What to expect when your brain wants to kill you excerpt from: POETRY

 

 

I enjoy writing.  I like expressing my thoughts on paper or on my blog.  I wish I could get more people to read my stories and poems, but that's not why I write.

I have written a couple of novels.  They have been revised over many years.  I have been tinkering with one since university.  I have carefully sculpted the other over the last 20 years.  Neither has been published.  I have tried the Literary Agent route, which is very frustrating.  You wait so long only to get a form letter rejection.  I understand why.  The number of "writers" worldwide has grown exponentially since the advent of word processing programs and the Internet.  Literary agents are inundated with story pitches.  I'm sure they can barely keep ahead of the avalanche.  I'm not criticizing them, but rather just sharing my observations.

The non-literary agents in my life - friends and relatives - advise me to self-publish.  I am reluctant for a few reasons.  First, Literary Agents want to avoid handling spoiled copy.  They want the princess to be intact, so to speak.  If I self-publish, my novels will be sullied.  It is an all-or-nothing strategy.

Second, to self-publish successfully, you need to be able to promote yourself.  All authors do marketing, but if you have a Literary Agent, you have some guidance and access to tools unavailable to lone wolves.

...

What to expect when your brain wants to kill you excerpt from: STRATEGIES

This Chapter covers many strategies I have been told over the years.  All of them are Therapist/Pdoc approved.  I wrote specific chapters on CBT, Exercise, Self-compassion, Therapists and Music because they are the most helpful.  For unauthorized strategies, see the Chapter on the 10 Rules of Suicide.  

All of the following are effective in some shape or form, but for them to be truly beneficial, you must make those that resonate with you part of your daily routine.  They must be deeply integrated so that when you need support, a pause or a break, or even just a distraction to get over a crisis, big or small, you will instinctively choose the right strategy for you at that moment.  Many of these I don’t embrace that tightly.  I hope listing as many as I can remember will give someone else an option they never considered.

Let’s start with ice.  Before I experienced modern psychotherapy, I equated Psychiatric Hospitals with 19th and 20th Century Insane Asylums and their notoriously harsh treatment of patients.  I have a vivid image in my head of a patient screaming and crying as they were forcibly put into an ice bath and restrained in place.  It was a technique used regularly as much as a punishment as a treatment.  As it turns out, though, ice baths significantly affect a patient’s physiology.  They are routinely used by athletes to reduce muscle soreness and inflammation and to enhance recovery.  For patients, if you put your face in ice water and hold your breath, it triggers the dive reflex, slows the heart rate, calms the nerves and makes your body conserve oxygen. 

I don’t like being cold.  The only ice I want is in a drink, so the idea of an ice bath is abhorrent.  Nevertheless, I’ve always been open to trying different strategies at least once, so one day, when I was agitated, I tried it.  I filled a large bowl with water and a couple handfuls of ice.  I then bobbed for apples, or in this case, ice cubes.  As expected, it was not pleasant.  Perhaps it would have been refreshing if it had been a hot day.  As it was, it immediately distracted my thoughts.  Bracing.  As a strategy, it was effective, but as a viable option, I would have to pass.  There was too much involved in setting it up.  When I told my Pdoc I tried it, he was actually surprised.  He rarely had patients act on his suggestions.  He was more inclined to trust medication, especially PRNs, in such situations.  (See Chapter on Medication )  I won’t dismiss this strategy out of hand, but if I ever use it again, it will be in desperation.  

...

What to expect when your brain wants to kill you: THERAPISTS

 

I have had many therapists on my mental health journey.  Some have taught me what doesn't work in therapy, while others have inspired me to live a safer and happier life.  By therapist, I should clarify I don't necessarily mean someone with letters after their name.  I count as a therapist anyone I reached out to with whom I had a rapport and who, in turn, provided support.  This includes a friend, a sibling, a family doctor and professional therapists.  I have had therapists for one conversation and others for weeks, months and years.  What is most important to me is that they listened without judgment.  I rarely reach out for help, and when I do, I hope they accept me with compassion and trust.  

