La vie en rose

I remember sitting around in the living room with an old friend, empty beer bottles and caps strewn about, smoke hanging heavily in the air, and Edith Piaf crooning away, that 1940’s crackling vinyl sound despite modern CD technology.  My friend insisted on showing some old home movies, and by old, I mean black and white, silent, converted from old Super-8 reels.  The videos showed various scenes of a toddler waddling about on a beach, or in a living room, with family reaching to pick him up, smiling, and happy to share a tender moment with their young son.

“That’s me,” my friend sighed through the exhalation of a cigarette.  The videos were equal parts charming and haunting.  On the screen, we saw the embodiment of William Blake’s ‘innocence’, a child filled with wonder and amazement, adored by a loving family, in what would surely be the happiest of times.  The man slouched in the big arm chair, in a cramped apartment littered with empty bottles, pet hair, and unwashed dishes, was so completely removed from the boy on the screen, you could only take his word for evidence that he and the boy were one and same.

You see, we had just spent the day sampling from a selection of craft ales from both home and abroad.  We had a great time.  A buddy had managed to secure unlimited sample passes, and we didn’t hesitate.  By supper time, I was probably more incapacitated than I’d ever been in my life, all from shot-glass samples consumed far too quickly, and no food to counter-balance.  The plan was to enjoy the festival, crash at my friend’s apartment and watch some movies for the evening.  All in all, it was a fairly harmless evening of relaxation.  And it was, if not a bit disconcerting.

At the time, I thought the combination of distant childhood memories, especially of a simpler time, mixed with alcohol, smoke, and depressing music could only lend itself to heightened depression.  I reminded myself that some people struggle daily with depression.  My friend was no stranger to vices.  He was a good man, in a noble profession in which he helped others through their own difficulties.  How ironic it was for someone who offered hope to so many to have needed so much for his own.

The older I get, the more obvious it is to me that I have lived with some form of depression for most, if not all of my life.  In recent months, I’ve been more open about it, with myself as well as my friends.  I’ve taken steps to try to combat it.  I’ve learned that it’s likely something I’ll face for the rest of my life, and that much like the first 37 years of it, during which I’ve developed all sorts of coping strategies, I’ll find more appropriate and effective ones so I can maximize my own happiness for the next 37. 

Here are some moments I have identified as indicators that I’ve been harbouring something that has held me back or hindered me in my own personal growth:

Ø  In play-school, way back when I was four years old, we had wonderful teachers.  I learned my alphabet, numbers, how to tie my shoes, and made friendships I still keep today.  We made lots of crafts, some of which I still have (no surprise there).  We also played games.  One game, which I think was ‘Mother May I’, or some variation, involved trying to reach the other side of the room on silly commands, such as walking backwards, crab-walking, scissor walking, or whatever else.  It was a fun game, and completely harmless.  And I wanted no part of it.  The problem was, I found myself extremely uncomfortable with all my classmates watching me.  We played all sorts of other games that were similar, but in this one, I was absolutely terrified.  I remember the warm feeling when I finally played, how everyone cheered and encouraged me.  I was equally terrified the next time we played.  As a teacher today, I still won’t play this game with students.

Ø  I have always adored sad music.  Even on the old Sesame Street records, the slow child-chorus songs like ‘Somebody Come and Play’ and ‘Sing’ were my sentimental favourites.  My favourite Burton Cummings song was ‘I’m Scared’, and from his earlier band, The Guess Who, my favourites were ‘Undun’ and ‘Sour Suite’.  You can look up the lyrics if you’re unfamiliar with them.  As I grew older, I found great solace in music, through both the melody and the lyrics.  Now, just because a song is sad or depressing doesn’t necessary mean I have to love it, but I always go back to the emotionally-heavy tracks.  To this day, people have jokingly referred to the mellow, indie bands I follow as ‘slit-your-wrist music’.  I can see where they’re coming from.  As I’m writing this, Sigur Ros is in my CD player.  Again, if you’re unfamiliar with them, look them up.

Ø  In one of my earlier blog posts, I recollected my struggles with the Kamakaze slide at Magic Mountain.  There is a really steep water slide at our local water-themed park, and to conquer it showed you were brave in the face of such a staggering obstacle.  In Grade 11, and was determined to give it a try.  I was all the way to the top, and was even hanging from the support beam, dangling over the gaping mouth of this terrible beast intent on swallowing me.  Thoughts of those two or three people over the years who had been injured on the Kamakaze were strong enough to cause me to haul myself up and unceremoniously walk back down the stairs to jeers from the crowd waiting in line behind me.  We bought Magic Mountain t-shirts that day, and I wore mine for almost fifteen years afterwards.  Even when it was faded, stained, and stretched beyond recognition, I kept it.  It was a reminder of my failure.  I never realized why I had kept it so long until long after it finally got cut up for spare rags, pieces of which I think I still have.

