A SUDDEN SHIFT

I hate feeling off. 

 

I woke up fine. I got in a couple of decent writing sessions. Then I made the mistake of stepping outside. Immediately, my mood sank. I wanted a good cry. For nothing. 

 

I did not cry.

 

I am better able at keeping myself together now, even when I can’t shake the off-ness. 

 

It’s not just me. I sensed the sun was off, too. Something about the hue of light hitting the sidewalk wasn’t right, a little orange filtered in. I glanced up and the sun looked normal. It was the clouds surrounding it that had an unnatural grayness. Forest fire season, I told myself. There must be one with some bad air filtering this way. Early stages of any impact on the city. I hate when it gets worse, when the sun is reduced to an eerie red ball all day, when I breathe in smoky air. 

 

Stay away. Please.

 

On my way back from my road trip, I caught the smoky haze first in Redding, California, then in Bend, Oregon. Two different fires, the smokiness felt with every inhale in Redding but a distinct haze affecting skies in Bend, too. 

 

Stop following me.

 

I don’t think it’s forest fire fatigue that’s hitting me. I’m supposed to have accepted this new normal which has annually affected Vancouver’s summer skies since at least 2015. I haven’t. I’m bloody tired of the public and the politicians doubling down to fight any life changes and extra costs that may help the planet. If we treated this like a war, we’d all pitch in, we’d accept sacrifices. We’d see necessary changes to the economy. Instead, people deny the obvious. They put heads in the sand. Politicians fail to lead. Laws and regulations don’t change or are stricken by new governments, voted in to restore what was, planet be damned.

 

That could impact my mood. That could explain this off-ness. But I’m certain that’s not it. I’ve had the environment and people’s recalcitrance on my mind every day for years now. We need more Gretas. I need to be more like her. 

 

It’s more likely my mood suddenly dropped due to a personal haze, that which follows a travel adventure. I’d been gone four weeks, most of it on the Oregon and California coasts. Breezes and sunshine—the normal kind—every day. My mood usually dips after trips. But I still think that won’t hit until tomorrow when it’s the weekend and I don’t have as strict a writing schedule to occupy me. I really won’t have much of anything to occupy me. Even in regular times, I prefer my weekday work mode to the relative emptiness of Saturdays and Sundays. My travel dip awaits.

 

And so there it is. I’ve done my due diligence in scanning for causes of depression. It’s not linked to anything at all. So often, that is the case. I step out of my condo, my little protective bubble, and I realize I’m part of—or perhaps not part of—something bigger. I’m here, taken aback by a mood that can’t be explained away. Without a specific cause, it’s difficult to turn it around. I know not to fight it. Depression is a master at its own doubling down. I have to walk with it and through it. I will feel it until I don’t. 

 

I understand this is why some people may choose some sort of upper—alcohol, drugs, anonymous sex—as a temporary escape. The option of a quick, if temporary, escape may entice. I’m just not wired that way. A good thing in the long run though harder in the short-term. 

 

I’m down but I won’t go fetal in my bed. I’m not even rushing back to my bubble. (It’s already burst.) I sip on my oat milk latte in a café. I write this out, my formal acknowledgement. Yes, depression. I see you, I feel you.

 

For now, I am disconnected from everything around me. I am not liking this damn shift one bit. This is the hand I’ve been dealt for today, maybe longer. There is no other deck. I play it. 

 

Play. Funny word. Sometimes no fun at all. 

 

HOW TO MEANINGFULLY CHECK IN WITH SOMEONE WHO HAS MENTAL HEALTH STRUGGLES

Okay, last week I bemoaned the fact that people say, “I’m here for you” when their follow-up words and actions indicate otherwise. I needed to unload. I needed to leave readers with food for thought…maybe some introspection and some tweaking of their own interactions. 

 

It’s nice to be nudged instead of nagged.

 

Still, I feel this post is a necessary complement to last week’s. Mental health still has its stigma. It’s hard to wade into unknown waters. Perhaps my perspective regarding what I’d want may provide guidance to navigating heart-to-heart conversations with your own friends and family who may experience mental health challenges.