My mental health is not something anyone else can remedy.  It has to come from within.  A good therapist will not try to solve my mental challenges, but they will listen and, through their patience, help me find my way.  A therapist should help me foster self-compassion (see Chapter on Self-compassion) and encourage me to take the time to step back and recognize my distorted thinking to realize the way forward or at least the next step.  

The first official therapist (with credentials and everything) I ever had was in University, right after I was hospitalized for my second attempt.  I resented having to go.  They told me that if I didn't, they would kick me out of residence.  I didn't take kindly to the threat and was prepared to get my apartment when I finally acquiesced. 

She was a middle-aged woman.  Very relaxed.  We started by first sorting out my family dynamic.  She brought out chess pieces and asked me to identify every family member with a playing piece.  I then had to explain my choices.  I selected my dad as king.  He was the head of the family.  Dinner was served when he got home.  He was a family doctor.  I love my dad.  He was always generous with his time.  We played lots of games together.  We had pentathlon tournaments where we played five events: ping pong, billiards, cribbage, Pente and chess.  My father was my role model.  Despite my mental challenges, I have always given my best to my two children. 

I identified my mother as the queen because she was the most powerful member of the household.  She knew everything that was going on and when it was to happen.  The house ran like clockwork.  Her agenda on the counter was a blueprint for the week.  Every meal was accounted for.  Every appointment was recorded.  I was the youngest in my family by four years, so "my mother" was different from my siblings'.  From about age 14 and forward, I was virtually an only child.  While my siblings were off at college or University, my mother and I had extended one-on-one contact.  If my dad was not home for dinner, the two of us would go out to a restaurant.  At night, we used to watch TV together.  Remington Steele was a favourite.  We had a very close relationship.

My mother was proud of me when I was young.   I always did well in school.  It was a running joke between us that she always left the same comment on my report card.  "We are very pleased with John's report." In elementary school and high school, my academic trajectory seemed infinite.  I had plans to become a Latin Professor (see Chapter on Latin), which my mother highly encouraged.  She had a friend who was a university professor, and his life was a success.  But that didn't quite turn out for me.  Unfortunately, in post-grad school, she was no longer pleased with "my report."  She never said anything openly about it until much later when, under the shadow of Alzheimer's, she told me none of her children amounted to anything.  

When I was younger, in elementary school, My mother had a mental breakdown.  She went to the hospital for a few days.  I remember buying her a special edition of Life magazine dedicated to Queen Elizabeth.  My mother was a royalist.  I gave it to her just as she was leaving for the hospital.  I don't know any of the details of her condition or if she even had a diagnosis.  Like most families, we didn't talk about mental health.  All I remember is that she seemed happier after the stay.

My one sister also lives with mental health challenges, which have been quite severe over the years.  I remember visiting her at the hospital once when she was in isolation.  It was meant to keep her physically safe but did nothing for her mental health.  The room was dark, hospital green.  There were no drapes or fixtures.  The only furniture was a bed devoid of bedding with wrist and ankle restraints.  There was a large window on one side where a nurse kept us under constant observation, again to keep my sister from harming herself.  During my visit, I shared some pictures on my iPod, and we laughed a little.  Without furnishings, our voices echoed in the hollow space.  It was such a dismal room.  Luckily, I have never been put into solitary confinement.  (see Chapter on Hospitals)

I identify this sister with the knight chess piece.  She always liked horses.  She even took riding lessons when she was younger.  The therapist thought my reasoning was humorous.  Being closest to me in age, I played with my knight sister the most.  I remember how we would "act out the music" from the Beatles album Help!  We would jump and dance and roll around in the basement.  We also used to play down in the valley by the creek.  We made bowls out of the raw clay we found.  Once, we even wandered inside a huge culvert left open during construction.  It was scary and thrilling at the same time.  The further we went in, the darker it got.  I had a very happy childhood.  Lots of adventures.

My other older sister I identified as a rook.  My reasoning was that she was very organized and methodical.  She babysat me the most when I was a kid.  We were not playmates, but we did have a close relationship.  She looked out for me, and I trusted her judgment.  She comforted me when I had my first mental breakdown (see Chapter on Music).  When I threatened another suicide attempt at University, they asked who I could talk to to calm me down, and I identified her.

