FINDING RELIEF THREE HOURS EAST

It’s no secret I’ve been struggling with my mental health lately. First, anxiety took centre stage, then depression decided to be the scene stealer. Wow, I’ve had some dark times this month although it’s also been dotted with decent days. Much of my mood depends on how I sleep—how often I awaken in the night, how long it takes to get back to sleep (if that happens at all) and the substance of my dreams which can leave me wiped out. Positive self-talk and a berry scone treat are rarely enough to shake off a severe case of the blues. 

 

I awoke Saturday feeling mildly off. Relatively speaking, that meant there was potential for it to be a better day. I’d managed enough sleep without disturbing dreams. Moments of doom popped into my head, but I had enough energy to bat them away. I quickly readied to leave my home and attempt a writing session at a café, no scone required. I wasn’t very productive, but I was out and about, a few pages of editing exceeding anything I’d done for days. Progress improved during a two-hour session in the central library’s reading room where silence is the strictly adhered to expectation save for the clod who forgets to turn off their cellphone ringer. I got through the afternoon by taking in early sightings of fall foliage during a bike ride through some of Vancouver’s pricier neighbourhoods where no one seems to rake their own leaves. A mediocre romance novel got me through the rest of the day. 

 

Whew. There was a good chance Sunday would be a momentum extender.

 

When I’m not travelling farther afield, I set one sunny day in late September or early October in pursuit of the golden larches. This is a type of pine tree whose needles turn a bright yellow for a brief window of time in the fall. As I’m heading to Colorado for a monthlong stay with my partner, Evan, Sunday was the only remaining day with sunshine in the forecast—partly sunny, as good as it was going to get—so it was either hike it or wait another year. I was determined to go no matter what curve balls (or low balls) came my way during the sleeping hours.

 

It wasn’t a great sleep but it wasn’t horrendous either. Worried I would have parking issues on a prime viewing day that landed on a weekend, I’d set my alarm for 5 a.m. but, like almost every morning with an anticipated early awakening, I was wide awake an hour early and, after a failed negotiation to sneak in a power nap, I showered a half hour later and hit the road at the time my alarm had been scheduled to go off. I drove the Trans-Canada Highway in darkness, caught a decent sunrise and pulled into the parking lot at E.C. Manning Provincial Park nearly three hours later with two-thirds of the spaces still open. So much worrying for naught. 

 

Let the rush mentality leave my mind and body. 

 

My dashboard indicated it was 0° Celsius and, while I was dressed in layers, I opted for my winter coat and gloves instead of my fall jacket before squeezing into my hiking boots and setting out. While sitting on my back bumper getting ready, I heard a loud talker nearby, rambling on about hiking in Patagonia without what seemed like the requisite hiking poles. A surge of grumpiness attempted to overtake my body. This was worse than a phone ringing at the library. For me, solo hikes are about quietness and a state of inner peace. Gosh, did I ever need a dose of that. No problem. I would delay my start five minutes to create plenty of distance between myself and Patagonia Man. 

 

Just beyond the parking lot and at the foot of Mount Frosty is Lightning Lake where the early sunlight offered gorgeous reflections of the landscape in the water. Lingering was easy. I snapped two dozen photos before I even hit the trailhead.  

 

Altogether the Mount Frosty hike is 21 kilometres, out-and-back. It would be my fifth time doing it in six years although only the second time when the golden larches were (hopefully) in their prime. 

 

The skies quickly leaned closer to partly cloudy than partly sunny as I set out but this was a chance to adopt a cup half full mindset. Let bluer patches emerge as the temperatures warmed as well. 

 

In the first ten minutes of the ascent, I exchanged hellos as I passed couples who stopped to readjust their backpacks and then a group of five who had brought a miniature schnauzer along. 

 

“A schnauzer!” I exclaimed. “I’ve had three. Good hiking buddies.” 

 

This was me being chatty, something I rarely do with strangers being as I’m an extreme introvert. But I’ve found that people are friendly on trails, especially before noon. We share this love of nature and the urge to immerse within it early in the day. I found myself greeting people and having little conversations with those I encountered even into the afternoon. It helped that I knew each chat would be brief, limited to the time it takes to pass one another. Hiking remains the preeminent activity. A couple of minutes after passing the schnauzer group, I heard them laughing. The reflex response was to cringe and to want to distance myself to return to peace and solitude, but then I caught myself. Let them feel joy. Laugh on. 

