A CANADIAN CONUNDRUM

Yesterday was Canadian Thanksgiving, one of many I’ve spent outside the country. A couple of times, I’ve been in Sweden. More often, like this year, I’ve been in the U.S. It’s not hard to be away…I love to travel and it boosts my mental health. But it is difficult under the circumstances this year, not just being in the U.S. for Canadian Thanksgiving but to be in the United States at all. 

 

It's all because of Trump.

 

I lived in the U.S. for sixteen years, from 13 to 30, but I made the conscious decision to return to the country where I was born. It wasn’t due to politics. The move came in 1994 when Bill Clinton, a Democrat, was president and I was living in Santa Monica, a Democrat-leaning city in a Democrat-leaning state…although Pete Wilson, a Republican, was governor. (As blue as we think California as being now, it’s the state where Republicans Ronald Reagan and Arnold Schwarzenegger were also elected governor, the latter’s term ending only fifteen years ago.) During my time living in the U.S., Reagan and George H.W. Bush also served terms as U.S. president. I didn’t like their politics, particularly regarding AIDS, but it didn’t seem like a Republican presidency was a reason to move. I may have only been a permanent resident who didn’t pursue citizenship (and thus didn’t have the right to vote), but I knew there was always a shifting pendulum in America’s two-party political system. Voters would go for a conservative and then they’d want a liberal. There were enough moderates and independents who would change their minds when things seemed to swing too far in one direction or the other. Things had a way of balancing out in what was often proudly regarded as the world’s most influential democracy. 

 

But the system has felt alarmingly out of whack ever since Trump began his first campaign to be president. Objections to the agenda of an opposing political party turned from strong disagreements to intolerance and hate. I’d first seen hate stoked in political ads for George H.W. Bush when his campaign used convicted murderer Willie Horton as a way to malign Michael Dukakis, but Donald Trump was relentlessly nasty, not only to Hillary Clinton but to other Republican challengers during the 2016 primary/caucus season, including Lindsey Graham and Ted Cruz. 

 

During the first term, the world saw Trump turn hate on other countries as well, especially China and Mexico. Many world leaders danced lightly around the president, although sometimes they got caught mocking him, as was the case in 2019 when a hot mic captured Canada’s Justin Trudeau joking with France’s Emmanuel Macron and Britain’s Boris Johnson about Trump’s lengthy press conferences. Trump called Trudeau “two-faced” and appeared to shrug things off but, as we all know, Trump shrugs nothing off. He holds grudges until and unless the offender kisses up to him. (See Lindsey Graham and Ted Cruz, above.)

 

In my mind, Trump never forgave Trudeau or, by extension, Canada. On his first day in office during his second term, Trump specifically raised the issue of tariffs against three countries: China and the U.S.’s two neighbours, Mexico and Canada. This was preceded in December 2025 by Trump, as president-elect, calling for Canada to become the 51^st state of the United States, considered by Canadians as an outlandish, belittling dig against national sovereignty.

 

Since early 2025, many Canadians have refused to travel to the U.S. and have made efforts to buy Canadian products while avoiding American items. The current trade war has renewed Canadians' conviction. I’ve been as offended as any Canadian by Trump’s derisive remarks about Canada and his tariff campaign. I’m on board in terms of making conscious choices about what I buy but travel has been a dicier issue. To what extent do I want an American president to govern deeply personal decisions regarding my life?

 

Santa Monica, as pictured during
my last visit in 2024.

I typically visit California, where I lived for five years, at least once a year. Two of my best friends live there and these friendships have spanned more than four decades. Still, I have not visited since February 2024 and have no plans to return during the next two years while Trump remains in office. My message to my American friends: come visit me in any part of Canada. As yet, none has taken me up on that proposition. 

 

Whistler is worth a visit
any time of year.

In some ways, decisions about visiting Washington and Oregon are even harder. Seattle, Portland and the Oregon Coast are beloved destinations, an easy day’s drive away from my home in Vancouver. I typically go several times a year because each of these places has a way of restoring or boosting my mental health which I regularly struggle with. I haven’t completely ruled these places out but these south-of-the-border jaunts don’t seem like the habit they have been. Am I hurting myself by staying away? I still go frequently to Whistler in my home province for the same purpose and I remind myself that Victoria, Tofino and Nelson are other good-for-me places in British Columbia but it’s hard to restrict travel options, especially since the time of COVID lockdowns (and its related travel restrictions) wasn’t that long ago. I miss Washington and Oregon but I continue to tell myself that staying away is the right thing to do for now. 