 

Let me preface things by saying I have had a few good conversations lately in which I’ve felt heard and understood. One of my closest friends moved to Montreal six months ago and I flew there for a weeklong visit. She’d known I was struggling, partly with depression but primarily with my eating disorder, and we were talking about it in-depth within the first hours of the visit. Another person is a new friend whom I met for a second time for a glass of wine on a deck overlooking Jericho Beach and the Burrard Inlet. To be clear, both these people have been open with me about their own histories involving eating disorders. There is nothing that compares with talking with people who can knowingly nod—Been there, done that…or something like that. These people are dearer to me for letting me lean when I’ve needed to. Their understanding is implicit, but it is expressed, too. I’m not expecting a friend or family member to provide that caliber of support. That just wouldn’t be fair.

 

Still, whether it’s an eating disorder or any number of other mental health conditions—on my Insta account, I describe myself as a hoarder of MH labels—one basic tenet that I want people to know is that the condition is not a one-day thing. It’s not like someone saying they’re “depressed” because their team lost a game or you lost a key document when your laptop crashed. It’s not like when someone says they’re “anxious” about a date tomorrow night or have anxiety over an upcoming job interview. Without further information, these are presumably non-clinical cases of sadness and worry…regular emotions situationally arising in predictable contexts. In such cases, listening to the person requires being in the moment and perhaps a next-day or next-week follow-up. “Hey, did a tech guy recover your lost document?” “How’d the date go?” Done. 

 

If you don’t have the same mental health diagnosis, your understanding of what someone is going through requires more information…from THAT person. In a nutshell, it’s about asking open-ended questions and then actually listening, even seeking further clarification.

 

“How are you doing?” is a starting point. 

 

Often, I don’t trust that the person really wants to know. Even if they listened well on a previous occasion, I tend to assume it’s a default question with a default answer: Fine. Okay. Good. Sometimes I even reflexively say, “Super!” It comes from a boss of mine who used that word to define her mood and most everything else. It’s a basic word but, when used by an adult, it comes off as surprising. We’re socialized to not be so enthused…unless our team has a big game and we’re wearing a block of cheese as a hat. At meetings, I entertained myself by tallying spoken “supers.” My punishment? The word found a prominent place in my own vernacular.

 

You don’t get a gold star for asking “How are you?” to a depressed person. Upon first ask, the answer is rarely, “Not so good” or “I’m struggling.” That only comes as a first response if they truly trust you, if the two of you have a track record of meaningful check-ins or if they just can’t even fake an “Okay.” If anything, I’m less trusting after being more open. Too many times the other person has gone out of their way to shut down the gloom. Good god, it's Debbie Downer again. Sometimes they reach too quickly for a diversionary tactic, such as an upper from the movie Up: “SQUIRREL!”

 

To let the person know you really want to know, you have to express that, maybe by even naming the context:

 

“How are you?” 

“Fine.”

“What I mean is, how are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

“Last time you were feeling depressed. What’s your current mood?”

 

I think there’s an assumption that naming a mental health condition is invasive. Tread lightly. Be the holly-jolly friend. Be the pick-me-up.

 

Yeah, that’s just grating. Obnoxious even. If I’m depressed and you’re playing the role of cheerleader, I want to flee. I want to block your number. You and your “super” this, “super” that” are not good for me. (I really must expunge that dang word.)

 

Here’s an obvious statement that nonetheless needs to be stated: If you’ve never had, say, an eating disorder, clinical depression or been diagnosed as bipolar, there’s an inherent imbalance in knowledge and experience. This is not the time to play Match Game. To talk about when you went on a diet and then—Presto—suddenly stopped, isn’t going to connect you to someone with an eating disorder. It sure isn’t helpful advice. It shows a complete dismissal of what the person with anorexia or bulimia is going through. 