 

In only a dozen minutes, my mood had significantly elevated. I would be on the trail for another six and a half hours. The golden larches were still to come. So was the scramble up to one peak and then a sometimes precarious walk along a narrow, half-kilometre mountaintop trail to the final summit of Mount Frosty where I would have the view to myself (not including a mooching chipmunk). Depression would not manage to catch up with me. This is why I hike. I can’t help but feel what John Denver referred to as a “Rocky Mountain High.” It applies to almost any hike, Rocky Mountains or elsewhere, ascent or not. 

 

This got me thinking about my recent struggles and the number of times I’ve thought of going to Emergency to get checked into the psych ward for a return stay. Such a drab, chaotic place. Wouldn’t it only make me more depressed? My first admission had been a huge shock, the erratic behaviour of others and constant alerts on the speaker system ironically putting me into survival mode after I’d been suicidal. First things first…get me out of here. The memories have been enough of a deterrent to seeking readmission. 

Psych ward reality was such a contrast to insane asylum imagery I’d seen on TV. No pristine white manor. No immaculate lawn. No butterfly nets for capturing surely traumatized monarchs. (Do they still make butterfly nets and, if so, why? PETA should take up the cause!)

 

As I hiked onward and upward, I thought about what kind of psychiatric setting would be right for me. Sure, a single room was essential for safety and peace of mind and actual, consistent therapy seemed like a basic (although I hadn’t received much of that during my hospital stays). But what seemed even more necessary was a setting that allowed daily hikes. Yes, a dozen minutes in nature would do, but I’d always press for more. Let it be in blue or gray skies, rain or shine, in peace and quiet or even with loud-talking Patagonia Man at my back. Even without therapy or other supports, there is something resoundingly restorative about hiking. There doesn’t have to be golden larches or 360-degree mountaintop views but I’ll take that as a bonus when I can get it. 

 

I shall hike on.             

UNRESPONSIVE

There was a morning last week when my laptop was unresponsive. That used to be when I’d get a spinning rainbow on the screen but I haven’t seen one of those in ages, thank goodness. This time, I just couldn’t log in. I couldn’t even get the log in window to appear. The laptop was just in a mood.

 

Sadly, I can relate.

 

I have had several psychiatrists tell me I’m unresponsive, too. Unresponsive to treatment. For a while, my partner thought that meant I was uncooperative. I have, as he’s pointed out many times, a stubborn streak. I won’t argue the point. But unresponsive and uncooperative are not the same thing. 

 

Like my laptop, sometimes I’m not in the mood to function properly, if at all. We all have off days, but I’ve been going through an off season. Much of the summer has been a struggle. 

 

It’s hard for me to talk about. I don’t want to sound like Debbie Downer, even if the name fits. Sometimes it seems that talking about it—acknowledging depression—feeds the beast. But ignoring it doesn’t work either. Depression won’t stand for that. 

 

When I do talk about it, one of the hardest things for a listener to understand is that my clinical depression is not caused by a particular circumstance like a death or a setback. It’s not on account of a hurdle I failed to clear, leaving me to faceplant on cement and bloody myself from forehead to ankles. To be sure, I have had a harder time dismissing political affronts that seem to always spin from the daily antics of Donald Trump. My mood is also not helped by the fact I’m struggling to write these days. The latter situation is a result of rather than a cause for depression. Even irritating occurrences like bad dreams have a greater impact. I awaken out of sorts and struggle to recover. It’s like that expression about beating a guy when he’s down. 

 

For years, I struggled to find a specific reason for my depression. If I knew the cause, I would have something specific to confront in hopes of having the mood dissipate. What I have is beyond episodic depression that can bring down “regular” folks due to an event in their day or week. Alas, my depression is chronic. Not constant but, when it sets in, it overstays its visit, a lingering house guest that never had an invitation in the first place. 

 

My now-retired family doctor who saw me for three decades regularly told me, “It’s biochemical.” He always said it with a compassionate smile, the underlying message being, Stop tormenting yourself by searching for an explanation. 

 

So, if I’m to fully absorb what professionals tell me, there isn’t a cause I can confront to ease depression. Being unresponsive to treatment—including medications and various forms of individual and group therapy—I just have to sit with my unwanted house guest for as long as it chooses to crash on my sofa, the remote control always in its grip. As this round of depression settled in, I initially felt dread and discomfort. Just because it triggered a sense of déjà-vu didn’t make anything any easier. In this case, a cliché fits perfectly: familiarity breeds contempt. 

