Introduction

Nexus has been my home church for close to three years. I have been awed by this group of people and their willingness to have tough conversations, to ask big questions, to share personal experiences – all in trying to get to the heart of things.

So really, conversations around mental health are not new to us. They have been happening at our Boomerang Groups, Pub Theology and bookclub. They are part of Brad’s talks. They radiate from much of the music played here – whether we’ve recognized it or not.

Something I’ve noticed though – not only at Nexus, but in every area of my life – is that these conversations remain tentative, sheltered and usually only shared with very few.

There are many real and valid reasons for this. I hope soon we’ll be having a conversation about that up front on the stage; but for right now, we’re taking our first step in discussing mental health as a community. This first step is focused on what we’re willing to share.

For the last month, I have been asking this community and my loved ones how mental health has touched your life. This is that collection. These are glimpses into what people were willing and able to share with us. I hope you’ll take sometime here and explore them.

I’d like to extend a huge thank you to everyone who reached out to me throughout this project. It was an absolute honour and privilege. The encouragement and endorsement were amazing. You have made it crystal clear that this conversation is very important to you and that you believe it is very important for our community to be having together.

I’m excited over the ideas that are being discussed and the passions this project has ignited. I can’t wait to see where they take us.

For now, let us take a look at how mental health touches our lives.

---- by Julie

Dear Body

Click here for the podcast of Sarah reading Teresa's glimpse. 

Worn by Tenth Avenue North

Meant to Be Here and Forward Motion

Click here for the podcast of Aimee's performance

A Conversation With My Mood

Click here for the podcast of Glenn's reading.

Shake it Out by Florence and the Machine

Motherhood Ate Chunks of My Soul

Click here for the podcast of Julie's reading.

Chase Away the Dark by Passenger

Stitch Me

Sleep stitch me together
Again today I’ve worn thin
The threads of my soul
Weave strong the fabric of my mind
Patch up the tears in my heart
Sow in seeds of hope
That in waking I am new.

Lightening the Load of the World

(for my counsellor)

She was there when the flood came
Bailing buckets of pain
As it fell she remained close 
But not the kind of close that pushes away
She works with knots, clots, the caught and stuck
It is a severe gift to help break the jam
For those with insides caked in sludge 
Walking around soaked in anguish like clogged drains
Her protection wraps wide around the broken
Who come limping into her room
Some work with wrench and nut, a sickle and a field
Her, ‘how are you?’, begins the unlocking of rusty doors
Piercingly safe with that granite warmth
Hiddenness comes out like babies into the light of day
A witness - to unknown sufferings
To confessions that would crack like glass
To the frayed threads of bitter unions
Things you can’t say to those you love the most
The buried child sits on her couch
Having been quiet for a lifetime
Induced by her presence
Once it starts it doesn’t seem like it will stop
Choking and no longer able to speak
Words come out like blood
Sharp stones of regret passing
She soaks up the red drippings, mopping tears
Hour after hour exposing and cleaning wounds
Everyday people fighting to stay alive
Lives curled around trees like fresh car wrecks
She carries within her the hurts of a 1000 hearts
Lightening the load of the world

Among the Spreads and Syrups

A glimpse into a life with anxiety, depression, ADD

How hard could it possibly be to choose jam? It’s so nicely organized on those grocery shelves: brands with like brands, cosseted jars of flavours and colours, and those bright lights. A two-second decision: you’re a grown woman so you already know what you like and don’t like, lemon spread and jellies yuck - really yuck. So it’s simple, it’s down to peach, apricot and the berries. But it’s hard to remember if E.D. Smith is good or not, and what about the store brand? And is it the apricot or the peach you prefer? Then the noises behind and all around begin to close in, get louder and more distracting as the diurnal static grows more obnoxious. The grocery shelf gets fuzzy and recedes from your vision as the sweat begins to bead and slide down the middle of your back. You’ve been standing in the preserves aisle for far too long and there is still an insurmountable list yet to accomplish, and somewhere in the store is your sweet and marginally patient husband who has expectations of what you will have accomplished when he comes up whistling with the cart. His expectations aren’t unfair or unreasonable; they’re rightfully founded on all the premises of your first years together. You know, you remember, those years when the other you piled it all on and took over the world: two jobs, university courses, social justice initiatives, this-old-house renovations, an ill parent, everyone else’s problems, everyone else’s friend’s problems. Oh yeah, there was no limit to what the other you could do, and you didn’t set any. You were the rock made of steel.

