January 30 is #BellLetsTalk day in Canada. Since 2010, the telecom giant has donated almost $100 million to mental health programs around the country, providing institutions and organizations with funding for continued access, care and research that focuses on mental illness, and ending the stigma surrounding it. Theoretically, it's a brilliant campaign. Anyone who lives with mental illness - and ALL the infinite ups and downs that go with it - would benefit from access to programming and care that teaches us how to balance daily function with the most terrifying of monsters on the mental health spectrum. Having an annual campaign that promotes communication and promises donations whenever the name is shared is a beautiful thought. But I can't help feeling that we still have a much longer distance to travel than this initiative says we do.
It is crucial that I once again reiterate that I am the one from the "1 in 5 Canadians" who experiences mental illness in my life. In the last four years alone, I was formally diagnosed with what I now refer to as the "Unholy Trinity" - major depressive disorder, acute anxiety and PTSD. (My anxiety just reared its ugly face as I considered whether an Oxford comma was necessary or not...) While having this diagnosis provides an opportunity for dialogue about mental illness and how it is impacting not only my life but those who live with and love me, there is still a part of me that is frightened to have that face-to-face conversation with the people who don't know me, say, employers, or new acquaintances. And further still, I struggle with not telling these people, in case I am suddenly hit with an episode that sends me spiralling and unable to leave the house for three days, thus putting my employment and potentially amazing new connections in jeopardy.
I am immensely lucky when it comes to the treatment I am currently receiving; unbeknownst to me, late last summer, my Dad began to have conversations with a psychiatrist he was working with, relaying to her the worry that he and my Mum were feeling when it came to my mental state. At this time, they were very aware that I had experienced a number of traumas in the four years preceding, and looking back on it now, I can definitely see why the alarm bells had started to go off for them. I was withdrawn and continuing to withdraw from my social circles; my explosive rage at the tiniest of obstacles grew with increasing frequency; my face was showing signs of my imminent implosion despite the smattering of makeup I carefully applied before any obligatory family event or contract-related work.
My parents had been through this with me before. I was an AWFUL teenager. And not just in the sense that I rebelled by getting my nose pierced and lipping off when asked to clean my room. No - I was absolutely horrid. I ran away from home repeatedly over the course of my Grade 10 year; I started hanging out with unsavoury people who were known to deal drugs and cause serious trouble; I was smoking almost a pack of cigarettes a day, with hardly a regard for my Dad's devout medical opinion with respect to such habits. However, it behooves me to note that I never did get in to alcohol, drugs (or those beyond the occasional joint), or any form of illegal activity. Something always stopped me just short of developing any sort of connection to that side of things - and for that I will always consider myself to be very lucky. But what I was developing a relationship with was perhaps far more frightening - I was finding it easier and easier to nestle in to a darkness that I couldn't exactly explain, but I could exhibit on a regular basis.
At this time, though I had known for practically my entire life that I was adopted, I had no idea where I had come from. I knew the story of the day I was placed in my parents' arms like the back of my hand, understanding that they had really, really wanted me, and were positively over the moon when it happened. They provided me with opportunities like few people in my life have had - a life growing up overseas, global adventures, lessons and activities that were perhaps not readily available in Canada. I had an incredible childhood, and while I can now definitively say there won't be a day that goes by that I don't thank the stars for it, there was a time when I could have cared less. Truthfully, it hurts me to say that now.
But I struggled with finding a meaningful connection to all these life experiences and how hard my parents worked to provide them for my brother and I; a meaningful connection would provide the framework for a life filled with gratitude, but gratitude was something that seemed so alien to me. Sure, I knew how to say THANK YOU when I was given something, or when someone went out of there way to support me. But that was where it stopped. The words easily left my mouth, but then just lingered in the air above me like a bad smell. There was no emotion behind those words, no feeling.
Fast forward a decade, and I suddenly had my birth mother sitting in my living room for Thanksgiving. It was the first time we met since the week after I was born and she placed me for adoption. Little did I know when I was searching for her that she would ultimately provide me with more answers than I had ever expected to get - and some that would keep me awake at night, trembling with fear. You see, she lives with mental illness. I can't be sure of her exact form, or which diagnosis is the most accurate, so it's fair to say that she lives with mental illness and just leave it at that.