 

Still, there are a couple of cross-border relationships I have that cannot be compromised on account of Trump and his Republican yes-men. (Being anti-Canadian almost feels like it’s become an unofficial part of the Republican platform. At one point this summer, Republican senators were disparaging Canada for its forest fires despite the fact these politicians had fires in their own or neighbouring states. Pointing fingers elsewhere is a weak distraction tactic that I witnessed a lot of when I was a student in high school and university in Texas and, later, in California.) 

 

My parents live in East Texas and have made the decision not to fly anymore. My mother just turned 87 and my father will be 90 in December. Airports have become too chaotic for them, the days too long, the crowds too large, the distance between gates and baggage claim too great. For now, they are still making an annual fall trip to Alabama’s Gulf Coast but trips to the family cottage in Ontario and to see me in Vancouver are over. If I want to see them, it has to happen on American soil. I aim for twice a year, with Texas being the logical option although I keep Alabama as a place to consider as well. Both places are deep red states and I feel Trumpers all around me. To be fair, I’ve never been harassed as a Canadian. Southerners pride themselves for their hospitality and I know not to wade into any conversation that involves politics and/or religion. This opinionated Canadian isn’t going to change any equally opinionated American. The bottom line is I am fortunate to still have parents, both of them in good health. I will not let the next two years pass by with only texting and the occasional phone call, even though my parents voted for Trump. We have never agreed politically but we’ve found common ground in other areas.

 

A quick road stop with Evan
this weekend near Aspen.

Here’s a startling fact I’m pulling out late in this blog post: I’ve spent four months in the United States this year. Yes, I feel the guilt and dismay from my Canadian comrades, even though I know they would never shame me. Nonetheless, I am compelled to explain my significant presence in a country that has been hostile to Canada. My parents will account for about ten days in the U.S. in 2026. The rest of my time, however, is on account of my four-year long-distance relationship with my partner, Evan, who moved from Seattle to Colorado (first, Denver, then, Aspen) in 2024. Do I dump Evan because Trump is president? Heck, no. Evan and I navigated the late stages of COVID restrictions and now we’ve got a president neither of us wants as an unwelcome exterior force. 

 

As I spend my days writing, I can do that anywhere. For both immigration purposes and health insurance coverage, I need to spend at least a day over six months in Canada but, otherwise, I’m the one with the flexible schedule. This current visit to Colorado which has me missing Canadian Thanksgiving along with the opportunity to vote in both a municipal and provincial election is for the entire month of October. (My sister also happens to live in Colorado so I’ve accepted dog-sitting duties as well while she and my brother-in-law travel abroad.) 

 

Ideally, I’d love my relationship with Evan to progress so that we live together with our home being in Canada. Realistically, however, I don’t see that happening. Evan is four years younger than me and, while I’m on long-term disability which won’t change until retirement, he still has many more working years ahead of him. He’s told me several times he expects to continue working into his seventies. While he has applied to architect and interior design positions in Canada, there has not been a single bite despite his incredible talents. The process for hiring a foreigner is just too cumbersome when there are many people working in the same field already living in B.C. and flirting with the idea of job change.  

 

Better late than never...
I'll make pumpkin pie
when I return to Vancouver.

So here I am again, in a country where I so often feel I shouldn’t be, no pumpkin pie on the dessert menu since Evan is not a pumpkin fan and a whole pie sitting within reach is a temptation I’m telling myself I must resist. Love is greater than politics. My identity as being someone’s partner even exceeds my choice to repatriate as a proud Canadian. I will enjoy my time in Colorado’s Roaring Fork Valley because it is where Evan is. Without a vote in the United States, I can only hope the pendulum shifts again in American politics and civility is soon restored in negotiating with foreign neighbours as well as in agreeing to disagree with issues on a personal level. 

 

I guess I continue to want it all. Hope feels healthier than complacency or acceptance of an era of hostility. I hope my fellow Canadians enjoyed Thanksgiving. I look forward to being back in my home country for Remembrance Day in November.

 

 

 

  

   

TIME WARP, INDEED

On Sunday night, Evan and I saw a documentary as part of the Aspen Film Festival. It was an encore showing of a movie shown earlier in the week, this time in Evan’s new town of residence, Carbondale (population 6,762), forty minutes down the road from Aspen, Colorado. The film was called Time Warp, which focused on efforts to bring the movie Rocky Horror Picture Show to the town of Rock Springs, Wyoming (population 22,936). Showing over two nights in 2022, the movie would also feature a shadow cast that would lip-synch and reenact the film on a stage in front of the screen.