The working pragmatic part of your brain knows that what is happening in the ABC Grocery aisle is nuts and it tries to prompt to action the part that is keeping you standing there immobile, but it’s muscles are weak and it just doesn’t have the force required to make you move. Other you would know what to do. You think about ‘other you’ and you feel embarrassed, ashamed and small. You begin to hyper-focus on ‘other you’ and this makes the jam task and the rest of the list a heavy load of bricks on the pallet you’re already dragging behind you.

Your thoughts become more erratic, disjointed, your temperature elevates and the anxiety sets into a panic. “Pick something!” some part of your brain screams, but you can’t: your arms are lead and your brain can’t or won’t narrow in and focus a choice. You’re on the meds, the doctors notes are in: depression and anxiety nicely rounded out with a few letters ringing symptoms of ADD into your ear. You’re sitting in the therapy chair and blabbing and you’re swallowing the blue pill with your morning juice, so why is this still happening? When are you ever going to get better, feel happy - lighthearted even? When can you let go of this heavy anchor?  It all comes on, hard. Now you aren’t even thinking about the jam, it’s still there lurking, but everything else is crashing and burning in a firefight in your brain. Your stomach hurts, your back is soaking from the sweat. 
           
Other you would never let this happen, other you would say to this you, “Get on with it. There are people with way more to deal with than you.” Other you would say, “Seriously? Just make a decision to be better and get better.” Other you didn’t know shit. Other you didn’t appreciate what happens when a brain decides it’s not getting enough norepinephrine or serotonin or whatever. Other you couldn’t fathom what happens when a person discovers they’re not a rock made of steel – just a heap of water and meat and distracted emotion.
           
Then, it breaks as he comes whistling around the corner and quickly halts with a smile at the sight of you. He looks at your empty basket, the smile disappears and you know it’s coming. He asks, “Kath where’s all the stuff?” You look at him and hold out your empty hands like a child showing a parent “I washed them real good mom.” He’s dumbfounded. You’d think he’d be a little more than used to it by now, it’d been two years of this, but he isn’t and he still sees you as his beautiful capable rock made of steel. With frustration and disappointment he asks, “What have you been doing all this time?” You take account of the full cart he’s pushed into the ‘aisle of despair.’ He’s been busy, productive, the laden cart screams to you of his capacity, his sanity, and his wellness. It screams at you and your empty hands and broken mind. 

There is nothing left so you cry right there amongst the spreads and syrups. People scuttle quickly by embarrassed by your pink display of emotion, but you won’t know that until later when you ask if anyone saw. In the moment there is only the release of the tears and his comforting hold of you.

It Took Months

I would lie awake at night 
writhing in agony
unsure what it was from.
I would be exhausted 
and antsy. 

I wanted to crawl out of my skin. 
I wanted to tear at it until I bleed. 
Yet I knew that didn’t make sense 
and wouldn’t help.

It took months to figure out 
what was going on. 
Months of struggle, 
being weak and helpless 
beating myself up 
and not telling anyone. 

Months before the word Depression 
ever even popped into my head. 
Then I became 
embarrassed 
and fearful.

I didn’t want to tell anyone. 
Hopeless. Ashamed. 
And Scared.

Driving into a Tree

A glimpse into a life with depression and anxiety

Rounding the bend in the woods on my way home alone from the gym I considered driving in to a tree. My three children ranged in age from eleven to seventeen years old. I did not do it, but thought in that moment that I could not go on feeling the way that I was for very much longer.

It’s the kind of suffering you hear that “weaker” people have. One would think that they could control it and they just need to “get a grip”. They used to call it a “nervous breakdown” I think. I never would have dreamed it would happen to me. It was a pain I had never endured before. I had no control over it. On edge, intense physical anxiety pangs, inability to sleep, and depression. Watching a movie my fear would be magnified and I would “feel” it too much.

