I'm in the staff room of my workplace as I prepare to leave after a shift. My manager is there, along with a couple of other staffers, and another in a nearby room down the hall within earshot, while the administrator walks into the staff room and drops papers on the table in front of me.
"These are the life insurance papers I asked you to sign before the first time you tried to kill yourself," she blurts out. I'm aghast at the lack of discretion. My manager looks at her with his jaw agape, and asks her, "why wouldn't you do this in private with him?"
"This is why people like me are quiet and normally clam up about these things," I say in frustration as my hands go up in the air. "This is why one day you might find me dead in a pool of blood somewhere, or stepping in front of a speeding truck or something, because we find the battle just isn't worth it anymore, or we don't have the strength to fight it, because it's been drained by people just like you."
And then I woke up. Just now. It was a dream. But a dream based in reality.
I know what it's like for a lot of people from day to day, for those of us who are looking for the slightest bit of good in the world to make it a little bit brighter. I often will say something to someone to light that little candle in their day, because light is the only thing that can fight darkness. It might be a delivery driver who shows up to drop something off. It might be a friend online. It might be a co-worker. I just think all of us should be proactive to try to make the air a little more positive, especially during these times; times which have been the most trying in modern history.
It might be especially hard to deal with for those of us who have already been compromised by some form of mental illness. For me, I've been compromised, I believe, since I was 12, when I tried to shake my dead father awake in his bed, while my mother tries to quell the stress with chain smoking and a constant stream of tears. Suddenly, from that point forward to the present, I began to get involved in a series of car accidents and incidents of self-harm that I kept quiet, to perhaps call attention to myself that something was wrong. I wasn't brave enough in those days to admit that was the case. I was a kid. Not a pure and innocent one either, but who of us really were?
Nowadays, to this day I still engage in self harm. As recent as yesterday. I won't go into details, other than to say when I feel I deserve punishment, which is a lot, I administer it to myself physically. I was accused of something terrible at work that sent me into a state of mind that's hard to defend my sanity against.
Medication has helped. It actually saved my life more than once. Cannabis oil has been especially beneficial, perhaps even life-saving. But as many mental health professionals will tell you, medication alone won't do the trick. In person talk therapy combined with medication is the double whammy that can beat back the Big Dark Monster. I took part in that therapy a couple of years ago. But here's the thing... after three visits, my "allowance" of time with a professional, ran out.
That was with the psychologist. She was quite good, but constrained by bureaucracy that says she can't help me anymore if the money isn't there to pay for it. The kind of money I don't have. This help was through Morneau-Shepell... yes, that Morneau that resigned from Canadian politics in disgrace. Then there's the psychiatrist I've been under the 'care of' for the last few years. At least up until a year and a half ago. The last time I saw this person, I was given two prescriptions and sent on my way without booking a return appointment. No calls to see how I'm doing. No follow ups of any sort. So I guess he's not my psychiatrist anymore. My wife Janice understands my frustration, because she accompanied me to my appointments, and sensed, like I did, that he didn't seem to care a hell of a lot. Clearly, after all this time has passed since my last appointment, that's proven to be quite true.
I tried again to ween myself off the meds, twice, since then. But I always wind up being that same guy that found his lifeless dad in bed that day in '78; still that same little boy looking for some kind of relief from pain that just accumulates and accumulates. But I won't let you tell me, either, that I'm weak of mind and spirit. Because 42 years later, depression and anxiety issues be damned, I'm still here. Like my psychologist said, I Am Resilient.
But I can't have this kind of strength to forge forward without my wife with a net at the bottom of that tall building I teeter from , scrambling to figure out where I'm going to fall next. She's always there to catch me. I know you're reading this, Janice. I live because you make it so. I love you.
Still, life all too often questions me whether or not all the pain is withstand-able. I know my brain is scrambled from my history of injuries and self-harm. And I know, no matter what I tell myself, that I'll endure whatever comes after me. For now. Until tomorrow, when I'll inevitably ask myself that same question... Can I? I'm doing battle with my own self, my own self doubt, my unrelenting guilt for past misdeeds. When I'm at my worst, I'm literally disgusted by what I see in the mirror. Like yesterday. Those of us like me know exactly what I'm saying here. I implore you, don't you even dare think of telling somebody like this that "others have it worse than you", "be happy you have what you've got", "you have to have a better outlook", etc. What you wind up doing is just heaving more guilt on this person, making everything worse.
Through my eyes, I don't see an end to all of it. Would you? After 42 years? There were glimmers of hope, like when I was first prescribed meds by my physician. I gained control somewhat, and was able to tame the beast temporarily, but I could never kill it. Like the song says, you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.
It isn't getting easier with age, it's getting harder. Friends are disappearing. Some are dying -- one from the same illness that I'm dealing with -- and others disappear out of frustration for me. I don't blame one of them. I've become a chronic introvert, resisting socializing out of fear of some kind of rejection or chastisement that will send me back into that cage with the Beast to do battle once again. I just don't know how much longer I can keep fighting at my age.
So, now what? If I ask for another psychiatrist, I know what I'll hear. 'You have one'. Or, if I do get a shot at another one, I'll have to once again get on the years-long waiting list to see one. See a psychologist. The waiting list thing again, unless you have money. Just don't expect the health care system to give a flying fuck about your plight if you can't afford to pay for it yourself. With the whole coronavirus thing in full swing right now, any attempts to get help are quite futile these days. All of the focus is on controlling the virus that's actually itself controlling the planet at the moment. But don't worry... if you have it, they'll find help for you somewhere, because they can actually see that you're sick. You're coughing, wheezing, have a fever, throwing up, all visible symptoms. People like me? You have to take our word for it. If you don't, some of us will self-harm. But most often enough, you will not see these injuries. We hurt ourselves in places where you normally wouldn't be able to see. It's why during this past summer, one of the hottest on record, you never once saw me wear shorts or go shirtless. Because there's a lot of shame in self-harming. I think I'm butt-ugly as it is.
I write these blogs partly because they're therapeutic, partly informative, and also to implore those going through anything similar to at least attempt to get help. Just because I've failed to find it doesn't mean you also will. For whatever reason, I'm not getting listened to, but that doesn't mean that's how it's going to be for everyone. There are plenty of success stories out there of people who've "found their way out". Why can't you be one of them? You at least have to try.
But here is the stark reality with me... as with every single blog I've written on this topic, this may be the last one I get to write. Maybe you'll more likely hear something like "at least he's at peace, now" from someone I know. I have a wife and daughter who love me and say they need me. That helps keep me going. But this illness of mine keeps challenging me. And to be frank, I'm not getting stronger with age.
Chances are, you know someone going through something like this. Don't give up on them. If you are going through it, don't give up on YOU.
God bless.