 

There are moments of relief. On some mornings, I awaken and feel “normal.” My mood is stable. I entertain the notion that I’ve made it through this latest round of depression. It has moved on. Alas, it has just overslept. If I’m lucky, I get the whole day off. But then, I get up the next day and struggle settles in by the time I brush my teeth. Hello, depression. Back again. It’s the worst kind of groundhog day. 

 

There are moments when I can outrun it. Or out-bike it. Or out-hike it. Exercise gives me a focus or distraction. During all my years of doing step classes in the ’90s, I never felt that endorphin lift others talked about. Back then, I don’t think jogging or biking did much either. Maybe it was just more subtle. Maybe the fact I get so low helps me feel the contrast when a little adrenaline kicks in. Whatever it is, I am grateful for a reprieve. Sometimes that lift stretches until bedtime. The depression hasn’t gone away; it just hasn’t caught up. It’s times like this when I wish I could spend every moment of every day biking.  

 

I have to ride this season out. We’re officially in autumn now. I wish my depression would check the calendar, shudder over the fall chill and head far, far south. If only.

 

Dread and discomfort have evolved into a deeper sense of pain and agony. I tolerate what feels intolerable. I remind myself I’ve had other prolonged bouts of depression that eventually subsided. And so I wait.

   

DOING NOTHING

I recall a teacher colleague who had a family cabin on BC’s Savary Island saying the best thing about going there was doing nothing. “People just don’t understand that if they don’t have that kind of place.”

 

Being as we were comparing experiences at my family cottage and her cabin, I nodded emphatically. It’s always nice to make a connection. But I’ve often wondered how good I actually am at being idle. 

 

To be sure, I haven’t inherited or learned my grandfather’s propensity for constant tinkering, a hammer or handsaw always at the ready for a series of cottage projects. It was never just one. Fixing a board on the deck would lead to adding extra nails to planks in the Muskoka chairs which might then lend itself to adding a new coating of paint to the chairs. How many layers, how many colours had been slapped on over the decades? 

 

My grandfather, a good-natured man with definite ways of doing things, must have glanced at me from time to time sitting on the deck without a single tool in my reach and thought, Now that’s an idle lad. 

 

I have as much history with the toolbox in the cottage shed as I do the tackle box full of shiny lures. No, I don’t fish. As a kid, whenever I was dragged along for a fishing expedition with friends, I silently prayed for the fish to stay away while talking extra loudly and splashing my feet in the water. 

 

“You’re scaring away the fish,” a friend said.

 

“Oh, am I? Sorry.” It was one of those Canadian apologies. Sorry, not sorry. Within minutes, I began splashing again. Let friends think I had ADHD. Let me save a trout.

 

So, no, I don’t tinker and I don’t fish while at the cottage, two stereotypical guy things to do to pass the time. But still I do something. 

 

My good friend, Ron, in Vancouver once said, “You don’t know how to do nothing.” This is a guy who spent a year watching mushroom videos on YouTube and begins watching one horror movie a day at the beginning of August each year in anticipation of Halloween. I suppose he’s doing things, even if they seem like nothing to me. He’s content to stay put, a true homebody who books his vacation times to sit on the sofa and watch the Olympics during even-numbered years.

 

What constitutes nothing? I’ll posit that napping qualifies. Sure, it involves breathing, perhaps some rapid eye movement and possibly a dream but subconscious conduct seems too easy to be something. Easy. If only. I don’t nap. Can’t. I’m on a medication that seems to help me conk out at night but denies any daytime shut-eye. So nothing in the form of napping isn’t an option.

 

Maybe it’s judgy of me, but I’ll say watching TV or streaming on a laptop is pretty close to nothing. It’s passive. That’s why advertisers pay big bucks for commercials. They know many viewers will sit through political ads, feel-good jingles about McDonald’s and all those pharmaceutical sales pitches in the U.S. At home, I don’t have a television. My flatscreen fell and shattered four years ago and I realized my living room looked better without it. As for the TV at the cottage, there are a couple of different remote controls and there’s a specific order for pressing buttons to get reception. I don’t try. I’d rather sit on the deck and gaze at all the stars in the nighttime sky after the sun sets. That’s something, isn’t it? 

 

If I stream a movie on my laptop, it can take four or five sittings over a few weeks to get through it, even if it’s something I’m enjoying. If someone raves about a series on a streaming channel, I may get through the first episode in a couple of viewings. Even if I like it, I usually tell myself, That’s enough. I have a sense of the show. But why commit to ten episodes or a half dozen seasons? I just don’t have the patience for passivity anymore. No one is more surprised about that than I am.  