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. You don’t need to come up with an anecdote about how you can relate because you can’t. A person doesn’t talk about a bout with the flu to respond to a cancer patient going through chemo. A person doesn’t mention a broken wrist to relate to someone who has had their leg amputated. A person’s appendectomy doesn’t come up when someone is scheduled for brain surgery. 

 

Relating is often part of empathy, but sometimes understanding comes from listening and letting all that’s said digest, the nods coming not from “been there,” but “I hear you.” 

 

One more key point: Don’t try to fix your friend or family member. All I want and need is to be heard. Just talking about a current struggle releases some of the inner chaos. Just be present. Be there.

 

Keep listening. Keep asking. Keep nodding from gained understanding. That’s all.

 

For my eating disorder, I’ve dealt with the following professionals, all in multiples: medical doctors, nurses, psychiatrists, psychologists, dietitians, occupational therapists, counsellors, art therapists, cardiologists, group home attendants, medical technicians, adapted exercise instructors and spiritual therapists. I’ve also been in support groups for people with eating disorders. My team.

 

I’ve had different teams for depression, anxiety and being bipolar. Smaller but still a full enough roster so we could don uniforms with garish colors and stand beside a head-scratching mascot for a team photo. None of that happens. I don’t want to start a mental health scrapbook. 

 

Think about it. If whole teams of professionals can’t fix me, there isn’t a suggestion or piece of advice you say that will suddenly make all the pieces of me fit together better. 

 

“Why don’t you try—” STOP!

“Have you thought about—?” STOP!

“If I were you, I’d—” STOP!

 

I’ve had well-meaning people complete each one of those statements. Many times. It only simplifies what is complex, and not in a helpful way. It negates the entire conversation. It isolates the person with the mental health condition. You don’t understand. 

 

It only increases the chances of the next check-in to go as follows:

“How are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“No. I really want to know. How are you really doing?”

“Fine.”

 

A pat on the back for you. Now the chat can move on to something more enjoyable. Your “crazy” cat. That new show on Netflix. Are Ben and Jennifer—oh, yeah, “Bennifer”—actually going to make it? 

 

Sure. They’re fine, too.

As a postscript, I'll say that reading and learning about eating disorders may help you understand and support your friend or family member. I'm cautious about this recommendation. We all know how Googling anything medical may lead to misinformation or may offer dire and overly broad statements that don't apply to particular individuals. I spent ten minutes searching "how to support a person with an eating disorder" and had to stop. Despite clicking on government-related posts, I still found inaccurate information and advice that made me cringe. This article is okay though it still raised issues for me. Perhaps the best thing to do is to ask the person directly, "How can I support you? What helps? What doesn't?" 

Ask. 

They may shrug you off, but it sure beats asking nothing and having the person think you are yet another person shrugging first, their struggle being something taboo.

 

 

 

POLITICIZING DEPRESSION

Leave him alone.

 

I’m writing about Senator John Fetterman (D-Pa); more specifically, his depression and going public with it. I’m not going to Google the circumstances. I’m going to be less disciplined, using Twitter bits and pieces that came up in my feed while he was trending upon admission and then upon discharge from hospital. It’s those Twitter bits I find problematic.

 

The man is a politician and, thus, everything about him is politicized. This is particularly so because he represents Pennsylvania and won his seat last November with 51.3% of the vote compared to Republican opponent Mehmet Oz’s 46.3%. A close race though perhaps not as close as predicted. The seat had previously been held by Republican Pat Toomey who chose not to seek re-election after serving two terms. As a “flip” (going from Red to Blue) in a Senate that is precariously tipped in the Democrats’ favor (51 to 49, with three of the senators in the Democrat tally officially being Independents), any vulnerability of the elected senator gets pounced on. If he were a senator from a clearly blue or red state, his depression wouldn’t garner as much attention. People would be less inclined to pounce, saying he’s unfit, speculating he was forced to run for office and forced to stay in office. In Hawaii where Democratic Senator Brian Schatz was re-elected with 71% of the vote or in South Dakota where Republican Senator John Thune was re-elected with 70% of the vote, the hospitalization of either politician wouldn’t garner much attention outside the given state. Should anything dire happen to either senator and a special election were warranted, there would be little chance of the opposing party scoring a surprise win.  