Similarly, thirty years later, she was the only one I talked to over the phone.  I love my father, but he prefers to solve problems rather than listen.  In crisis, you don't want to be healed, just heard.  My mother, at that time, had advanced dementia, though I probably would have never called her.  She often talked about my knight sister being overly dramatic with her mental health.  I doubt I would have said anything.  I wouldn't want to disappoint her.  Her's was the British way - keep a stiff upper lip and carry on.  My Rook sister would listen as I cried.  She was my first therapist back when I stopped my piano lessons.  (see Chapter on Music). 

I assigned the Bishop to my brother, who was eight years older than me.  He stood up for me many times in my life.  I remember at summer camp where he was a counsellor, and I was a camper.  Other campers didn't realize we were related, and one in particular addressed me, "Hey you!" My brother immediately stepped in and said, "He has a name." I don't know why that stands out.  I guess I never had someone stand up for me like that.  My brother also never played by the rules.  On the rare occasions when he babysat me, everything was different.  I remember we mixed a huge pitcher of chocolate milk.  Normally, we did it one glass at a time.  Also, we played a game when it was time to go to bed.  He held our globe and spun it.  If it stopped on North America, I had to turn out the lights and go to sleep.  Anywhere else, I could stay up.  It seemed like the perfect game.  I had Europe, Asia and the Pacific and Atlantic oceans.  I couldn't lose.  And indeed, for a time, I didn't lose.  Of course, eventually, America won, and I went to bed.  Only later in life did I realize my brother was manipulating the results.  He knew when I would lose by how much pressure he put on the spinning globe.  Nonetheless, he still made it a game, letting me stay up at least ten minutes beyond bedtime.  I remember when he woke me up in the middle of the night and told me to get into his brown Camaro (It was the 70s.  He was cool!) while I was still in my PJs.  We drove north until we had left all the street lights behind.  He then pulled over to the side of the road by a cornfield.  He told me to look up, and there they were - the Northern Lights - dancing behind their gossamer curtain.  Beautiful!  

My brother did have a bit of temper, and I remember him and my dad arguing over dinner.  At the time, I had no idea why they were shouting.  The loud noise scared me and shut me down.  I vowed never to fight like that with anyone, to always follow the rules, and to always keep others happy.   I put school first and internalized conflict.   Only later did I find out my brother was more interested in rugby than academics at high school and that most of the arguing was over homework.

I saw myself as a pawn.  I was the youngest and not very important.  Everyone else watched out for me.  I was hospitalized twice as a young child with asthma.  One Halloween, when I was at home ill, all my siblings took out an extra bag to collect candy for their sick brother.  I had the most treats ever that year.  Another time, they built a massive snow dinosaur to cheer me up.  It was truly impressive. 

I have always been an introvert.  As a child, I was timid and often played alone after school.  Not because I didn't have any friends but because I preferred my own company.  When I was in kindergarten, I used to ask my mother for a carrot to feed the rabbit.  She would give me one that was washed and peeled.  I then sat on the grass alone in the backyard for an hour or so, patiently waiting for a rabbit to approach me.  When I finally gave up, I ate the carrot myself and lied that the rabbit had come to visit.       

Once I had sorted my family by chess piece, we examined the interpersonal dynamics.  Other than my brother's occasional outbursts, there was not much to tell.  There was no drama.  My parents didn't fight, at least not in front of me.  Occasionally, the rook sister and bishop brother would argue over borrowing the car.  That was never an issue by the time I could drive.  I could have the vehicle virtually anytime I wanted.  I have lived a charmed life.  That is why I consider my illness as more nature than nurture.  I was born with depression, just like my mother and sister.

Talking to a therapist was a new experience for me.  I had never had someone show so much interest in what I thought.  And she didn't care whether I spoke on one topic or many simultaneously.  She encouraged me to say whatever came to mind.  In our first session, I related how annoyed I was that I was being forced to see her.  She listened, and by the end of the session, I agreed to come back the following week.  