 

I’m going to say reading is something. It’s not like TV. I can’t just open a book, stare at it and have something happen. There is more brain work involved. I realize the brain responds to television and movies but perhaps it’s the literary snob in me that elevates reading. When I finish a book, I feel I’ve accomplished something. Finishing a Toy Story movie or an episode of Hacks doesn’t feel like an accomplishment, whether I enjoyed it or endured it.  

 

Yesterday, I tried really hard to sit at the cottage and read one of the books I’d packed. A treatise on Gus Van Sant’s 1991 movie, My Own Private Idaho, may not be a typical beach read but, being as I read it fifteen feet from the beach, it counts. I may disagree but many people view a beach read as tantamount to doing nothing. I started to get restless as soon as I told myself my designated beach read was nothing. I managed to read twenty pages between fidget breaks to wash the dishes, reorganize my suitcase and step out onto the dock to snap photos. All of that, from scrubbing a pot to reading a writer’s opinion that My Own Private Idaho perfectly meshed with the rise of Nirvana, felt like something.

 

Before flying to Ottawa and heading to the cottage, Ron questioned why I was renting a car. When he visited for a couple of days last year, I picked him up in Ottawa, stopped so he could buy groceries and he was perfectly content to stay put at the cottage, frequently exhaling loudly, gazing at the river and saying, “This is nice.” I headed into town as I always do, once if not twice each day. A writing session farther afield. A different view of the river to photograph. A browse through the local bookstore to add another title or two to my stacks of “to be read” books back home. 

 

This morning, I studied local maps online, looking for day trips to pass some time. I checked out what movie was playing in both of the small towns near the cottage that have a cinema. (Why are they both showing the same movie…Practical Magic 2? Since I didn’t see the original, the sequel is a definite pass.) I did some research on local gyms in case I wanted to try a different place than the familiar but dumpy spot I’ve been going to for thirty-five summers where there hasn’t been a single upgrade and where they always seem to be playing AC/DC. (I’m more of an ABBA guy.) I tried to find a nearby shop where I can rent a bike. Even when I’m doing next to nothing, my brain and body are itching to do something. 

 

Why can’t I just breathe and say to myself, This is nice? I’m reminded of all those mindfulness exercises I’ve sat through during group therapy, my eyes wide open, my legs vibrating as I scan the circle and see everyone else sitting still, eyes closed, imagining a forest walk while feeling their slow breaths rising through their bodies. Mindfulness has always been maddening. My recurrent thought: Can we just move on? And, if not, why can’t I move on…and out of the room? 

 

Yes, I’d rather tinker with a hammer and nails. Even something for which I have no skills and which I’m bound to botch is better than nothing. 

DINNER FOR TWO, TABLE FOR ONE

For four years, Evan and I have lived a relationship in which we’re apart more than we’re together. When we met for the first time, he was living in Seattle, I was in Vancouver and COVID protocols were still in place. That first date was such a great start that the second date became an entire weekend with base camp being an Airbnb at a midway point between the two cities which happened to be a rural area where the closest town was actually a hamlet that was three blocks long. There didn’t have to be much around us. The spark was unmistakable. 

 

Once again we had to return to our daily lives in separate countries. I remember our next-day phone conversation with Evan asking, “So how do you want to proceed?”

 

Cautiously, I asked, “What do you mean?”

 

“How often do we contact each other?”

 

I didn’t hesitate: “Every day.”

 

“Oh!” I couldn’t tell if that startled or excited him. Likely, it was a little of both. But I’m not a fan of texting. There can be too many gaps between replies (especially by me since I like to have my ringer off when I’m writing and often forget to check my phone during breaks). At the time, I was also often confused about when a text conversation ends. So often with friends, I’d wait for another reply to come through but—poof—they had moved on to something else. Well, okay…

 

With very few exceptions, Evan and I have FaceTimed every day. I look forward to our evening chats but they don’t come near the closeness of being together in person. Sometimes they even feel flat when we’re just reciting routines of the day. I worry that my side of the sharing can come off as boring since my days as a person with mental health disabilities can be quite small. I don’t have a job so there are no stories about conflicts or amusements with clients or coworkers. There isn’t an office dog whose endearing antics I can relate. I sit. I write. I move to a café. I write more. Even if I order a scone, that doesn’t expand the conversation. I query an agent. I hear nothing back. I go to the gym. I resume writing. My day doesn’t lend itself to lively FaceTimes.