 

I’ve made a point of not scrolling or researching too deeply the reactions to Fetterman’s depression and his hospitalization. Snipes about depression are not good for my own mental health. I have dealt with crushing periods of clinical depression and I too have been treated in hospital. While Fetterman is a public figure and his detractors can say he’s fair game, any pot shots that demonize the man or the disorder, risk harm to Fetterman and others, like me, who have had to find our way up and back.

 

I saw many well-wishers, but quite a few judging the senator and his “handlers.” All of it felt partisan and, frankly, that came off as repugnant. If it were Ron Johnson, the re-elected Republican senator from Wisconsin, edging his Democratic challenger, Mandela Barnes, 50.5% to 49.5%, I suspect the same sentiments would have been expressed, just flipped. And that’s gross. That’s how divided the U.S. is. Let a senator’s mental health struggle be an opportunity to criticize him, to question his fitness, to do a little advance campaigning—does campaign season ever end?—so the electorate will think twice—five years from now when Fetterman’s seat comes up again or next year when the other Democratic senator from Pennsylvania, Bob Casey, is up for re-election.

 

I’m fed up with how mental health is manipulated in U.S. politics. I don’t see caring, deep discussions about how to support people with mental health challenges related to depression, anxiety, schizophrenia or any other condition. That’s not altogether surprising. Most countries are behind the times in dealing with mental health and the United States still hasn’t even figured out a compassionate, reasonable, accessible system to support physical health issues. There’s still a frontier mentality. Look out for yourself (and your family) (and your wallet); everyone else be damned. 

 

I was pleased that mental health received more attention during COVID lockdowns. As people struggled in isolation, anxiety and depression got discussed more but, alas, masks are off and everyone’s moved on. It’s the price of eggs, Gwyneth’s skiing skills and train derailments that are at the forefront now. Depression is a downer to talk about anyway.

 

Mental health only trends now when there’s another mass shooting. Okay, so that means it shows up a lot. But, again, the topic is distorted; it’s villainized. The takeaway: People with mental health struggles shoot up schools and malls and churches and movie theaters and concerts. 

 

Damn! They shoot up a lot. 

 

Who says it’s about guns? “Squirrel!” It’s about crazies. Loose cannons. Pariahs. Don’t even think about letting the welfare of schoolchildren and grocery shoppers impede citizens’ right to AR-15s, ammo buildup and all the gadgets that make killing more efficient. Righteous Second Amendment advocates double down. It’s mental health that’s weaponized. 

 

When news first broke that Senator Fetterman was struggling with depression, I naively—and hopefully—saw it as a different kind of opportunity, not one to doubt his competence and vilify his family, but a chance to chip away at the stigma that continues to exist pertaining to mental health. Depression, anxiety and any number of other conditions are not signs of weakness. They don’t mean the person is flawed. Do we say a person with prostate cancer or shingles is weak and/or flawed? It would be rare for someone with either physical condition to deny their symptoms and refuse to see the doctor. Overall, men take longer to seek treatment for an ache, blood in bowel movements or a circumstance that is slowing them down. Testosterone and a persistent tough guy persona can be a detrimental combo. It’s the same—worse, I suspect—when it comes to mental health. I’m a testosterone-lite dude and it took me decades to seek help for depression, anxiety, a bipolar condition and, sigh, I’ve basically told my psychiatrist to nix other diagnoses. I’m enough of a label queen already. 

 

It's of huge significance that Fetterman checked himself into hospital for treatment and did so publicly. F*#k shame. Never mind work and personal commitments. This was an oxygen-mask-on-oneself-first moment. He couldn’t help his constituents, his family or friends, until he got whatever help he needed, be it therapy, rest, a reset in terms of diet and/or medication. Sickness happens. One of the supposed takeaways from COVID was supposed to be to stay away from work when you’re not well. Rest, see a doctor, get better. 