 

While the movie premiered to little fanfare in 1975, it has become a cult favourite, especially during midnight showings. Its popularity arises from the audience participation element that developed over time. When I first saw the film at the age of fifteen in 1980 in Longview, Texas, I knew the content was definitely “out there,” with Tim Curry stealing the show as Dr. Frank-N-Furter, a transvestite alien scientist who creates his own Frankenstein incarnation in the form of a studly muscle man named Rocky Horror who wears skimpy gold shorts. Rocky is supposed to be Frank-N-Furter’s ideal man, his own plaything. There are a lot of sexual shenanigans, with Frank disguising himself to have sex in his castle separately with stranded couple Brad and Janet and Janet then fooling around with Frank’s beloved Rocky. I’ve never thought about it, but the film was probably my first exposure to anything on the queer spectrum. At the time, it didn’t have much influence because it was so campy and because my neighbour with whom I saw the movie and I kept laughing and trying to make sense of the audience participation. (“What did they say?!”) It barely represented a movie much less life. To me, it had its own category: a spectacle. And, yes, it seemed very risqué to play in my steadfastly conservative East Texas town (population then about 50,000).

 

Sadly, I suspect not much has changed in Longview, Texas in the past forty-six years although it’s grown in size to 83,000 people. I haven’t been back in more than thirty years, but my parents live less than an hour down the road in Tyler (115,000), a city of Trumpers, pickup trucks and many, many Southern Baptist churches.

 

The fact that Rocky Horror would play with a shadow cast in an even smaller town and even more red-entrenched state (Trump won Wyoming by the largest margin of any state in 2016, 2020 and 2024) makes for a compelling documentary. Imagine not just a viewing of the film but the fact that a guy in Rock Springs would play the live-action version of Dr. Frank-N-Furter, dressed in a black corset, fishnet stockings and heels. 

 

The director and star of the shadow cast is Kenny Starling who leads a shadow cast through two months of rehearsals and frequently referred to the production as an ode to queer joy. Its viability is challenged at a packed city council meeting, one in which the main challenger contends the production is intended to recruit children based on the tired, ignorant go-to conservative depiction of queers as pedophiles. 

 

SPOILER ALERT: The production does go forward and is a success. In the process, we see townspeople in the shadow cast who identify as gay, lesbian, bi and trans gain confidence and find camaraderie in a town where residents are described as friendly but also homophobic. 

 

It’s an uplifting documentary that features compelling storylines for the young, dynamic force that is Kenny Starling but also for many others who are tentatively finding comfort in their own identities. The whole time I was watching the movie, I felt a sense of hope. 

 

Wow…if it can happen in a place like Rock Springs…

 

As Evan and I walked home after the movie, we were abuzz with positive impressions of the documentary and the follow-up question-and-answer session with director Allison Berg. 

 

But in the middle of the night, my regular time for a stint of insomnia, I kept thinking about a young, apparently gay man (he never officially comes out) and the other queer members of the shadow cast. They dealt with regular harassment in school and faced rejection, ridicule and silence by family members. I realized that part of why Evan and I each connected with it so much is that Rock Springs, Wyoming in 2022 mirrored the environments where we grew up as teens. Evan fled Fort Collins, Colorado for Denver and then New York City while I left Longview, Texas for Fort Worth and then Los Angeles. 

 

Basically, the current Rock Springs is stuck in its own time warp, still in the awkward stages of resistance and discomfort that we experienced forty years ago. We were cheering a sort of progress that also felt very much behind the times. How much “progress” is it when it remains in such a time lag? My sense of celebration became laced with sadness. While openness and acceptance are greater in many places, that is still not the case in smaller communities. I want to say “especially in red states” but I think things are just as backward or entrenched in many smaller towns and rural areas in blue states as well. Young people may find connection and information about their identities online but they continue to live their days in hostile and/or ignorant environments. The struggles remain. As noted in the film, Wyoming has a high suicide rate. In fact, it places as third highest in the U.S. after Alaska and Montana. 

 

I got to thinking about the annual Pride celebrations all over the United States, Canada and the rest of the world. So many people who identify as LGBTQIA+ travel to places like NYC, London and Toronto to have their spirits lifted by all the enthusiasm that stems from huge crowds gathered for parades and parties. Yes, I see value in that. But, more than that, it seems we should be putting our support and numbers behind the smaller Pride events in places like Longview, Texas and Rock Spring, Wyoming. Shouldn’t we consider a day trip to a town farther afield, in places that couldn’t even consider residents performing in a Rocky Horror shadow cast? In the current political climate, the “little” things seem truly bigger. Higher stakes, yes, and also higher impacts on helping small-town and rural queers feel affirmed and connected. Pint-sized Pride events deserve our support.

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.