What to expect when your brain wants to kill you - excerpt from: SLEEP

Sleep is the fastest way to escape depression. When I feel overwhelmed, I go to bed, where I can drop the Mask and silence The Critic. The worse the depression, the more worn down I feel, the more tired I get, the more I want to sleep. Denial naps during the day, early bedtimes, and late sleep-ins help fill the time without confronting the worst of it. 

The better I am managing, the less I sleep.

I don't want to try

I don't want to try

because I'm afraid I will lose the chance.

 

Thank you for being part of my life

A self confessed curmudgeon

with a cozy Christmas heart.

You were my first friend

at my first full time job

and became my best friend

when we both quit together.

Our humour was the same

our conversations effortless.

You took me to my first drag show

and shared the joy of pride.

You were my first editor

and my best champion

You had the confidence in me

that I never had.

You were the first to listen

the first I told.

And when it was time to go

your hugs were always the best 

You meant so much to me.

It was hard to watch you suffer.

I hope you now have some peace

Thank you Michael

for being a part of my life.

What to expect when your brain wants to kill you - excerpt from: VIRTUAL MENTAL HEALTH CARE

 

I have been asked many times what I think about virtual mental health care. My experience over the last few years has been mixed. Technical glitches are frustrating, and the effectiveness of video calls is definitely not the same as an in-person visit, but e-health is the way of the future, so here are a few observations.

One of my psychiatrists used Zoom technology during conference calls. Our appointments were very short. Our sessions include him, his psychiatric nurse, and a psychiatry student. I found all three faces looking at me at the same time unnerving. With an in-person session, I can focus on talking to one person, or, if I choose, I can just look at the space in front of my shoes. In the Zoom call, I felt obligated to look at everyone and into their eyes, which I found overwhelming. I tried to figure out what they were thinking instead of focusing on sharing my own concerns. I always shut down the conversation as soon as possible.


Other distractions didn't help the situation, such as the clock at the bottom right of my screen and my own face in the upper right. There were no clocks in my therapist's office, at least none that I could see. I didn't worry about finishing up "on time" or if I had wasted too much time on a specific topic. Also, my therapist's office doesn't have a mirror. Seeing my face online was distracting. It broke my train of thought, especially since I was wearing noise-canceling headphones. I looked ridiculous.

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9-8-8

 

This is a new resource in Canada.  It is great to have one number you can now call or text to get mental health support 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. The site also has additional information on understanding suicide, suicide-safe language, facts and myths, statistics and risk factors.

What to expect when your brain wants to kill you excerpt from: PETS

My first pet as an adult was Charlie, the cat. Shawna and I had been married for a few years and decided we needed a "real" pet (not a rodent). We went to the humane society and chose an older cat no one wanted. Kittens are adorable, and so are always the first to be adopted. I remember being nervous as they interviewed us to ensure we qualified as responsible owners. My wife had cats and dogs growing up, which helped our cause. Anyway, despite my anxiety, we were allowed to bring Charlie home.

I loved that cat. She was so calm and easygoing. I loved how she would jump up on me when I lay down. She would gently knead my chest with her paws for a couple minutes, then curl up and settle down. I could feel her purr against my heart. It was such a soothing sound. Charlie was the closest I have ever had to a therapy pet.

Then we got Sam. He was a rescued kitten. He was fun and a ball of energy and would cackle when excited. Unfortunately, he never really settled like Charlie did. He also was not as calm or cuddly. Later on, he developed a nasty habit of marking his territory. The smell was disgusting, so Sam became a source of anxiety. He was not affectionate with the kids and never let you pat him for any length of time. Sam lived a very long life. In the end, he looked like a zombie with skin and bones. Then, one day, he curled up in the shade beneath a table outside, closed his eyes and passed away. He didn't seem to be in any pain. Sam just knew his time had come. I hope I can do the same.

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What to expect when your brain wants to kill you excerpt from: THE MASK

"Were you bullied as a kid?"

I've been asked that question a lot, especially by Pdocs and therapists. I'm not really sure why. I know my dad was. Someone shot a firecracker at him when he was little. I know my friend was after he did a whoopsy in his pants on a Grade 6 field trip. I've seen people bullied my entire life, both adults and children, but I have never been the target.


I guess the Pdocs and Therapists were trying to establish if there was some childhood trauma that could inform my depression. I told them nothing was there. My childhood was happy with no need or want. My only fear was that of being bullied, and I took steps to protect myself.

I watched in silence as others were attacked. Empathy would surge through my veins, but never with enough courage to help. When they were bullied, I was too. I made note of the target, his tragic flaws and what made him so susceptible to abuse. Then, I made sure I never made the same mistake myself. I internalized what I saw and shared in the shame and tears, all the while doing my best to blend in so as not to be the next target. I'm sorry to those I let down. I should have been there for you. Instead, I ran away and hid behind my mask (figuratively, not literally). I adjusted my expression and manner based on whoever I was with. People saw in me what they expected. And it worked. I was never bullied.


Over the years, though, I became my own worst enemy. Behind my mask, The Critic was relentless in his criticism and ruthless with his words; he cut me down again and again, draining me of my worth and self-compassion (see chapter on The Critic). By trying to hide from bullies, I created my own, worse than I had ever witnessed.

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