 

Kudos, Mr. Fetterman. He’s been discharged, presumably stabilized, hopefully on the mend. Those who aren’t in the know will continue to shame and judge him. They’ll question his competence. They’ll scrutinize his actions and inactions. They’ll seek to peddle doubt and to cast depression as a character flaw and a liability. I’m hoping though that other people will respect him for being open about depression, at least on a general level. (He has a right to keep personal aspects private.) Let someone see Fetterman as taking action and being responsible in seeking medical help. Depression can be hellish. That notion that it’s a personal flaw deters people from opening up about it. There’s a damaging perception—I know it well—that a person should be able to turn things around themselves. 

 

I’m hoping Senator Fetterman continues to improve and that he reaches out to the appropriate supports when he experiences setbacks and/or when another devastating round of depression settles in. Let Fetterman’s lead serve as a positive example. Let others get help if and when they need it.

  

 

 

 

988 is a suicide hotline in the United States. In Canada, it’s 1-833-456-4566. Wikipedia lists many international hotlines here.  

I'M OKAY, BUT HOW ABOUT YOU?

I’m rarely Miss Sunshine, but let me give it a try. Online and when I’m out and about, armed with a mask for possible close encounters, I come across a common sentiment that everyone wants the year 2020 to be over. It’s dragged on, people say. A month feels like a year. Every tragedy is evidence that this year is cursed. I don’t fault people for this line of thinking. It makes for easy connections on social media. Misery loves company, as they say. If you raise a middle finger to 2020 in a tweet, you’re bound to get a lot of likes. That’s what it’s all about, right?

Personally, I’ve had worse years. I only have to go back to...let’s see...last year. I spent one-fourth of 2019 in a hospital and a group home in attempt to overcome my eating disorder. Didn’t work at all. I was hospitalized for being suicidal in both 2017 and 2014. Also not good years. (Same for the years in between.) Prior to that, I spent seven years in an abusive relationship. I could go on...

Truth is, I’m fine with 2020. As I’ve noted in prior posts, it dashed an extended European trip, first with a month taking Swedish language immersion classes in Stockholm and then on to Estonia, Helsinki, Prague, the Algarve in Portugal and a full exploration around Iceland’s Ring Road. The only way I could ever afford such an extensive trip was through perfect timing, selling my condo and putting my things in storage, thus going without rent or mortgage payments while abroad. It was all part of a grander scheme to press the reset button on my life, following Europe with a move to Toronto. The entire plan imploded, thanks to the coronavirus.

Fine. Nothing personal. The gods weren’t targeting me. Life happens. And so, we’ve learned, do pandemics.

I’ve come to realize that, with all my diagnosed quirks, I may be one of the people best equipped to weather coronavirus measures. Being an introvert, I take the steady stream of canceled events and social restrictions in stride. I have close friendships that go back four decades, but these people don’t live anywhere near me. We rarely text, Facetime or send emails and yet I know that, whenever we see each other after years apart, it’s just like old times. I’m nourished and so are they. It’s enough. This imposed time away from one another is tolerable.

Having an eating disorder, eating out can be highly problematic. If someone comments about the portion size of my order, the experience is ruined. Never mind that I’ve adjusted my meals and exercise leading up to going out for dinner. I feel under scrutiny. I want to crumble. The restaurant is unsafe. I just want to get the server to box up my food or chuck it. Get me out of there. Forgoing eating out hasn’t been much of a sacrifice; it may even be a blessing.

My social anxiety is more in check these days too. No events, no panic. No backing out at the last minute after a restless night, worrying about all the ways I’ll botch a conversation. No planning preemptive maneuvers to avoid people who make me feel ill-at-ease. It’s amazing how social anxiety fades away when social time isn’t an option.