She has told me what growing up with her parents - my biological grandparents - was like. The complete lack of understanding, let alone acknowledgement, that something very troubling was taking over her life. It's hard for me to feel any sort of emotion toward that particular situation - I would rather try and understand things from her perspective while keeping in mind that mental illness was something that was quickly swept under the rug or taken out with the trash when she was a child. Therein lies a disconnect for me. I am of a time when the discussion, while somewhat new and hushed, was really starting to take form. Recognition of mental illness is something I have been fortunate enough to have in my life, and I truly believe it is what has made one of the more significant impacts for me. There was certainly no #BellLetsTalk campaign when my birth mother was growing up... and I often wonder if something like this would have made any difference in how she was treated? Would she have had a better relationship with her parents? Would she have had more access to treatments and programming? Would she have been a completely different person?
Since starting with my psychiatrist and having my own formal diagnosis, I have been able to take a step back from this plague that has settled in to my bones, and begin to unpack what it means to live with a mental illness. It's now apparent to myself and to my parents that I was struggling with it for far longer than any of us knew. Lightbulb moments during emotional conversations with my Mum have actually allowed me to begin the act of forgiving myself for the way I behaved - something I think that weighed heavily on me for years and years and contributed to the anxiety I feel so often. It is in those conversations that I am truly hearing what my parents went through in order to save me - and this actually includes a sightly humorous episode of "International Kidnapping", in which they invited me on a holiday to their condo in Portugal, but withheld the part of the itinerary where I was not in fact going to return to the little Persian Gulf island I had called home for many years. We look back on it and laugh now - but at the time, it was a cold, hard slap of reality, and a risk my folks were willing to take in order to save me from myself. And in reflection, it probably DID save my life at the time. We didn't have any meaningful conversations during this secret trip, but I now wonder if we did... and I just wasn't listening.
Part of talking is actually listening. And that is where I think one of the biggest disconnects exists - we just don't take the time to really listen to what is being said to us. Living in this fast-paced, high-tech world means we are making fewer and fewer real connections with one another - we don't have to respond to that email or text; caller ID makes it possible to avoid having to speak on the phone. I often wonder now, had I taken the time to truly listen to what was happening around me - listen to myself more than anything - would I have had the chance to grow in to a different person? Would my life have taken a detour for the better, and formed in ever-growing successes in front of me? It's hard to say... I have yet to determine exactly how to travel back in time. But I can always imagine that the relationship with my parents - the single-most important relationship in my life, no less - would have been far less turbulent, and far more connected in its purest form.
If we all take the time to listen - listen to ourselves, our families, our friends - can we begin to shift the stigma of mental illness to one more rooted in compassion? I'd like to think we can... but there is still a part of me that says this is impossible. For the four out of five Canadians who do not experience any form of mental illness in their lives, can we finally lay a blueprint out that promotes an intimate understanding of how soul-crushing and life-destroying mental illness can be? And more importantly, THAT NOBODY ASKED FOR IT? It's hard to say - they would need to be listening to everything we say. EVERYTHING. Souls will be laid bare; layers upon layers of fear, guilt and shame will need to be stripped away, leaving us naked and vulnerable to those around us. Layers that so many of us have surrounded ourselves with for so long that it's tough to imagine life without them.
I see steps being taken every day in Edmonton. I see, with greater frequency, contact information for local organizations that provide treatment and care for the one-in-five who are living this nightmare. I see the media taking a greater interest in portraying mental illness not as something to be feared, but as something we must begin to understand in order to provide much-needed support. I see people in my social circles making documentary films and short videos about the subject, and incredible photo exhibits of community members living with mental illness and ultimately the stigma and shame of it all. There are absolutely steps being taken. But I always worry that this isn't enough. A little bit of worry isn't necessarily a bad thing - but when you take in to account that this situation includes the actual LIVES of people in our communities, the worry seems that much more justified. Then again, I am an inherent worrier - if I didn't have something to constantly worry about, I don't know what I'd do with myself.
So, on this day, this #BellLetsTalk day, let's take the time to LISTEN to one another. Take the opportunity to truly hear what those around you are saying - and not saying, which can be far more telling than words expressed. Check in with those you love, make sure they check in with you. This world doesn't seem to be getting any kinder, but these little acts of love and support can be the entire world to someone. You just never know what another person is going through unless you truly hear what they are saying.
As always, reach out to me if you need to talk. I am ready and willing to listen to whatever you have to get off your chest. Know that I love you, and I stand beside you as you navigate your way through the Daily Grind.
Bigs Hugs + Much Love,
*Maura*
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