I rarely looked into her eyes.  I was ashamed.  I cried so much.  I  was amazed at how cathartic it was.  I had always tried to follow my mother's expectation to have a stiff upper lip and carry on without complaint, but to release it all was such a relief.  I don't even remember why I was crying, and it didn't really matter in the moment. 

Crying was therapeutic but not enough.  I began cutting myself for an even deeper release (see Chapter on Latin).  My therapist was very concerned but didn't tell me to stop.  She knew that if she scolded me or demanded me to cease, I would not be as open with her, and I would guard what I said in the future.  Instead, with her eyes full of tears, she told me that I was important to her and that we needed to explore why I needed to cut myself.  Because she didn't panic, I trusted her.  And after a few weeks, the injuries no longer provided relief.  I remember how she smiled the first time I came to therapy without a fresh injury.  

I didn't see another therapist until I contacted my family doctor some thirty years later.  I'm not sure why I chose her.  I had become her patient only one year before when I needed a doctor to sign off that I was physically able to do an EA (Educational Assistant) job.  I barely knew her, but for some reason, I opened up to her before anyone else in my life.  She was very kind and listened as I rambled and cried.  She was very generous with her time.  At one point, I was going in twice or three times a week; She recognized my distress and how dangerous it was.  Her primary goal was to keep me safe.  She was not entirely comfortable with mental health.  She tried desperately to find me a therapist or pdoc, only to learn there were waiting lists that lasted months if not years. 

It finally came to a head when I revealed I had attempted the night before.  Not a very serious one, but it showed her I needed much more help than she could give.  She "formed" me, took away my freedom and sent me to the psychiatric ward at the local hospital (see Chapter on Hospital).  At the time, I was terrified, but in hindsight, it was the best option. 

When you're in the hospital, the psychiatric nurses check in with you one or two times a shift.  Some are excellent listeners, others not so much.  I remember asking a male nurse if what I said about my depression made sense.  I considered suicide as an accomplishment, as an expression of free will.  Without even hesitating, he said, "No." I didn't talk to him after that.  He missed out on a chance to help.  It would have been much more productive if he said, "Tell me more." or asked questions to elicit further details.  When someone has built up enough courage to say something, don't dismiss their words.  It leaves them gutted and much more cautious in the future.  Just by listening, you help validate their pain.  You want to get them out of their heads and their dark thoughts and draw them away from suicide ideation. 

One of the most helpful "therapists" was my best friend.  We would meet about once a month at a Swiss Chalet or Denny's.  He would travel by train and I by car, and we would meet halfway.  I don't like talking on the telephone, so this was the best way to meet up.  Besides, it's always fun to eat out for lunch.  I would tell him what was on my mind and tear up as I spoke.  Most of the time, I just looked at the cutlery on the table.  He didn't mind and listened without judgment.  He helped me so much just by being there.  His embrace when it was time to go told me how deeply he cared.  

When you are released from the hospital, it is challenging to find an accredited therapist.  If you don't have enough money to hire one directly, your options are community counselling services, urgent care at a hospital, a mood disorder clinic, and Employee Assistance Programs (EAP).  For some of these, such as community counselling and EAP, you contact yourself, while hospital urgent care and mood disorder clinics require a referral from your family doctor.  Be advised that there can be lengthy waiting lists, as with all mental health services.  From my experience, EAP provided the fastest access to a professional therapist.

She was one of the best therapists I have ever had.  With my permission, she kept my family doctor in the loop.  It didn't feel like I was starting over but instead enhancing my care.  Together, they provided the intense support I needed at that time.  I was in a very dark place.  I remember her asking me at the end of a session whether she would ever see me again, and I said I didn't know.

She was the first to identify the Critic (see Chapter on Critic).  We even had him "sit" in an empty chair so we could talk to him, and on occasions, I would sit there and say precisely what the Critic thought.  It helped to draw a distinction between my depression and myself. 

Unfortunately, the EAP had an expiry date.  She managed to fudge the system a couple of times, so I got 12 weeks instead of 6, but like all therapy, it eventually ended.   

This is a problem with all free or subsidized therapy.  They all have a set number of sessions available, usually somewhere between 6 and 10 weeks and nothing more.  The demand for services is too high.