I got better with time and the help and support of family and friends. I also found that an anti-anxiety drug was very helpful as it let me get some much needed sleep. Then there were also some complementary therapies such as therapeutic massage, acupuncture, and Reiki.

Looking back I understand that I had not paid attention to the stress I had. I was a strong person and stoic, and just plowed through life doing what I felt was necessary. The doctor said I had too much stress in my life. I adamantly denied that, insisting I had no stress in my life…I had it easy! I stayed home with the kids and was well provided for. She claimed there are other kinds of stress. Looking back, yes...she was right.

I am looking forward to the birth of my first grandchild in a couple months and wonder what it will feel like holding the baby in my arms. I’m told it will be a most wonderful feeling.

Until we’ve been in those shoes, we don’t know.

What Do You Do When You’re Blue?

Brain sucking like a pump in an empty pond
Heart running on sorrow
What do you do when you’re blue?

Doctor calls it a sickness
Friends say it ain’t normal
What do you do when you’re blue?

Talk drains the tub dry
Being upright brings me down
What do you do when you’re blue?

Work, work, a man must work
But have you seen an ant at the mouth of a furnace?
What do you do when you’re blue?

Maybe I’ll walk around the mall
Or lie here in this posturepedic casket
What do you do when you’re blue?

Set backs are like buildings falling
So you hunker down in trouble’s rubble
What do you do when you’re blue?

Pills I got don’t work
And she ain’t coming
What do you do when you’re blue?

A Blind Restaurant

A glimpse into a life with depression

This is how I would describe my confusion, my desire to move forward and not having a clue how. Have you ever heard of those ‘blind restaurants’?  I have never been to one but I have heard about them. They are designed for ‘foodies’ – they are dark, you can’t see – it is supposed to enhance your focus on the taste of the food. Apparently the servers and wait staff are either blind or wear night-vision goggles. You can’t even see your plate or companion. And even though I have never been, I feel that I am trapped in one. I felt that I had gone to one of those restaurants with a friend and during the meal I was taken to the bathroom by a wait staff. Afterwards I came out of the bathroom on my own and I wanted to get back to my table but didn’t know which way it was. I desperately wanted to get back to the table, to the conversation, to my life but I didn’t have a clue which direction. I wanted to move, to take a step. If I went the wrong way I could bump into things that would hurt. I could bump into others and hurt them. I could end up further away from where I wanted to go, taking a much longer and more painful route than I needed to.

Collateral Damage

About four and a half years ago, I was sideswiped by what I thought was going to be a positive event, leaving me with deep feelings of loss, rejection and betrayal.   I’ve been seeing counsellors for much of the ensuing time; while I’ve never been diagnosed as being clinically depressed, at least one would say I’m experiencing significant emotional suffering.  

The root of all this seems to be a life marked by regular “seasons" of loneliness and relationships where love and acceptance were often conditional on performance.  In the past and even at a very young age, 
I was able to find sufficient resolve to ignore or sidestep many of life’s disappointments.  But I’ve been having to back-up and deal with those losses and hurts so I can understand and navigate more recent emotional trauma.  I seem to be getting through it, but it’s been a long haul and a lot of work.  Despite the healing I’ve enjoyed, I think the collateral damage will be something I’ll likely carry a long time.

In the Wake of a Young Man's Suicide

A glimpse into a life with depression

We are often sheltered from the news of the day by an impermeable force field that keeps us from feeling outside pain. It's necessary for psychic survival. We can't possibly tolerate the hurts of the world or we'd eventually succumb to their crushing weight. We need to have a way of filtering. We enjoy a numbness that protects us, for the most part, from feeling the wounds of those we don't know. The increased knowledge of what happens throughout the world at any given time develops a tolerance for a perpetual state of numbness. We are, however, sensitive to our own hurts and the tragedies that are within arms length. Some of us are even numb to these hurts which then has implications for our capacity for empathy and to have a functioning soul. But every now and then a tragedy happens to someone in the public eye who we don't know but whose story evokes a darkness within us.