Of course, there are new opportunities for social angst. Why isn’t that person wearing a mask? Did she just cough or is that how she clears her throat? Why is the person behind me in line creeping up on me instead of standing on the designated circle on the ground? If I turn around and glare, will I become part of a video that goes viral? (My god, if someone can randomly punch out Rick Moranis, aren’t we all vulnerable?!)

For the most part, these awkward moments in public aren’t uniquely mine. My worries are common instead of part of a special diagnosis. With all my mental health issues, it’s reassuring to feel that, at this time, the things that make me anxious are...normal. Whew!

Bike rides have gotten tougher because the lanes and paths are more crowded. I fret as I try to decide on the least popular routes. Sometimes I can’t calm myself and I opt for a different form of exercise. It’s okay, I tell myself. If and when things return to some shade of normal, people will let their bikes go back to collecting dust in the garage and return to yoga classes. I’ll feel freer on my bike again.

Perhaps most astonishing is the fact that I haven’t even had any agonizing episodes of depression. There have been blips, moments when I know my mood can quickly crash. In the past, the freefall was almost inevitable and the only question was, How long this time? For now, blips are blips. Nothing more. Misery does indeed love company. In the midst of all this talk about social distancing, locking down and isolating, I feel so much less alone.

It’s a relief to shove aside the nagging question, What’s wrong with me? I don’t have to berate myself when I can’t Snap out of it. Like the generations who had to weather the Great Depression or live through a world war, this is our collective challenge.

So I’m okay, but are you okay?

I know that many people who generally fare better in non-pandemic times are struggling now. There’s unemployment and underemployment. Some jobs have become more stressful due to heavier workloads or new ways of operating. Extroverts may be feeling isolated, connections online failing to fill the void from loss of in-person interactions. Families have struggled with prolonged separation. Older people and persons with compromised immune systems feel more vulnerable each time they step beyond home. Mental health issues like depression and anxiety and feelings of doom and helplessness can be debilitating.

If I can share anything constructive based on my own struggles, it’s that it is best to share one’s thoughts and feelings. Even though this is a global problem, it affects each person differently. Gone are the days of “sucking it up” and “going it alone.” It helps to talk things out. It eases some of the pressure that builds inside when negativity swirls and stagnates.

Know that people won’t always be good listeners. Many people get uncomfortable hearing about another person’s discomfort. They jump in too soon with advice that’s often simplistic and off the mark. Sometimes it’s best to just nod and move on to trying to talk with another person, but I’ve found that all people do better with a little coaching. Tell them what you need.

Stop. I just want you to listen. (You may have to say this many times. People always want to jump in. In addition to thinking they have quick-fix, cure-all advice, they are bursting with anecdotes to share. Listening is a skill that requires practice.)

I’m not looking for advice. I don’t expect you to solve things.

It just helps if I feel heard. I need to get this off my chest.

There are professional options as well. Before my first hospitalization, I called a grief hotline and I phoned the number for my employer’s employee assistance program. One call helped, one didn’t. You can expect some hits and some many misses. One “well that was useless” experience shouldn’t be the end of reaching out. (I know, I know...it’s hard to persevere when you feel at your weakest. Take a break. Regroup. It’s worth it once you finally find some relief, however small.) If you contact your family doctor or go to the hospital, write out anything you can to describe how you are struggling. Refer to your notes. Don’t skip half of your points. It’s too easy to feel dismissed or to suddenly minimize your own challenges when a professional phone call or environment makes us feel like we’re taking up valuable time. (That old “suck it up” notion creeps back in.)

Mental health has a long way to go in terms of funding and understanding. One positive to come from the coronavirus is that the spike in mental health problems in the “regular” population has meant that professionals are having to brush up on their knowledge of mental health symptoms, diagnoses, resources and approaches. Make them listen, too.

Know that you are not taking away from professionals’ time in dealing with the coronavirus. Obviously, there are physical health matters that must be addressed, but the mental health matters should be just as obvious. If that doesn’t seem apparent as you reach out, let me reiterate: make it apparent or reach out to someone capable of listening.

Take care of yourself.