"You Asked For Healing" My Thoughts; On Letting Go

Occasionally I get asked to write something and I actually get paid for it. I'm often asked why I don't write a book, or publish my writings etc...
The answer to that is two fold. First - I haven't spent enough time really putting thought and effort into making my efforts at writing produce a sustaining income, and second - if I write about what I know, there would be too many things that I don't want out in the public about my life. Not because I am ashamed of it, but because there are other members of my family that would be affected by. There is no such thing as a victimless crime, and no family history is free of it's own set of criminals.

I have been asked recently to submit a piece of writing about "Letting Go Of Mental Illness".

That's a thing?

I missed that memo, apparently.

There is no letting go of illness. It changes your DNA. Depression is the deceitful dark cloud that robs my days of colour and paints me as useless and unworthy. It's hissing voice tells me it's right, and that I'm a piece of shit and don't deserve my skin,my friends,my children,my job,my car, my love,my life. It reminds me that I have to keep pushing, doing better, being nicer, being prettier, being skinnier, being smarter,being funnier. No one will like me if I'm not the best,the best,the best,the best. I have only it to thank for my success, because it's voice of truth keeps me at my best, stops me from being weak,stops me from being me. Because no one, it hisses, would like that. Don't let them see.

I don't write a book because that voice I hear, is my mothers'.

I let her go. I asked her to leave my home around ten years ago, my husband drove her home. I called her a few times at Christmas, and on her birthday, but I even gave that up. I went to visit her after my favourite uncle died, to see if she was okay. It was polite.
She left my home and never once picked up the phone again to speak to me, or make any attempt to contact me. We hadn't parted on terrible terms. But I hadn't lived up to her. And I lost her that day when she walked out my door, and all I have to remind me of her now is the voice of my own self loathing and wretchedness. The last time I saw her was after I received the phone call that she had passed away unexpectedly through the night, and I stood weeping beside her lifeless body at the funeral home that afternoon.

The truth is, I'd give everything I had to turn time back to the day that she left my life. And on the days that I struggle most, it's not that I believe that I am worthless or useless. It's that I so badly want to make her love me, that I'd gladly play the part.

I know if I hadn't let her go, it would've been me in that funeral home. And there are too many times I wish I had played my cards differently, so I could have bought us more time together.

I know she didn't love me. She hadn't the capacity, she was so enveloped in her own turmoil. I was a conduit for her own pain and torment.

I know that things couldn't have been different, unless she too had sought proper help for what troubled her.

I know I made the right choice because my own children will not hear my voice in torment, but in support. I hurt still. But I heal continuously.

My Mum was not a horrible person. She was ill. In so many ways. And I was available and vulnerable and able to take all that on for her. I paid the price. My children will not.

So, when I talk about letting go of mental illness, that is what I did. I let go of the person who meant more to me than life itself. It's not something I'm proud of, but it had to be done, for the sake of my family and my children.

We don't, no can't, let go of mental illness, or cancer, or diabetes, or any other kind of life changing condition. We can simply heal the wounds the best we can, and hope that we can patch up the rest enough to keep us afloat.

We can let go of habits that don't heal, and let go of thoughts that make us hurt. And we can let go of people who cause us harm. To quote a line in an article I read recently, "We can choose to let these people go. We don't have to, and it's hard to choose to do so. But we CAN".

In my perfect world, my Mum and I would have had a reunion, and she'd have seen the strong and healthy Annie, and would've loved her. But I've let that dream go. My Mum would have hated me as I am now. Because she herself was trapped, she wouldn't have ever been able to recognize the beauty that is freedom.

I hope she is free now. And that we have a chance for that reunion one day, somehow. And the part of me that was, is and always will be her daughter wants nothing more than to believe that she has found peace, and is happy that I have found mine.