Ø  Speaking in public has never been my favourite thing to do.  Granted, many people feel the same way, and for someone who decided to become a teacher, you might think I have it licked by now.  Hardly.  I still get butterflies before I begin a lesson, less now than before, since I know my students pretty well and am comfortable teaching them.  One time, in anticipation of being evaluated by a university professor during my internship, I felt so nauseous I very nearly drove past the school driveway with the intention of quitting altogether.  I didn’t, of course, and proceeded to deliver a great lesson.   

I trace this back to a public speaking event for which I was chosen to co-represent our school with three others.  It was in French, and it was about a subject of my choosing.  I chose fly-tying, because at that time it was among my favourite pass-times.  I had done so well with my speech in my own class that I took it for granted I would do equally well at the competition.  Naturally, I scoffed when Mom urged me to practice.  

When I took the stage, I partially froze, and when I did speak, my speech was full of mistakes.  I was humiliated.  Now, when something like that happens to you, one of two things can happen.  You can learn from it, pick yourself up, and improve upon it.  Or, you can be completely scarred to the point it becomes a monkey on your back.  Three things happened that day:  I became very reserved when it came to speaking in front of an unfamiliar audience; I became very insecure about my ability to speak French, and my enthusiasm for learning it began to wane from that point forward; and I also started to lose interest in fly-tying.  I continued to tie, but it wasn’t the same.  I’ve made several attempts to pick it up again, and it is lots of fun, but the same passion I had when I was younger isn’t there anymore. 

Ø  Skip ahead to spring, 2013.  I decided to take my son skiing, since it was a sport I had never tried before, and he was really excited to learn how to snowboard.  A snowboard enthusiast friend of mine came along, and we went to Crabbe Mountain for a relaxing day on the slopes.  Having cross-country skied most of my childhood, I was comfortable on the bunny hill, picking up really quickly how to control my speed, shifting from side to side, and stopping with that slow-arc shower of snow that you see from professionals.  My son took the snowboarding lesson and showed real promise, mastering his balance and tackling the hill with ease.  We took on some more challenging courses, and with a few scary moments, I felt quite confident I could at least ski on the basic hills.  That’s what I decided to do, keeping it simple as the weather was warm, and the snow was starting to get sticky with ruts from dozens of other skiers carving up the mountain side.

Making our final run of the day, I navigated my way down a hill I had done a few times earlier without incident.  This time, however, I hit a ridge unexpectedly and tumbled.  I was holding my ski poles tightly, and when my right hand collided, my grip on the pole contributed to the snap at my thumb joint.  At the time, I thought it was a bad sprain.  The x-rays two days later confirmed the fracture.  My son was horrified, and for a time he blamed himself for my injury.  I assured him that one day, I would bring him back and try again, because I didn’t want him to harbor the same anxiety I do. 

A year later, almost to the day, I brought both my sons back to Crabbe.  We tackled the same hill on which I had fallen before.  My snowboarding pro had no trouble at all, but my youngest and I decided to take it safe midway down.  I saw the part of the track where I fell.  He asked me if this was where I fell, as though he was there when it happened.  We took off our skis and walked down the steepest part, then put our skis back on to finish the rest.  No one got hurt that day. 

When we got back to the bunny hill, I felt the anxiety rising in me again.  Having successfully descended it dozens of times at this point, I couldn’t understand why I was still so scared.  I smiled, giving the boys the thumbs-up and made my way to the base, and for the last time.  Possibly ever.  You see, I felt good about facing my demons.  I gave it another try, but at the end of it all, the echo of something now long-past still rings inside me.  It’s the inability to find a way to overcome these things that makes me feel that there is something more afoot. 

There are days when it is all I can do to slide my two feet over the edge of the bed to start my day.  When I don’t have any commitments to keep, I sometimes curl up in a ball and stay under the covers longer than I normally would.  I could be in the middle of listening to a catchy, up-beat song and suddenly need to turn it to something more mellow.  Sometimes, within a matter of minutes, I feel the need to just be alone, and if I don’t, I find myself becoming more irritable than I have any reason to be.  There are days when I even feel like I’m a fraud, and that the successes I have achieved in life really aren’t mine.

Now before you start to panic and plan an intervention, rest assured I’m doing fine.  I love my job, and apart from professionally writing, can’t imagine anything else I’d do instead.  I’m raising two wonderful children, and am trying to be aware of my childhood anxieties as I help teach them how to become confident young men.  I’m single now, for the first time in over seventeen years, but I’m looking forward to the next chapter of my life.  I always used to joke that I would one day end up buying some small cabin in the woods where I could just spend my day with my thoughts, writing, and maybe fly-tying.  I think my desire for that kind of solitude just couldn’t wait any longer.  

There are two types of days.  There is the kind when everything comes up roses.  And then there are the rest.  Maybe depression or anxiety can be calculated by the ratio of one type you have to the other.