with, we take on diagnoses as the thing that defines us. How dangerous is this, especially when those diagnoses are more the result of internal politics within in the field of psychiatry than scientific reality?

In my early twenties I was told that I would need to take medication for the rest of my life. I am happy to state that I have been drug free for over 10 years now. And I have never been better.

It makes me wonder: has the field of psychiatry outgrown its usefulness? Where can it go from here?

How do you know when to pursue your thoughts to the very end? Because I could do that too. I have the persistence, the sheer doggedness this requires. I ask for nothing more than a goal, a mindless endpoint to drive my daily actions. It would be so easy. Like clicking a button on the computer and watching a computer program kick into gear. Let the computer do the thinking. I’ll just watch. From a distance. It’s where I feel safe.

But I am not a computer program. I am a complex web of intellect, emotion and action. I am what is termed a human being. How many people do you know that ask you who you are? Not many. They ask you what you do for a living more likely. It’s how we define ourselves. We are human doings. And what I do for a living – well – that’s not important to this rant right now. I was talking about not having a goal. Of drifting.

Living in the moment would be wonderful if it actually made me happy. But these days it’s just another excuse not to look at my life. It’s just another program I run so that my brain can shut down and go on vacation.

This is no way to live.

But what is the alternative? Actually approaching every action with the full bulk of my being? The sheer uncomfortableness of feeling. Why? Why put myself at risk like that?

All of this is pretty abstract. I don’t know what to make of it.

Sometimes I just like the clicker-clacker of my fingers on the keyboard. Did I mention I bought a Macbook Pro 13″ screen? It’s the first Apple computer I’ve ever owned, and i have to say, i’m pretty pleased.

There I go again. Wanting to talk about anything except what it is I’m doing with my life right now. My therapist says I need to really look within, sit with the discomfort I’m feeling, determine what it is I need to meet my needs. How the heck do I know? I know my needs aren’t getting met but I couldn’t tell you what those needs were. It’s frickin’ depressing is what it is.

Some needs:

1 – To express myself. Growing up I didn’t really express my views much. Not verbally. I skulked around mostly, like a depressed teenager does. Then I left my teens, and the skulking continued. I retreated into silence. Unlearning that isn’t easy.

2 – To help others. I like people, but it’s hard at times to reach out to them. I worry that I don’t have enough to give. That I don’t know what I should give and what I shouldn’t. My grandfather used to say: “the road to hell is paved with good intentions”. But what do we have other than our intentions?

3 – To feel seen. To me that means connecting with like-minded people who recognize me for who I feel I am. I have a partner and she definitely fulfills part of this for me. But no one person can be everything to someone else. We are pack animals. Why is it so hard for me to find people I can really, truly connect with?

4 – To trust myself. Or more accurately, to feel that I am worthy of my own trust. So often I feel hobbled by my own insecurities. When, I ask myself, am I being unreasonable? Or immature? Or just plain wrong? But surely that’s the wrong series of questions. How can I know the answers to those questions unless I dare to go into those spaces that are uncomfortable? Experience, in the end, is everything. If by everything you mean: connecting, truly connecting, with the moment you are in, with the people who join you there, with the wisdom your body carries with you.

And by you I mean me. And you. If you’re out there. If you care.

I care. I’m trying.

It has been five years since Peter, my only significant significant other, left me.

Five years! I can’t believe it, in a way, it’s such a big chunk of time to have passed. And I can’t honestly say it went by in the blink of an eye, because it sure didn’t.

Too much has happened to me, I’ve experienced too much, changed too much.

These are the days that I look in the mirror and I don’t recognize myself anymore. And these are the days when I realize that’s a good thing.

While a major mental health crisis isn’t my recommended method of personal self-discovery it does have the significant advantage of forcing you to face the essential truths about your life. Often in spectacularly unpleasant detail.

And having gone through that process I now understand some essential truths about the relationship that I had with Peter.

That it was a colossal mismatch driven by our mutual need for self-worth.