A cold dread grew inside me as I read about Rick Warren's son Matthew's suicide. It wasn't empathy for the family, which would be a perfectly healthy emotional response, it was my own fear of the demon's lick and what thin defence we have at times against our own mental mutiny. Until you've been on that ledge yourself it's very hard to imagine what the view looks like. The unending endurance required for depression pain wears down the membrane that prevents one from crossing over into dangerous thinking. And it comes on like a dark destructive force that can take you from relative stability and slide you onto terribly thin ice in no time and a voice emerges that you might not be that familiar with that leaks treacherous thoughts into your mind like poisonous gas. It harnesses the depression pain, brings it to a fever pitch, and begins speaking over the loud speakers like sirens signalling evacuation. The voice is authoritative and definitive. It is telling you to, 'GET OUT'. Get out of yourself. The only way to 'get out' is to put out the heat inside that rages like a runaway forest fire. To put out the fire is to extinguish every flame - even the flame of life. There is no such thing as speaking back to the voice with any success. Have you ever been at the bottom of a pile on and tried to get up? No drug, no therapy, no loving family, no ideal upbringing, no health food, no exercise routine, no love life can drive back the demon-like fury of depression pain in that moment. Anyone who tells you otherwise has never been there. Once you have been in that place you can never be anything but humble when talking about solutions.

If our depression has lifted and we think it’s because of something we did, we are either one of the lucky one's for whom medication has worked or we have too quickly forgotten what it was like to be in the jaws of the monster. Being spit out and not devoured could we possibly think it was because of something we did? The only honest response to feeling the death grip loosen is one of gratitude, humility, and tears. When it is raging we simply hold on like someone clinging to a pier in the midst of a hurricane. So often, depression pain is treated as if it is a one to one cause and effect, as if it was a fractured arm and with the right management can be reset. It follows that if you are lingering in your depressive state you must be doing something wrong. You must not be compliant with 'treatment'. All the talk about treatment and medication rings hollow for many seekers of relief. I think all of us want to believe that we understand the science of depression but nobody does. Medication is effective for a fortunate few in my experience and the rest of us harvest whatever placebo effect we can. It is not the singular lever that once pulled resolves what we think is a magical serotonin deficiency. If you have ever tried to manage the water in a hot tub or swimming pool you will know that there are about a dozen variables all influencing one another in diverse ways. Alkalinity, chlorine, calcium, ph, acidity, hardness, etc. Emotional chemistry is 100 times more complex than hot tub levels.

Let me add this for good measure. When people say they believe that depression is a chronic illness just like asthma or low blood pressure they mean well but few really believe it. The real belief often lies beneath which says that if you just did x,y,z you wouldn't be in this mess or there's the assumption that everyone goes through low points from time to time and to just stop dwelling. They don't think the same of someone with asthma. It just doesn't work that way and maybe they're not the same thing. It's probably viewed more like an illness that is self induced and that can be reversed by eating more vegetables or getting more exercise. If you get cancer, unless it is possible that it's due to lifestyle factors, you are viewed as an honest victim of an evil disease. If you've done something, anything that might have contributed to your own illness it quells the chaos of uncertainty and people can feel safer. Depression falls more into this category in most people's minds. Until...it happens to you. Then every neat solution, every self-assured conviction regarding how one's inner world works gets flushed down the drain and you are left with the raw dread of your own unrelenting psyche. Contorting your previously in tact worldview like a fresh car wreck. And answers come much slower to your tongue. And your only hope is something called, courage.

Fan into flame even the faintest faith that it will not last forever, step outside your front door, move into the world, yearn for peace like a farmer whose crops need the rain. Let it swell in you like a pregnancy, burst with the hard rain of tears, believe / tell yourself that this very same thing has happened to others and they have lived to testify that something transcendent was being born. In the absence of evidence we rely on belief from the basement of our psyche scooped from the very bottom.

My Brain

My brain should be like a juicy marinating roast 
But it’s dry out, cracked, and leaks under strain
It has dipped below the ‘low’ line for months now
So the dry organ thumps, heaves, and screeches
Like the sound of a train slowing down
Like a pond pump as it starts to suck air.

At night, when rem should wash the brain clean
When the juices are to be filling the pond
When all the pathways are to be swept 
When rest should be adding the marinate
When readiness for the day is being worked on
Sleep, rings the doorbell and runs 

I’ve seen fish trying to breathe
And machines run out of oil
I’ve seen the dry earth devour rain 
And children being fed through a tube
I’ve been next to a fire bell when it has started to ring
And how many have I seen broken down beside the highway waiting

This brain’s in trouble.

