Hello Darkness My Old Friend

In the summer of 2015, my dad lost his battle against mental illness. Since my childhood he had struggled with a severe panic disorder, PTSD, Depression and substance abuse. As his family, we felt helpless in getting him the support he needed. After suffering for decades, my dad finally died of liver cirrhosis. 

In his early 40’s, my father began receiving regular therapy for his anxiety and depression and was whisked on a rollercoaster ride through a series of medications. There were chunks of time when he lost his memory (from the meds and his daily benders) and presented abnormal behaviours that not even he knew he possessed.

In my senior year of high school my father was struggling more than ever. He was constantly agitated — scary —and could often be found crying in a locked bedroom. He was spiraling and I knew it was only a matter of time before something bad happened. 

Beds are Burning

One Sunday afternoon, my mother sent me into town to buy some weed for my father —a sedative he seemingly couldn’t live without (and we needed to endure him). When I came home (with his weed) all of my belongings were on fire in our front yard. My bed, clothes, pictures —everything. A bomb had gone off. And my mom and I were hit.

Comfortably Numb

My dad eventually received the right combination of medications and his mental-health stabilized for many years. And for several stretches of time, his drinking did too. He attempted to hold down a series of jobs but couldn’t continue working for any length of time. His emotions were like a slide. He was either climbing up, going down or hitting bottom. It was an ongoing ride for him. And for us.

When I was really young, I lovingly remember my father — he was an iron worker, fisherman, avid gardener, water-skier and a well-dressed man. He built me a winter luge trail at our country home; an ice skating rink on the river and took me to many sand bars and islands to swim with my friends. When he was well everybody loved him. He was a wonderful support and father. A loving husband and son.

My father valued honesty and authenticity in others. And always opened our home and fridge up to kids for as long as they needed. Our house, despite its emotional turmoil, was often filled to the brim with family & friends. 

My father had many different faces. And was many things to many people. He was not black or white. He was many shades of grey.

No More Mister Nice Guy

I fondly remember those few adult years when my father was better. But like all good things, it came to an end. My dad eventually needed to be reassessed and his panic began rearing its ugly head again. This time, he was TERRIFIED to be re-medicated and to potentially put his family and himself through that rollercoaster again. He had terrible experiences with our rural mental-health system and was petrified he would be locked up or given shock treatments (like my maternal grandfather had). 

In the fall of 2014, my dad’s panic disorder was in full swing and by December, he'd completely retreated to his bedroom —agoraphobia had set in. He was waking up nightly with what he called “symptoms of a heart attack”. Doctors ran the full gamut of physical tests on him and concluded it was “all in his head.”  He was unable to catch his breath, was often sobbing and told us he was scared to death. He wouldn’t allow us to help him (and threatened to hurt us if we did). Later, we found out he had taken up drinking harder alcohol and the volume of it grew as time went on.

Eventually, my dad got an appointment to see a psychiatrist over the computer (Tele-Health). The doctor made no changes to his medication and scheduled no follow-up appointments. When spring came, he drank heavily, forcing my mother to take a leave of absence and eventually leave her position of 36 years to care for him full-time. He lost more than 50 pounds, could no longer walk, was becoming more delusional, depressed and totally unpredictable. He refused to go in an ambulance when they were called and because he was “in his right mind” they couldn’t force him. He said he had given up and wanted to die at home. He wanted us all to honour his wishes. He threatened to kill us if we disobeyed.

So instead, my mother found a group of friends, including doctors, nurses, addiction counselors (even Jehovah’s Witnesses who knocked on the door) to help him at home. In June, he was finally taken out by ambulance. At this stage, we learned that he was in liver failure.

After being admitted for several weeks in our local hospital, he came around mentally (but his body swelled up to what looked like three times his size). I spent a great deal of time by his side during those final weeks and actually got to see my dad more like his true self again. We had some great talks. We drank Pepsi and watched Shark Week. He apologized for his behaviour and said how sorry he was. He didn’t remember much of what happened.

In July, after a month of not eating, his organs finally shut down and he took his last breath when my mother went outside for a cigarette. He wasn’t alone though. An Earth Angel (and nurse) named Carol was by his side and told him it was ok to go. That my mother was outside. Then he took his leave.

Old Man Look at My Life (I’m a lot like you were)

It wasn’t long after his death that my mental-health took its own hit (I mean how could it not?). I was suffering with my own anxiety and other physical manifestations of grief. It wasn’t pretty. I was becoming scared to drive, to attend social engagements and in meetings, I felt like I was floating outside of my body. I was regularly angry and lashing out at home. I was obsessively cleaning and was often walking around wanting to vomit. On the outside, I don’t think you could tell.

I began to empathize with the feelings of how someone could take their own life (I mean who would want to live this way)? I saw how quickly mental illness could take you over if you let it. If you got tired of fighting. The strength in those with this type of daily struggle is admirable to say the least. This is know first-hand.

Try a Little Tenderness

One of the biggest lessons I learned from my upbringing is that a person should NOT be defined as their illness. It’s something a person is living with and it isn’t a choice. It happens because mental health is HEALTH and the body keeps the score. 

What I continue to struggle with however, is how my father CHOSE to shape his life. He had choices about how to take care of himself. He could have chosen to accept help and to have more positive outcomes. 

In hindsight, I am thankful to my father for providing a cautionary tale when it comes to mental health.

It’s because of him, that I can empathize so deeply with the struggles of others. That I can help people to see through the dark in situations that I too have lived through – addiction, domestic abuse, poverty, homelessness, codependency and loss.

I have chosen to go in a different direction than my father. To ask for help when I need it. To be honest about how I’m feeling and to work on my imperfections. To regularly put myself on a “time out” when I need one (so as not to lash out at those around me). I have learned to connect regularly with others for support and I am willing to explore alternative ways to heal my mind, body and spirit. Developing a sense of meaning and purpose in my life is paramount. 

I thank my father for all the lessons that he taught me. And I know that the healing I do here on Earth today, helps him to heal on the other side. It takes generations to break through family traumas. And I just hope my son gets the chance to settle in with a happy and peaceful upbringing. Something each one of us so rightfully deserves.