 

But a month ago, Evan and I started having dinners together once a week when we’re apart. Sure, we’ve eaten countless times while FaceTiming, Evan eating leftovers from the same pizza he’s been portioning out for three days, me eating something simple straight out of the saucepan. (Why plate and garnish a meal if I’m the only one present? Why not make cleanup go faster?) What’s different now is that we reserve one evening for a proper dinner date, albeit virtually. 

 

It begins a couple of days ahead of time when we agree on a new recipe to make. He hits the grocery store when it fits his schedule and I do the same. Because Evan is a more confident cook—he tosses things in while I measure out everything according to the recipe’s instructions—I have to do some extra prep before the call. I pull out ingredients from the pantry and refrigerator. I wash the spinach; I chop the garlic. I set portioned out ingredients in ramekins just like on a cooking show. It will mean more cleanup but, hey, it’s just once a week.

 

The basic recipe is vegetarian since I don’t eat meat. Sometimes Evan adds chicken or some other ingredient that is not part of my diet; other times, he surprises himself by going meatless himself. For non-vegetarians, that often feels edgy. What about protein? Will the meal taste okay? Will I sleepwalk in the night and find three empty tuna cans on the counter come morning? Evan’s been with me long enough to know when he can survive or, gosh, even enjoy a dinner without meat. 

 

Once we’re FaceTiming, we prep the meal together, chatting about our day while also commenting on when to add the garam masala and how long to toast the orzo. If my anecdote about writing a tricky paragraph fails to engross, there is always something to stir or a bowl to rinse. 

 

Tonight is our fourth meal together while being remote. Roasted cauliflower orzo. (The guy whose recipes we’ve been choosing from is big on orzo. I’ll have to buy more at the store today along with kalamata olives and, yes, cauliflower.) I will plate my meal and add fresh parsley as a garnish. It will be my most balanced meal of the week and the best looking as well. I’ll take a little longer to eat because there will be conversation between bites. We’ll critique the recipe, I’ll comment on how his looks better than mine. It probably has something to do with his candles, the linen napkin and the fact he’s more experienced in the kitchen, drawn-out pizza nights notwithstanding. Overall, the conversation will be livelier and FaceTime will feel more like an experience than an obligation. We’ll clean up together and extend the conversation with Evan taking to the patio and me settling into the sofa. The call will end as they all do with shared smiles, a little wave and “I love you.” But tonight is more special than last night’s or the ones to come over the week ahead. Although we’re 1,700 kilometres apart, it’s nice to have Date Night. 

    

AFTER A LIFETIME LIVING WITH ANXIETY, I'M STILL LEARNING

I’ve had a lot of time to think since I quit or lost my volunteer job which involved taking seniors for bike rides on trishaws along scenic bike paths in Vancouver. I posted about the incident last week but the circumstances actually happened a month ago. In a nutshell, my anxiety—and the complexities of $25,000 e-bikes—got the better of me. 

 

I feel great shame over the episode. I don’t think most people would understand what happened. I’m not even sure I understand. Despite having anxiety all my life and being officially diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety and Social Anxiety shortly after receiving my first mental health label a dozen years ago, Major Depressive Disorder, I have never been able to independently apply any of the strategies for de-escalating anxiety in the moment. In mood disorder groups, individual therapy, hospital and group home settings, I’ve learned and practiced strategies as guided exercises, but they never come to me when I’m actually in crisis. I also carry with me a bottle Xanax for emergencies, but I only remember it as an option long after the anxiety episode has passed. Anxiety has a way of blocking the ability to think coolly and rationally.

 

I decided early on after being discharged from my first stint in the psych ward that I would be open about my mental health struggles. In fact, twenty minutes after being released, I ran into a friend on the street and blurted where I’d been and why. We grabbed a coffee and my friend proved to be a supportive listener. I was released on a Friday and returned to my job as a school principal the following Monday, everything about daily life still a massive challenge but children have a way of making me smile even when I’m struggling. It was school staff who noticed I was “off.” It took two months before I was finally open with them.

 

I often blog here about mental health, I used to journal about it, I’ve spoken on panels and been on a CBC podcast. I’m also writing an essay collection about mental health and I’ve taped a ten-episode podcast though I’m stuck as to the technical aspects for adding music and launching it. Most often it’s my eating disorder that is the focus of discussion but I mention anxiety and depression as well. Men are less likely to seek help for their mental health and I am determined to be an open example of someone who has accessed formal supports and continues to need them.