Both of us, I have come to realize, had a terrible need to feel ‘valuable’ and ‘worthy’ that was somehow temporarily satisfied by our relationship.

It was why neither one of us broke things off when it was becoming apparent that we weren’t working out in other ways. We needed that sense of validation that the relationship was providing.

For me, my untreated Depression, even when not acute, made these feelings more pronounced, especially with the series of personal failures that marked my life.

In this context too, Peter’s decision to end things when he had the safety of someone else to go to makes a lot more sense. He was getting his ‘fix’ from someone else. I might have done the same thing if the opportunity had presented itself.

It was incredibly hard, those first few months, as I started slouching towards a renewed depressive episode. It would be a long time till things got better.

And then I changed. Changed more than I had ever expected to.

In the process I’ve gained a contentment with being single. Even in my renewed depressed moods, I rarely dwell on my single status or long for a guy in my life.

While there’s been some dates over the last few years, generally when the depression receded some, there hasn’t been anyone who really approached being as ‘significant’ as Peter was to me. And I’ve been somewhere between content and happy with that.

Coming back to Calgary I had thought I might run into him, perhaps get a chance to talk and clear the air between us. I never wanted him completely out of my life.

Through fourth hand reports I’ve learnt however, that he no longer lives in the city and has moved to somewhere in Saskatchewan.

It’s another unsatisfying ending but I’m getting accustomed to those.

I don’t really have any kind of broad statement to make about those who struggle with depression or other mental illness and their intimate relationships.

For me, I’ve often felt that a romantic relationship simply isn’t viable.

That’s a personal statement (and one that I’m also quite content with) about what I think I’m capable of and also what I want out of life.

Recently though I’ve had reason to maybe reconsider that opinion though. I’m still not looking for anyone, still not expecting anyone, but have been debating whether or not I should change from a position of ‘no’ to ‘maybe.’

I’m still absolutely determined though to take the lessons of my time with Peter to heart, to avoid falling back into the same trap.

In the end, I’d rather be on my own than with the wrong person. And I’m good with that.

There is a difference between demanding respect and commanding it. I have fought hard for my creative life, for my family and for emotional and spiritual health. In the past, when I have been torn down, I have internalized the disrespect aimed at me, and have lost respect for myself.  I have clawed my way out of HELL and I do not ever wish to return. I will hold firm to this ground with all my power.

Last night I wrote a private communication that I worded carefully and imbued with much love and respect. I was certain this communication would do something to activate positive change, and maybe in time it will, but when it was received I was struck by how angry it made this person. They felt I was throwing guilt and accusations at them when I was not. I did not defer my position to this person but accepted blame for my own failures of the past, thanked them for their many sacrifices, and offered hope that things could be improved upon by joint effort and commitment.

I made the first move by writing this heartfelt, honest letter—which I will state again was not accusatory or confrontational in any way. In some sense it was a last-ditch effort on my part to bring about healing. I may have to seek professional guidance to help me see a way to make this relationship more than bearable. I want my joy back. I want this person to have their joy back, too.

I am doing my very best to keep healthy and to move forward in my life. I have never been happier than right now—so many good things have come to pass and I believe I will be able to navigate whatever future that may come my way. A friend told me a parable, which I will not recount here, that resonated with me. The point of it was that we all need to take care of ourselves and our own lives, and that when we love someone we cannot go to the depths with them, but can only offer support.

I am in a transition right now that has great portent for my life and for my family. We make choices every second of our lives. I choose to be self-determined, not willful, but rational and respectful of my own needs while offering support to my loved ones. I cannot remain in an unhealthy dynamic that feeds sickness at its core.

There are ways to alleviate pain and a wise person would seek help to do so. If it is physical pain, see a doctor. Some pain may be chronic and not treatable, but there are many options. There are ways to healthily alleviate emotional pain. I am not a professional, nor am I trusted enough to determine how this person can seek relief. All I can do is detach and support. I cannot and will not wallow or be beat down to accompany anyone on a detrimental, nowhere path.