Find Your CORE

"Such a Perfect Place to Hide" My Celebration of 13.1

One final surge as I reached the final 100m. My heart was beating with excitement, my tired legs changed cadence to push harder towards the finish. The sun burst through the clouds. The angel's trumpets blared. Crowds roared their support, chanting my name (which is 2 syllables and coincidentally imminently chant-able) and pumping their fists to the sky as I passed by. I might have been in slow motion, hair swept back in the wind, victorious smile on my calm and triumphant face. Gentle beads of sweat glisten on my brow. Dramatic and uplifting music sets the tone for epic victory. This is totally how I celebrated the finish of the 2015 Scotiabank Half Marathon and 10 year Discharge-A-Versary from hospital after completing a stay in Toronto General Hospital's Eating Disorder Unit.
Stop. Press rewind please. Let's take it back a bit.
I had a great run. From starting gun to final surge,the entire run went like any other..strong,beautiful and full of joy. I ran with music for the first time, and set myself a lengthy playlist of songs that mean something to me, I enjoy, or remind me of people who would be cheering me on. From there I pressed shuffle and set off on my run.
Music, as always, did not disappoint, sending me a sublime set of musical awesomeness to enjoy along the way. I was fast enough, strong enough and thoroughly exhilerated by the atmosphere. It was, as the first two songs that played so aptly stated, a Wonderful World, and a Beautiful Day.
As KD Lang soulfully belted out Halellujah on my soundtrack, I took a moment to revel in the truly breathtaking truth that I was running with all the skinny, perfect people. That I had eaten breakfast that morning. And every morning for the last ten years. That all the people who had astounded me before were now my peers. And that I was as worthy and capable of the achievement as they were.
I ran briefly alongside a true survivor, a real hero. JP Bedard was 5km into his third consecutive marathon to raise awareness for survivors of sexual abuse. I told him how he inspired me and how he was my hero. This was bravery.
The songs played on. My feet kept plodding on. My heart was full.
I thought that the ending would be, in a word, unforgettable.
I turned the corner and saw the crowds and beautiful Toronto City Hall up ahead. All the other runners streamed out ahead and around me. The stage was set. I noticed my music for the first time, really, knowing that the music Gods would choose a song to commemorate this incomparable moment.
Instead the music Gods decided to have a bit of a laugh and sent me low key, somewhat (okay,very) dark song by George Ezra, about depression.
It actually shook me a bit. What. The. Fuck. would this song come on for (because IPods care about my epic soundtrack, right), but I wasn't about to waste any precious time by fiddling and skipping the song.

It's just my name,
It's just my skin,
Holding a boulder,
Can you swim?
Oh as we fall,
Through the water,
You find a piece within,
And you know it's just your skin

So I looked toward the finish and plowed ahead, determined to just ignore the music and finish strong. But, instead of just listening, for the first time I actually heard.
I trust myself implicitly to make the right decisions. I feel capable, strong and beautiful. I listen to the needs of my body and adjust to ensure that I am able to perform at my best. I am confident and on top of the world.
Now add "when I am running" to those above statements.
Because only when I am running, all of the above and more are true.
But in my life, I let doubt creep in. I let the opinions of others lead me. I don't trust that I know what I need.
When I look back over ten years of making the right decisions, listening to the needs of my body and adjusting to ensure that I am able to perform at my best, I know that having confidence in myself is key to my being a rare success story.
When I doubt myself, when I turn away from my gut instincts, and when I convince myself that I can't, I slip and fall.
But the part that doubts? It's just my skin. Not my heart, my soul. It's just my name. A diagnosis.
And God knows, I have held a fucking gigantic boulder or ten. And God knows, because He has helped me, I can swim.
So when I crossed that finish line in downtown Toronto, I did it like I have lived most of my life. Alone,in giant crowd.
No fanfare. No fist pumps. No triumphant angelic horn section. Me and George and the black dog.

Black dog, black dog, that I'll never know,
Oh black dog haunts you mind, your world, your soul,
Oh black dog, black dog, can't you see I am fine?
Oh black dog, black dog, you're no plague of mine.

It was the perfect finish to my perfect run.