 

Despite all this background, I am disappointed with how things played out in a volunteer setting. As stated, I didn’t attempt—or even think of—any self-care strategies, but I’m satisfied (“proud” seems like a stretch) that I articulated that I have an anxiety diagnosis and I was in the midst of an anxiety episode. In a crisis, there is often a fight-or-flight response and I chose the latter. I needed to exit the situation, pronto. I didn’t just cancel my ride, I quit the program. I had experienced anxiety before every single ride and worked my way through it on my own so that I could show up and, once I had two seniors seated in the trishaw, enjoy the experience with them. But the anxiety could not be contained this time and I felt it would only increase if I kept returning to the site. 

 

While I disclosed my condition, I did not advocate for myself. In the moment, that wasn’t realistically possible. I didn’t have the composure. I’d fallen apart enough in front of a new employee I’d only met once before and I needed personal space to recover. 

 

Still, the next day I received an email from the director of the program whom I knew. It took another twenty-four hours to read it. He wanted to know if I would like a conversation about things before I was removed from the volunteer list. I declined, instead writing about how much I valued and supported the objectives of the program. Basically, keep doing all that good stuff…without me. 

 

If I’d had my druthers, I would have had that conversation, maybe even in person. I realize that the program is about seniors, not about me as a volunteer. Still, in my background as a school principal and a special education teacher, I knew that what made my volunteering so anxiety-inducing was the fact that each of the highly specialized $25,000 e-bikes was operated a little differently and I often stumble when trying to figure out gizmos and gadgets. There’s a term, reasonable accommodation, that comes to mind. For me, it wasn’t reasonable that I show up for each volunteer shift not knowing which bike I’d be operating from a fleet of eight. I had taken notes on my phone regarding how to operate a couple of them and, if I’d been assured I could expect to use one of them each time, I might still be a volunteer. The firm expectation that I had to know how to operate all of them is what triggered the anxiety. The work-around for someone with a mental health disorder would have been easy to implement. The director may have disagreed, but I didn’t even put the idea out there. It could have been an educational opportunity. 

 

In spite of my openness and my desire to be an advocate, I pedalled away, embarrassed and crushed over the fact I’d failed in a volunteer role. Admittedly, I’m relieved, too. The situation, without an easy modification, had proved too much. Still, I’m left with knowing what my disability prevented me from doing rather than feeling empowered by what I am able to do despite challenges I have. It’s been a learning experience for me, if no one else.

 

 

 

 

 

NO, I DIDN’T GET FIRED FROM MY VOLUNTEER JOB. AT LEAST, THAT’S WHAT I’M TELLING MYSELF.

I’m a little stunned right now. I think I just lost my volunteer job. It’s not that I was flat-out fired; rather, it was probably a mutual decision. Some of my lifelong challenges combined with one of my mental health disabilities to render me unqualified for a volunteer gig that involved giving bike rides to seniors. 

 

How hard can that be, right?

 

It’s not like I said something inappropriate to a rider. No, I’m my natural, overly polite self when engaging with senior riders. But I didn’t even make it to the seniors’ center. My problems manifested in the place where the e-bikes are stored. I didn’t even make it out of the garage. 

 

So, what are those lifelong challenges? At the core, I’ve never been mechanically or technically inclined. Nothing about how any sort of object operates comes intuitively to me. When a new chair arrived unassembled at my condo earlier this year, it took three days to put together…with lots of breaks. On the first day, I opened the box and spread out all the parts. I read the directions. Actually, I viewed them. Everything was explained with pictures, numbers and some arrows. Looking at it all, the process seemed vague at best. I immediately took a break…for the rest of the day. This task was not in my wheelhouse.

 

On the next day (technically, two days later since breaks are meant to be extended whenever possible, right?), I hoped the vagueness would be gone. I’d already viewed the four pages of steps. I figured I had some familiarity with what I’d have to follow. Aware of the manner in which the assembly was described, I knew I just had to be patient.

 

Okay, patience is another one of my lifelong challenges. With a lot of things during my academic years, learning came easily to me. Math. Beowulf. Civil procedure and every other course in law school. Got it. Success! When you do really well in some areas, the things you suck out stand out even more. Most of the things for which people say, “It doesn’t take a rocket scientist…” prove to be tasks that seem incomprehensible to me. Woodworking in junior high? I got a D which was generous. Mr. Bentley was fond of calling me an “incompetent ninny.” (It didn’t sound any nicer with a British accent.) Art? I think I got Bs which were laughably generous. Having to answer, “What is it?” is common at the kindergarten level. I was having to explain all the way through grade eight, the last year when art was a required subject. 