My Mother (DD)

A glimpse into a life with Dysthymic Disorder

My mother has Dysthymic Disorder (chronic depression). As a child I felt a lot of resentment and anger because I did not understand her diagnoses. This is common among people who don't understand mental illness. Misconceptions can be eradicated through having gentle conversations with those close to us, those with or without mental illness.

I Wish I Had Understood Sooner

A glimpse into a life with anger, depression, suicide

My Dad had a major struggle with both anger and depression. Most of what I remember my reaction being was anger and annoyance that this disrupted our family – usually at times we weren’t expecting. His explosions and depressions kept our entire family on edge – when would the monster show up and scare us – when would he refuse to get out of bed. I loved my Dad and I know for a fact that he loved me – there were so many demonstrations of this I now acknowledge. 

He was a committed Christian and contributed at our church in many roles. He made faith a staple in our family – one that has influenced me to this day. All of his (and my mom’s) nine kids and their spouses have remained in the faith to this day. He held down three jobs when I was young and eventually ran his own very successful painting/decorating business. He took his young family from poverty (which as a kid I didn’t understand) to affluence by the time I left high school.

As a kid however, his mental illness was like a ticking time bomb and my mom spent much of her time keeping their nine kids from setting off the explosions or covering for him as he struggled through the valleys of depression. There were times when I was disgusted and angered by his actions. And then I started to gather information, informally, about his life both prior to becoming a husband and father and afterwards.

His own family was a constant stress to him. He worked with his father in two businesses and his own father was such a difficult and unreasonable man, to the point where my Dad had to leave the shared business and start his own. His mom was mentally ill for as long as she was his mother. It all ended one day when he came home to find her in their oven dead from an overdose from the gas of the oven.

His sister and brother were a constant drain on him personally and financially. In reality there was no let up on him from the time he was a child. He had to become the parent in a dysfunctional family – one that never appreciated what he did for them.

My mom and he conceived my older brother out of wedlock, which you can imagine caused lots of disruption to their lives. My mom’s Dad, although having left his wife for another women when my mom was very young, stayed involved in their lives and made my Dad’s life a bit of a living hell. As far as I know there was really no professional or spiritual help offered. He and my mom had to cope with all this on their own.

When I compare how I reacted to my Dad as a kid and young adult with how I know I should have reacted to him, knowing his many struggles in life, I am ashamed of myself. I wish he were still alive so I could tell him, “I get it now - you actually did a wonderful job as a spouse, parent and person. Your struggles were real and the effect was real but somehow through it all you managed to accomplish a lot of good. I do know if my life had been like yours I would not have done as well. I love you please forgive me”. 

God help me to show only compassion for those who struggle with any kind of mental illness – including myself.

Who Is This?

Have you ever seen that ad for cancer support

There is an emaciated women 
with a shaved head 
standing all alone 
looking in a mirror 
saying she can’t recognize herself

I feel like that is what I have been trapped in
Everyday I saw myself 
reflected back in this mental mirror 
and I thought 
who is this
exhausted
weak
easily overwhelmed 
woman 
that can’t do the dishes 
get to the grocery store 
go to work

What has happened to me
All my life I have tried 
to be strong
independent
motivated
productive 

Now I can’t even get out of bed
Who am I
Where have I gone
Will I ever be me again

My Mother

A glimpse into a life with bi-polar

When I was a child my mother created a safe and happy environment within our home. My childhood was full of joy. Although my dad had a busy job and I had four siblings that also needed attention and care, I never felt that I went without these things. My mother put good food on the table three times a day, carpooled us to various activities (music lessons, sports practices and games, church groups and events), kept us all organized and at the same time always affirmed the fact that we were deeply loved. 

It wasn’t until I was much older that I began to be aware of the suffering that my mother lives with on a regular basis. At some point, I can’t remember how, I learned that my mother has bi-polar disorder. Looking back, I can vaguely piece together some moments where I observed this disease having an effect on my mother throughout my childhood. I have a distant memory of being around five or six and seeing my mom crying hysterically on our kitchen floor. I also remember a birthday party where it was explained to me that my grandparents would be coming to help host my group of friends as my mother was not feeling up to it. I now understand that these were some of the lows of my mother’s depression. Now, when my mother is deeply depressed she will often not have the energy to get out of bed or to talk on the phone. Even watching a TV show requires too much effort. She has explained to me that the days feel long and lonely and drawn out. 