All therapists keep a close eye on the clock.  Sessions never run longer than the set time, regardless of what sort of breakthrough or crisis might happen.  One therapist scolded me for not taking my anti-anxiety medication before visiting with her.  She told me it would have saved a lot of time in session.  I understand that they are very busy and need to keep on schedule.  It is just that some therapists are better at managing session times than others.  I'm not trying to scare anyone away from therapists.  All of them were trying their best.  I'm just explaining why some were not a good fit for me. 

I had one therapist tell me, in no uncertain terms, that we would not "crack me open." She was only interested in discussing my immediate concerns.  Since we only had five more sessions, we could not "waste" any time.  She insisted on eye contact and good posture, both of which made me anxious during the session.  If I slouched, she would stop our conversation and tell me to sit up straight.  If my eyes wandered or looked down in shame, she would call my name so I would refocus.  If my foot started to quiver, she would tell me to put my heel down flat on the floor.  My mind was constantly told to focus on my physical state instead of my mental health.  I have always had a bad posture.  My head is a heavy weight on my neck.  It droops forward in front of my body, and when I walk, my eyes tend to focus on the ground directly in front of me.  It is a way of hiding in open space.  As I left a session, she even advised me to "pinch my buttocks together" to straighten my back and roll my shoulders down.  I didn't find this helpful.

When our session was over, I left exhausted.  I had no reference point for therapy at that time, so I figured I just had to endure and hope for the best.  Then suddenly, in one of our sessions (I can't even remember what I was saying) exasperated, she stopped me mid-sentence to ask if I even wanted to get better.  I was stunned by her outburst.  I had thought I was making progress that day.  She wrote something down in her notes and then informed me we only had one session left.  I shut down after that.  I didn't return for the last session.  What was the point? 

Another therapist's introduction was so rehearsed right down to the hand movements and head nods that he seemed robotic.  He had clearly seen many patients over his career.  An incandescent lamp provided subtle lighting.  It was meant to be cozy.  It felt New Age to me.  I wouldn't have been surprised if there was a special crystal somewhere or a little water feature.  I sat in a chair right by the door.  He sat in front of his desk, relaxed and reassuring.  I think he wore a brown sweater.  He was much younger than me: full head of hair and not a hint of grey.

After his initial spiel, he mentioned he was a Star Trek fan.  I don't know if that was part of his rehearsed introduction or if he assumed from my square glasses that I was interested in Sci-fi.  I replied that I liked Doctor Who.  He responded that he would not hold it against me.  I knew he was joking, but it took me back.

He next started his sales pitch, declaring that his approach was scientifically proven to be effective.  At the time, he was the first, but I quickly learned that when therapists start talking about "scientific proof," they are about to mention Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.  (see Chapter on CBT).  Don't get me wrong.  I have found CBT to be very effective, but only in group therapy.  With individual therapists, it was a matter of filling out worksheets over six weeks without any insight or success.  It was a structured way to waste time.

These were early days, and I didn't yet have a successful medication strategy.  My emotions were all over the place (see Chapter on Medication).  As I began introducing myself, I suddenly broke down and started crying uncontrollably.  He sat back and watched until I regained my composure.  He then ate a banana as he contemplated my situation.  I was confused.  I think it was supposed to be soothing.  Of all the fruits, it is the gentlest.  It's skin is easy to peel.  The fruit is soft but not messy.  The flavour is mild and agreeable.  And it is the fastest-selling fruit at the grocery store.  At the time, it seemed very random.

He then stood up, and we went to see his affiliated pdoc.  (see Chapter on Pdocs).  Her office was quite large with lots of papers strew around.  My therapist introduced me to the pdoc, and we exchanged pleasantries.  She then asked me a few questions.  As I related my thoughts, I broke down again.  The therapist immediately jumped in and said, "See, this happened before, lasts a few minutes and then it stops."