 

Knowing clearly what I’m not good at, I shut down quickly when I’m faced with a daunting task. No thank you, no thank you, no thank you. I’m the reason my mechanic owns a Porsche.

 

Back to the unassembled chair (and, later, to that lost volunteer job)…

 

On my second day devoted to my new, still unusable chair, I managed to attach the legs. I didn’t clock how long it took but I’m certain it falls within what an ordinary person would call “a long time.” I’d done it and I figured I’d done enough. I was sweaty from nerves. I needed a shower. I wished I were rich enough to afford fancy chairs that came fully put together or at least included a dude to assemble them during delivery. 

 

After showering, I spent much of the rest of the day, looking at what I’d done and, more specifically, at what still had to be done. I stared from the sofa, from the kitchen and, for an aerial view of incompetence, from my loft space. I did some visioning exercises that might make a psychologist proud. I see you, chair parts. I see you coming together. (I see another shower.) I needed to affix the back to the seat and this involved unzipping a “secret” compartment on the underside of the seat and blindly lining things up just right. 

 

The next day, I’d reached that point that compels action: I was sick of myself and the spectacle of a challenge unmet. With a towel by my side (so as not to drip sweat on the brand new chair), I went to work. Lots of trials. Lots of errors. Lots of towel dabbing. At one point, one of my fingers got wedged in between tightening parts and I thought it was going to be smushed, broken or both. I pictured myself being transported by ambulance to Emergency, a semi-assembled, plush, forest green chair dangling from my index finger. This offered a new kind of motivation. I didn’t want to explain to the doctors how I had attached myself to a chair and to everyone else in my life ever after why I only had nine fingers. I saved the digit and eventually the chair came together. I sit in it every day with a sort of awe and appreciation that no one will truly understand. It doesn’t wobble, it doesn’t squeak and, gosh darn it, it’s really comfy.

 

So with enough time, usually measured in days, I can accomplish the occasional mechanical or technical task. The tears dry, the humiliation can be viewed in hindsight with humor. Almost.

 

But today at my volunteer gig, I had to get an e-bike ready to take seniors for rides in the seat attached ahead of the front wheel. No, I did not have to attach it! Instead, I had to do “simpler” tasks. 

 

I should note that this was my first volunteer ride since back in the beginning of May and, prior to that, I hadn’t taken seniors since last October, the end of my first season volunteering. There is a checklist of procedures that must be completed before embarking and another checklist upon returning. The steps have always felt like obstacles to the heart of my reasons for volunteering: I love cycling and I am committed to providing senior citizens who can no longer bike themselves the opportunity to get a bike’s-eye view of beautiful parks and waterside settings in Vancouver.

 

But first, I had to turn the power on the bike. I should also say there is a fleet of specialized e-bikes, each costing about $25,000. They are all different because they are purchased by a nonprofit organization which means considerable fund raising is necessary and bikes are bought over a period of years during which makes and models are updated. Even something as basic as the power button is in a different place on each bike. The director assigned me the newest bike as if it were a treat to try out the latest model. It wasn’t. All I wanted was to ride something I had at least a foggy recollection of operating in the past.

 

I struggled to turn on the power. It took about ninety seconds of pressing and re-pressing everything that looked pressable. Not a good start. I was relieved I didn’t have to call someone over for help. Been there, done that…so many times. First step done but I’d already gone from that sense of the jitters I used to have when an exam was being passed out to a sense of doom, as when stumbling on the first question. The tone had changed.

 

Next, I had to unlock the bike. I stared down at the floor. New kind of lock. It looked more like a segment of crossbuck fencing (which Google tells me is fencing formed by a pattern of xs). I sat on the ground and flipped things back and forth looking for a place to insert the key. It took longer than it should have, but a cheerleader voice inside my head tentatively said, “You can do this.” I turned the key one way, then the other. Nothing happened. I did it again. Still nothing. I tried the other key. Same result. Repeat, repeat, repeat. 

 

I finally had to call over the volunteer coordinator for help. “Yes,” she said. “This is unlike all the other locks. It’s only temporary.” I watched as she tried one key, then the other. Okay, so it wasn’t just me. Tricky lock. And then the lock opened, as if by magic. How else to explain that she’d had success and I hadn’t?

 

Next, according to the checklist, I had to measure the pressure of each tire using a gauge. The first tire had the right amount of air. The second did not. As the coordinator looked on, I pressed the gauge to add air but apparently I did it wrong. I’d given the mechanism a squeeze instead of a tap. She tried to remain calm, but I sensed her alarm. According to her, the tire could have exploded. There was a lengthy explanation and I was handed a basic bike pump instead to inflate the tire. 