In bi-polar disorder, lows periods are cycled with high periods. These times are harder for me to recall when I think back to my childhood but I certainly see them very clearly now that I am older and am more aware. My mom describes her high periods as causing her to have racing thoughts and extreme amounts of energy. My mom goes quickly from one task to the next when she is high which can be exhausting for those around her and sometimes creates problems (like forgetting that the faucet in the bathtub is running or the freezer door has been left open). When she is high she is constantly on the move, changing her plans on a dime and is very set in her ways, regardless of whether there is much logic behind her decisions. When high, my mom can spend 2-4 nights without being able to sleep at all, despite trying many ways to get herself to relax. 

I wrestle with God over my mom’s mental health. Why do some people have to bear so much more suffering in their lives than others? What is the point of her suffering? Why has no medication, counselling, amount of self-discipline, or therapy ever been able to help her recover when some other people with bi-polar disorder are able to recover? 

My mother has a strong faith and I know that she also wrestles with reconciling her suffering with a God that is described as loving and just. However, I believe my mother would also say that her faith has been the reason that she has gotten through her hardest times. My mother reads her Bible daily and posts verses around the house that talk about hope and about God’s goodness and love. These serve as encouragement to my mother. Someday I hope to be able to reconcile my understanding of God with the suffering that some people like my mother have to live through but for now my questions remain. 

My mother is the strongest women that I know and I love her deeply. Perhaps her pursuit of faith and unwavering commitment to God will be the building blocks that will help me find the answers to the questions that remain between Him and me. 

A Distorted Fisheye View

A glimpse into a life with melancholia

my mental health is far from stable
it ebbs and flows and dips and crashes
all within a few hours, a few weeks, 
and with the cycle of the months.
i have no diagnosis
just self proclaimed melancholia
coupled with existential angst
and a heavy dash of hormones.
whatever my label, the reality is...
i have a hard time knowing what is real
i see the world through my perception
a distorted fisheye view
exaggerating the negative
and virtually erasing the positive –
at least when that lens is pointed inward.

i have vaguely tried counselling –
really don't want to try Zoloft.
after all, i don't want to be like my mother

but i am my mother. deeply, inextricably so.
i have her DNA
her self loathing. her wild mood swings.
her penchant for running away or
hiding under the covers.
at a young age, i learned her ways of 
relating and responding to the world – 
despite all her best intentions and 
all the valuable lessons i was explicitly taught, 
the old adage is true:
children learn what they live.

so i learned to overreact.
to talk to myself with a deeply critical voice. 
i didn't learn that the glass was half empty,
i saw that it was smashed to pieces on the floor
in a cry for attention and release. 
i learned that the world was chaotic and 
that if you got your hopes up you'd better be ready
to coax mom out of bed first. 
and i learned that the way to deal with a tormented mind
and untamed emotions was to run and hide.
she took off. she hid. but, we were lucky, 
she always came back.
and when i hear of those who don't just threaten to end it all, 
but who painfully follow through, 
my heart breaks for them and their families.
and i know how close we came. 
how close i have come. 
but she is still here. 
and so am i…

…and the fact is, i am my mother.
with her deep compassion,
her heart that always puts people before any task...
who tried to make every moment special, in big and small ways.
who uses her understanding of pain to walk deeply with others.
who taught me to sacrifice and love unconditionally. 
children learn what they live. 

so maybe i need Zoloft – just like she did.
or maybe i just need to stay on the journey of self-compassion
and a good naturopath
but i will probably always tilt towards the darker side of life.
its in my bones.
i feel its pull and hear its music
i'm more comfortable with a bittersweet symphony than an angelic choir.
but there is beauty in darkness. poetry in pain. 
sometimes even company in misery. 
i still look for glimpses of hope – even though some days i don't find them...
i wear my heart on my sleeve and my dark on the outside, 
trying to walk alongside others who are broken too.
i'm trying to learn to love the shadows, 
trying not to fill in the cracks, because wise Leonard said, 
thats how the light gets in. 