They then proceeded to have a conversation about my symptoms in front of me.  The few minutes he referred to was the time it took me to recompose myself.  The pdoc then wrote out a prescription, and I was sent on my way.  (See Chapter on Pdocs)

That was the first and last time I saw that therapist.  I decided to go with the EAP from my wife's employee health plan.  I did contact him again when I had used up all my EAP sessions.  I wanted to see how soon I could see him.  At that time, I was just desperate to find another therapist.  He informed me that I had been removed from his waiting list and that it would be another three months if I wanted to see him again.  I didn't even bother to add my name. 

I then went to subsidized therapy.  A community wellness program ran it.  I paid $50 a session.  The first therapist I saw was an older woman with a thick Russian accent.  I told her my challenges, complete with my uncontrollable tears.  She paused for a bit, then quoted Freud.  I didn't recognize the quote or remember it, but she made sure that I knew that she knew Freud.  She then pronounced that I needed six sessions to be set right.  Her confidence stole mine. 

I decided she wasn't for me.  So, I asked if there was someone else I could work with.  I was glad I spoke up.  The next therapist turned out to be helpful.  She asked to see my writing.  I brought a leather-bound notebook that included prose and poems throughout my life.  I have a number of these notebooks now.  It's so much nicer to write in than a Staples notebook.  I did not record my thoughts chronologically.  I wanted to make it clear that they have always been there in some form or another.  I did, however, date each entry.  I also included some of my naive drawings.  She flipped through it and was taken aback by how pervasive and persistent my thoughts were.  She gave it back and thanked me for sharing.  I liked her because she tried to get to know me beyond my depression.  The problem again was our time was limited by the subsidy.  And after six sessions, I was sent on my way. 

Another type of therapist is the crisis centre call line.  This is part of my safety plan.  If I'm suicidal and feel imminent, I'm supposed to call the crisis hotline immediately.  I must admit I didn't initially like the idea of calling for help or using the telephone.  I had images of the Ghostbusters hitting a panic button and sending the police with sirens blaring and a social worker in tow.  (see Chapter on Hospitals) After all, they warn of that option on their website (minus the Ghostbusters).  I didn't want to be taken into custody.  I already knew what that felt like.

Nevertheless, one night, I felt imminent and made that first call.  As soon as the crisis centre answered, they asked me where I lived and then promptly told me I had the wrong number.  They offered no further assistance other than supplying me with a new number for my region.  I guess it had to do with municipal funding.  Whatever the case, it seemed to be a flaw in the system, after all, I was suicidal at the time.  It was lucky I had enough resolve to call a second number.

When I finally got hold of someone in my jurisdiction, she proved to be very helpful and, to my relief, didn't hit any panic buttons.  She remained calm and understanding for the entire call.  She listened to me talk and then offered advice on settling my thoughts.  We practiced mindfulness techniques together (see Chapter on Strategies), and by the time I was off the phone, my crisis had passed.

While a crisis line therapist does not replace full therapy, they are a handy resource in the moment.  Make sure you get the correct phone number and write it down on paper.  I keep mine in my wallet.

I now have a steady therapist.  I knew that whatever disease I had it was not something that six sessions could cure.  After using all the free or subsidized therapy available, I had to decide what to do moving forward.  I knew I needed someone to talk to regularly and not on the phone.  I finally decided that my mental health was important and that I had to find the money to invest in myself.  I hired a therapist directly.  We meet biweekly at $150 per one-hour session.  The benefit of a long-term relationship is a deep understanding.  Our sessions are more like conversations between friends than therapy.  I have gained a new perspective on many issues.  I was fortunate enough to find someone who was a good fit.

Am I cured?  No.  I still struggle with my mental health and suicide ideation, but at least now I have someone I can talk to every other week who can monitor my level of distress and the danger I am to myself.  It helps to get me out of my darkest thoughts and put aside my suicidal intentions, even if it is just for an hour.  All I really want is to write and hold hope for the future.  Therapy gives me that chance.

 

What to expect when your brain wants to kill you: MUSIC

You are best to read this chapter with your Apple Music, Spotify, or YouTube open. Music has always been an essential part of my life. My tastes span all genres and vintages, so it is virtually impossible for me to obtain all the copyright permissions I need from the artists I want to quote. Instead, I have identified and described the songs below. It's up to you if you want to listen directly.