It's just my skin. And I'm proud to say I'm comfortable in it.

Find Your CORE

"It's Hard To Take Courage"

10 years ago I stood at the finish line of the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon. My family and I had gone to cheer on a dear friend who had overcome insurmountable odds to finish a half marathon. She had completed a hospital stay and begun the process of recovering from an eating disorder. I thought she was amazing - and that the feat she had accomplished was impossible on so many levels.
I had met her almost a year before, during that hospital stay. We had become fast friends among the 25 or so women who came and went through the Toronto General Hospital eating disorders treatment program during my tenure there. She was, and remains, a hero to me, and cheering her in that day gave me hope that there were amazing things ahead for me to accomplish too.
The Facts:
Anorexia Nervosa boasts the highest mortality rate of any mental illness, losing 4% from physical complications and more from suicide. Only 1/3 of all individuals who suffer access treatment, and less than .10% of those are successful. Bulimia Nervosa is statistically not far behind, with 3.8% mortality.
The outlook for receiving treatment is bleak, and the chance of recovery is slim. Add to that the social stigma associated with admitting to the disease and you have a recipe for not seeking help.
With my husband's help, support and encouragement I agreed to check in to an intensive Eating Disorders Recovery Program at Toronto General Hospital. I had suffered from Anorexia for almost 20 yrs by then, and it had morphed into and branched out to bulimia-binging and purging, laxative and diuretic abuse, over exercising, 200 calorie per day eating regimens, cutting and several other forms of self injury. I was very ill, and I'm afraid that not many had a tonne of hope that I could, after 20 years of habitual self abuse, kick this disease to the curb.
Don't kid yourself. It is a disease. It is pervasive and destructive, a cancer of the mind, and a destroyer of the soul. And like many diseases there are treatments, and often cures.
Those who thought I couldn't, made the silly mistake of underestimating me. I said yes to treatment. I said yes to doctors and therapists. I said yes to every meal they brought me, although every part of me said I wasn't worth it and was rebelling against the treatment program. My body was in agony. My mind was a battlefield. And my heart was starting to be free. I said yes to therapy. I said yes to clinical trials. I said yes to drinks with calories.
It was the worst, most traumatic, most painful (physically and emotionally) period of my life to that point, but on October 18th ten years ago, I walked out of Toronto General Hospital day program and into the journey of recovery. Against all the odds, as a grown adult, I had reached the point of the process that most are unable to even aspire to: HOPE.
Recovery from anything is never a one and done deal. It's a series of good decisions that nurture your confidence and build evidence for successful decisions in the future. Recovery is saying yes to every meal. Recovery is believing you are good enough and worthy of waking up tomorrow, even when the whole world is telling you differently, or waking up anyway and getting on with things despite agreeing with the whole world.
Recovery is falling down and laying there,trying to see the world a little differently before you get back up. Just so you know better what to do if you fall down again.
Recovery isn't never wanting to stick your fingers down your throat, it's enjoying the extra scoop of ice cream with your kids despite it.
Recovery isn't never battling anxiety or depression ever again, it's choosing the right weapons to bring to the fight. I run, to keep me balanced and give me confidence and happiness. I attend regular therapy sessions. I journal. I colour and knit. I eat healthily. I check in with my doctor often. I work at being ready always. Just in case.
Recovery isn't having to do everything on your own. It's being strong when you can, and accepting help when you can't.
Recovery is beautiful, bittersweet and impossibly possible.

It turns out this October 18th I will, coincidentally, be running the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Marathon. I'll cross that finish line myself, and I cannot fail to see the symbolism in this.
I am not a survivor. I am alive. Despite the odds. Despite the doubt and severity of my illness. I am the face of recovery, and it is a strong face, a determined face, and a hopeful face.

I will cross that finish line on Sunday the way I walked out of the hospital ten years ago. With a big smile, some fear and loads of pride.
Because who knows what the next steps will bring? And really? Who cares. I am alive. And that's always a step in the right direction.

Find Your CORE.