Sharing My Story (stories)

TW: talk of mental health, self harm and addiction.

I started a variation of this blog in 2009 I believe. Back then, in the olden days, it was such a great outlet for me and I have shared a lot of my personal life in this way over the years. It truly was my open diary. I changed that along the way and became more reserved about what I shared with the world. I think having children had a lot to do with that. That, and I think I fell into that internet trap of trying to project a much more perfect life than I have…

Four years ago I went to therapy. I had some really out of control anxiety surrounding the safety of my first daughter and general self-worth issues… I was gridlocked by it. I remember sitting in front of my sewing machine, day after day, unable to do a single thing. I was crippled by the fear of failure. I had released a small collection of sewing patterns around that time, and couldn’t bring myself to promote them because I was so afraid that there was something wrong with them. Absolutely nothing I did felt like it was good enough. Getting back to work now, post-pandemic, I’m dealing with a lot of the same emotional blockages. This time, I have medication that helps the racing thoughts and a few coping mechanisms, but it’s still a struggle.

I’m in the midst of releasing a bunch of new items, and new concepts for my brand. And again, I feel that crippling fear. Nothing is ever good enough in my mind. Though it’s kind of funny, because I look back at some of the things I’ve made over the years and with the distance of time, I can see it is good. The distance of time makes everything clearer…

Growing up, I lived next door to my grandma. She lived in an old Victorian Church that she and my grandfather converted into a beautiful home complete with secret doorways, glittering antique chandeliers, and cozy wood stove. It was the the thing of fairytales, and I still go there often in my dreams. My grandma had a denim covered journal where she wrote the stories of her life. I spent a lot of time listening to her reading those stories… happy ones and sad ones. She later published many of those stories into a book.

When thinking back on my life, I feel like I’ve lived it in chapters and the ones that are closed feel a lifetime away. I almost can’t believe that parts of my life are a part of my story. But so many of the stores still resonate deep inside of me.

After graduating high school, I hesitantly went off to University. I had wanted to be a fashion designer, but was steered into a different direction. “Get a BA and go to teachers college,” is what I heard from guidance councillors… I was told fashion was too hard, I wouldn’t make any money, that it was too competitive and that I wasn’t a competitive person. So, like the obedient young woman I was, I did what I was told and left my small town and headed to University, studying History and Women’s Studies.

I shared a house with my then-boyfriend, who I had been seeing since I was 14, and some friends. I had excelled in high school, but the classes I took (particularly 2nd year Latin, and a course on South American History that I had absolutely no background in) were more challenging that I had anticipated. But, I tried and for a while, I got through. I certainly was living the college experience, and probably spent more time drinking (and sewing) than studying.

Then something unexpected happened. I awoke in the middle of the night to murmurs and thumps coming from the floor below me. I hesitantly walked down the stairs and found my then-boyfriend sitting on our couch, bloodied from self-harm and muttering about demons and angels and I don’t even know what else. Nineteen year old me stood petrified, as he still had the cutting implement in his hand. I can still see the picture in my head clear as day, though much of the next few moments are a blur. I called 911, and remember being so annoyed because I didn’t know whether I needed police, an ambulance or an exorcist. Eventually an ambulance was sent and he was taken to the hospital.

The current state of mental healthcare is not a good one, but 20 years ago it was even worse. My then-boyfriend received some inpatient treatment and was put under the care of a psychiatrist. Their approach seemed to basically be to sedate him. His initial diagnosis was schizophrenia, which at the time seemed to fit the symptoms he was experiencing; hallucinations, lost time, conspiratorial thinking, but we know now it wasn’t the correct diagnosis.

I didn’t know what to do. I spent time pleading with him trying to make him understand how non-sensical his thinking was, that the government wasn’t tracking his thoughts, that there were no dead bodies communicating with him in the park next door. In hindsight I know this was a losing battle. I spent sleepless nights listening to him talk about the dark figures in the room… Living with someone in the grips of psychosis can really start to mess with your own perception of reality.

I remember going to visit him in the psych ward once… his hands were cut up because he had locked himself in a closet and tried clawing out… these memories break my heart. For him and for me. I remember just holding him and crying. I felt so helpless and lost. As I write these things now, I can hardly believe that this was our lives.

I was only 19 and suddenly trying to navigate severe mental illness and the healthcare system while maintaining my own safety and sanity.

In the chaos, I stopped going to university. No one reached out. I just stopped going and never went back except to withdraw from my classes.

No healthcare worker ever made sure I had the resources to help keep him safe, myself safe, or even well.

Sadly, also at this time my brother was beginning his spiral into addiction and his own mental health struggles. I felt like I couldn’t burden my family with my problems when there was already so much pain happening at home.

Through it, no one asked if I was ok.

Ever…

I realize now, with the distance of time, that what I internalized from this experience is that I didn’t matter.

The following year I left everything. I moved to Toronto. Got the cheapest, crappiest apartment I could find and enrolled in the Fashion Design Program at George Brown. I spent two very lonely years there by myself and moved into an emotionally tumultuous relationship. My ex ended up moving to another province and I think an equally as tumultuous relationship as well. Those years were really hard. I was poor and struggling and didn’t feel like I had anyone to reach out to for help. I’ve held onto that lonely sense of independence to a fault. I still can’t ask for help… wouldn’t want to bother anyone…

Twenty years later, we both are “well.” In fact he is still one of my best friends and even spoke at my wedding. But I have scars from that time in my life that I am only just dealing with 20 years later. I have guilt for leaving… for not knowing what to do… for not being able to handle everything… for failing and dropping out of school. And I’m also angry at a system that allows a 19 year old kid to navigate that alone.

As I look back at my life, it often feels like lots of things happened around me, but not necessarily to me. My friends mental illness. My brothers addiction and trouble with the law. Not things that happened to me, but things that, as someone who loves these people, was and is traumatic all the same. In addition to this, when there is so much chaos and turmoil in the lives of the ones you love, it can be hard to appreciate your own hardships. I often get in the mindset that what I have been through is no where near as bad as what others have been through, so how dare I feel sad or angry.

I guess the reason I am sharing this is that I know I am not alone in my experience. These aren’t things anyone should have to go through alone and in sharing it, it feels much less lonely.