When I was young, I took piano lessons for about three years. I played in several recitals and passed my grade 2 elementary piano examination at the Royal Conservatory of Music. My piano teacher, Mrs. Brown always said I have potential. Of course, I know now that such comments are not a promise for the future but a compliment in the moment. She was disappointed when I quit. It came about under a strange set of circumstances.




I was around 11 or 12 when I had my first mental crisis. I remember it was Christmas time. I went to bed as usual and then just started crying. I couldn't stop myself. My older sister noticed and tried to cheer me up. She had given me a hockey net for Christmas and was showing me the poster that came with it. She asked what was wrong. I didn't know why I was so sad at the time, so I said I wanted to stop piano lessons even though I didn't mind them. I got out of school 15 minutes early every Thursday, so what was there not to like. At any rate, my sister told my mom, and my music lessons stopped. There was no follow-up. No questions about mental health. It was strictly seen as a cause-and-effect situation, and the cause was removed.




I returned to the piano when I was a teenager. I was a massive fan of James Bond movies. For my 16th birthday, we rented 5 James Bond films and my friend, and I watched them on the VCR, back to back the whole night long while consuming copious amounts of BBQ chips and Root Beer. I was thrilled to find a music book dedicated to the movie themes. I couldn't read the music at sight, so I translated the music notes into alpha notes and then learned the piece by memory. I actually got pretty good. Nobody Does It Better from The Spy Who Loved Me was my favorite. My sister and mother would request that one often. I taught myself a number of the themes the same way, each time writing the corresponding letter under each note. Around the holidays, I would expand my repertoire to include Christmas carols and Winter songs. (My mother made sure I understood the distinction. Any song with Santa or Frosty was not a Christmas carol.) The only Santa song I learned was Santa Claus is Coming to Town. The carols I knew were The First Noel (which is basically the same tune for the verse and the chorus.), Oh Little Town of Bethlehem and While Shepherds Wash Their Socks by Night (See Chapter on Religion)




Unfortunately, I don't remember how to play because I never really took the time to learn how to read music. I know the odd chord, but the skill is lost.




I had a therapist once who pushed me to get a hobby. When I told her that I used to play the piano, she encouraged me to take it up again. I managed to borrow a keyboard and had good intentions. I couldn't find my original James Bond songbook, so I bought a new one online. But when I sat down to play and was faced with a clean sheet of music without my alpha notations, I was overwhelmed. It gave me a new appreciation of what I had accomplished before. Of course, the critic identified me as a musical imposter. I wish my memory was better, and I could still play even just one tune to prove him wrong, but I don't want to re-learn the tricks.




I eventually grew out of James Bond. I lost interest in the nineties. It wasn't that I hated Pierce Brosnan or Daniel Craig. There was a six-year hiatus between Licensed to Kill and GoldenEye, and in that time, I guess I grew up. I got married, was hired, was fired, started my own business, and started my own family. I occasionally watch my favourite scenes on YouTube but rarely view the whole movie from beginning to end. Today, my old favourites seem dated and juvenile. And the new movies, while entertaining, no longer hold the same importance as Bond films once did.



My career as a musician didn’t end with piano lessons. In Grade 8 music, I played the trumpet. I remember feeling very important as I blared out the opening fanfare of the Theme from Rocky. There were no chords or harmonies like the piano, so you didn't have to worry about the positioning of ten fingers, just combinations of the three valves. I caught on quickly and could read the individual notes from the sheet music. And so it surprised everyone when I decided not to take music at high school. My Grade 8 teacher and my principal thought it was an oversight on my part when I had made my Grade 9 course selections. They offered to intervene on my behalf to change it since the deadline had passed, but I said "No." My older brother and older sisters were all in the high school band. I heard horror stories around the dinner table of how the Music teacher, Mr. Heinz, would yell at them and throw the conductor's baton or pieces of chalk at students when they weren't playing well. Also, I had to sit through their concerts as a kid. I didn't want to do that again, even if I was the one performing. Most of all, though, I wanted to do something different than the rest of the clan, so I selected Grade 9 Latin instead. (See Chapter on Latin).