 

Power. Lock. Air. Why was everything a struggle? I was feeling exasperated. Actually, worse.

 

The coordinator walked away and I completed the next steps on the checklist, things like checking to see if helmets and a blanket were stored under the seat for seniors and inserting my name tag in the volunteer vest. (Okay, even that took a couple of tries. The vests were new and the slot for the old name tag was slightly smaller. I had to take off the vest to successfully slide the tag in.)

 

Next I had to release the parking brakes on the handlebars. Here I should note that the bike I ride is thirty-four years old. Everything about it is simple compared to a $25,000 e-bike. I couldn’t get the bike out of the locked position. I squeezed (and tapped) handles. I tried to jigger subparts. Despite attempting patience and perseverance, I was not rewarded. Yet again, I had to paint on a smile and ask the coordinator for help. God, this was embarrassing. I’d gone from exasperated to anxious and not just in the general sense of the word. My clinical diagnosis of Generalized Anxiety was kicking in. I was coming undone. Simple things were proving to be great challenges. Self-esteem whooshed out of my body. Hello, incompetence.

 

The coordinator squeezed the handlebars and—voilà—the bike unlocked. The wheels could move. All right then. Let’s go! Let’s take this bike out for a ride. Let the “real” part of my volunteering begin.

 

But, no. She had to show me how to apply the brakes again to put the bike back in the locked position. This was essential since the wheels would have to be locked in place while seniors boarded and disembarked from the front seat. Of course. There was a trick to this, too. I had to squeeze both handles until each one clicked three times. I got the left brake locked, no problem. But the right brake wouldn’t comply. Click, click. I squeezed harder. Silence. The coordinator demonstrated. Click, click, click. My turn. Still two clicks. 

 

Pardon the pun but I couldn’t get a brake. 

 

Another demonstration, another attempt of my own. Same result. Again and again.

 

This was humiliating. Was there something wrong with my hand grip? I do weights all the time. What was I doing wrong? Why was I immersed in twenty minutes of floundering? Why was nothing easy?

 

This is when I gave up. I could feel my eyes watering. I knew I was done. “It shouldn’t be this hard,” I said. I tried to take a deep breath but it didn’t help. “I don’t feel I’m meant for this.” And, as much as I tried to stay calm, I was falling apart. I fought to keep most of it inside, but I’m not sure how successful I was. I’d battled anxiety before every volunteer ride I did last year. I’d often felt incompetent. Why did it seem I was the only volunteer who struggled? Every misstep I’d done came back in a blur. “This is not fun. I don’t think I can do this anymore.” 

 

I disclosed that I experience anxiety. The coordinator implied that she did, too. All I wanted to do was leave but somehow we ended up talking about me taking out another bike, one of the ones I rode regularly last year. She went to get another key. As I waited, I moved over to a different bike and turned the power on. Or I tried. I pressed and pressed buttons and nothing happened. Please. I needed something to go right. 

 

When she returned, I still hadn’t figured out how to turn the power on. (Only now, so much after the fact, I’m thinking it was powered on by pressing a button under the bike seat. How is that logical?)

 

I noticed she did not have a key in her hand. She’d talked to the director and the stance was that I needed to be proficient in operating all bikes. The decision was that I would not be riding today. 

 

Yes, I left. I handed over my name tag for disposal. Shred it, burn it, put darts in it. Whatever. I felt stupid, incompetent, unable. No…dis-abled. Anxiety had latched on to my lifelong challenges with All Things Mechanical and I’d been done in. Defeated. 

 

I am no longer a volunteer for an organization with a cause I greatly value. I failed in a series of the most trivial tasks. I am the human rebuttal to that statement of simplicity: It’s like riding a bike… 

 

I never even made it on the bike. My foot never touched the pedal. 

 

I’ve been on leave from work due to mental health disabilities for nine long years now. I’ve struggled for a sense of purpose ever since. I used to be a school principal. Before that, a lawyer. And now I can’t even hold down a volunteer position. I bike significant distances several times a week all year long. But somehow one of the easiest, most joyful activities I do provided what seemed like the greatest of challenges which I could not overcome. 

 

When I left the garage, I went on a solo ride to try to calm myself and to process what had just happened (and not happened). I can still ride my trusty bicycle—a classic, as most bike mechanics say whenever I bring it in to replace a chain or fix a squeak. Unfortunately, I can’t ride a bike to benefit anyone but myself. 

 

No job. No volunteer gig.

 

My world just got smaller.