My Son Jack

A glimpse into a life with ADHD

Jack was six years old when the notes first started coming home from school. At first they were occasional, maybe one or two per week. When they escalated to every other day, I knew something wasn’t quite right. The gnawing, twisted sensation in my stomach intensified each time I opened his planner. “Jack was disruptive to the teacher and his peers today”…. ”Jack had great difficulty focusing on his tasks during work time today”….”Today Jack made silly noises during inappropriate times; failed to stop when asked multiple times”. Such entries were becoming commonplace. The frustration Jack’s teachers were experiencing was palpable. 

At home, the situation was similar. Jack was having immense difficulty listening, following simple directions and doing as he was told. Even when I looked directly at him and seemingly pronounced each directive slowly and clearly, those beautiful hazel eyes looked anywhere but at my face. The extra energy required to deal with Jack’s antics, and the resulting stress, was wearing on us. I was short with him, yelled constantly, neglected my two daughters and acted combative towards my husband. With a mother’s incessant urge to fix “it”, I did copious amounts of research. We tried reducing the amount of wheat and sugar Jack was consuming. We tried providing more opportunities for him to be active. We tried punishment, stripping away special privileges, and ultimatums. And still, the school notes came. 

I grew angrier, more despondent and inadequate. I was failing my son. Failing to help him secure a successful education. Failing to provide him with a sense of positive self-esteem. Failing to see any meaningful happiness in his little 6 year old life. There was always tension, fighting and anxiety. It was too much. My husband and I finally secured an appointment with a local child psychologist. After the completion of many forms and psychological interpretation, my fears were validated. The behaviour was finally labelled. It was “real”. ADHD. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. I was terrified. The “D” word hung in the atmosphere, choking me with its thick grip of judgment and obscurity. 

Drugs. Could I even consider it? What will our friends and family think? What will the teachers think? Would/could this physically or mentally hurt him? Am I a monster for even considering it? My mindset changed from day to day as I wavered between the social implications of pharmacotherapy, and what truly might be best. We tried to persevere, week after week. And then it happened. The proverbial straw finally broke the camel’s back. After a particularly gruelling night of conflict, when I “lost it” and told Jack I was sick and tired of his constant, terrible behaviour, he said it. Through muffled backtalk and tears of abandonment the words came, crushing me like a twenty foot wave of resentment. “You think I am the worst person in the whole wide world. Nobody likes me, not even you”. In that moment, I knew. We had to try a new approach. Nothing else was working, and Jack was spiralling as a result. It wasn’t fair and it couldn’t continue. 

The next day we booked an appointment with our family physician and within a week, we had our Concerta prescription. Methylphenidate. A narcotic. After Jack’s first dose, I waited. Waited, prayed, ruminated, researched more, doubted, cried. Was I doing the right thing? Oh please, God please. Within two weeks, the universe shifted. The angry, raging, distant, frustrated little boy I knew disappeared. In his place, a calm, collected, focused, happy, acceptably active and loving boy came forth. Relief swept over me like the soft sunlight of an early summer morning. I was renewed. 

Thereafter, Jack’s care was transferred to a paediatrician for monitoring. I recall the first visit easily. I explained my concerns regarding the Concerta. What would happen in twenty years? Was I permanently damaging Jack’s body? Could this unintentionally harm him medically in other ways? Will he someday hate me for making such a pivotal decision without his input? After listening intently, Dr. R. offered her support. She explained that our goals were to ensure Jack received a good education, had a healthy level of self-esteem and was able to integrate well within society. These attributes would allow him to make and keep valuable relationships, prepare himself for life challenges and become a successful adult. 

I felt immense gratitude. She understood my struggle. She understood my fears. She understood what I knew in my heart to be true all along. That I want what is best for Jack, always. That my job as his Mom is to make sure he is afforded all of the wonderful opportunities life has to offer. That he doesn’t deserve to be limited because of judgment, or the fears of others (my own included). That each person is unique and has individual needs. That I can no longer care what might happen twenty years from now, because I want him to be happy NOW. That this journey continues to turn me inside out each and every day….because I love him that much.