As I mentioned before, my taste in music is varied. A lot of my high school pop music consumption was visual. I would come home from school and watch the latest music videos on Much Music. I was exposed to many other music genres through my family. My father liked gospel and country music like Charlie Pride and Gordon Lightfoot. My mother preferred Hooked on Classics and Paul Simon. My brother loved old-time rock and roll like The Rolling Stones and BTO. My one sister fancied Chris de Burgh and Styx, while my other sister liked to sing show tunes such as Annie, Joseph and his Technicolour Dream Coat, as well as Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody.




Growing up, I always dreaded the question, "What kind of music do you like?" If you are not careful, you can be pigeonholed or excluded. If you say classical, you're aloof; Heavy Metal, you're a headbanger; Country, you're a good ol' boy, and for god's sake, don't say you like the Bee Gees. The refrain in high school was always "disco sucks." You could never admit you liked Staying Alive, even if it's a lifetime favourite that makes you strut with confidence. And then there were the subgenres. If you liked David Bowie, it had to be before the release of the Let's Dance album. Duran Duran was a girls' band, so you couldn't like their music too much, but you could definitely admire their music videos. Scantily clad women dancing and writhing was always a hit for adolescent boys. That is what made ZZ Top so popular at the time.




As I got older the distinction between genres blurred. Music that used to be divisive in high school, such as KISS vs. ABBA, and Iron Maiden vs. A-ha, now live together on the "oldies" station BOOM 97.3. You don't have to commit to a specific genre. You can just listen to the soundtrack of your youth.




And somewhere along the line, near the end of high school, I discovered Depeche Mode and The Alan Parson's Project. DM's ability to combine a complex collection of dissonant sounds into an unexpectedly harmonious soundscape beguiled me. Each song was intricate and layered. I would listen and re-listen with my headphones each time, exploring a different aspect of the piece. They remain a favourite. I even like a couple of songs from their latest album.




The Alan Parsons Project recorded my favourite meditative albums. Each one had a different theme, such as gambling and midlife crisis (Turn of a Friendly Card), selfishness and dishonesty of modern culture (Vulture Culture) and themes of death and impermanence (Pyramid). I would lie down, close my eyes and listen to the entire album from start to finish. The individual songs flowed seamlessly into one another. I would lose myself and refresh my mind. And in the end, as the last note played, I would slowly open my eyes, relaxed and safe.




As I have gotten older, I don’t meditate much. I rarely listen to an album all the way through. My critic argues against wasting so much time since I already spend an hour each day exercising with TicToc. (See Chapter on Exercise) If I immersed myself in musical meditation, that would be another hour. I once heard that if you think you don't have time for meditation, you need it all the more. The critic is not buying it. I don’t listen to The Alan Parsons Project anymore.




While I usually think of The Alan Parsons Project in terms of albums, they did compose the most devastating song: "Day after Day." It is not the melody but the lyrics that hit hard. They are directed at me, and all I can do is acquiesce. I have missed my chance, and time must march on.




I also love classical music. Although I often listen to Classical FM on the radio or, rather, my smart speaker when I'm cooking or driving alone in the car, I have only a few symphonic compositions in my Spotify library. Rachmaninov is my favourite composer. I especially like his second symphony, and more specifically, the Adagio. This is my all-time favourite - play at my funeral - movement. The Toronto Symphony Orchestra plays it once every three or so years, and I attend every time. I usually go alone because no one else feels it like I do. Symphony 2 is an hour well spent, but the 15-minute Adagio is the jewel. If you go to the concert, don't start clapping during the fermata (a silent pause around 8:14 minutes into the Adagio). It is very annoying when you wait two to three years for it to be performed, only to have someone break the spell. The moment of silence before the reboot of the theme is magical. After which instruments call out tentatively one bt one inviting the clarinet to return and pick up the melody.




I also like Rachmaninov's Theme of Paganini Op.43, Variation 12. I find this to be the most tranquil, 1 minute and 9 seconds ever written. The melody and the harmony float. They steal my breathing and soothe my thoughts.




Mozart's Requiem is powerful and inspiring. If you see this live, make sure your seats are facing the stage straight on because the choir's voice does carry so well out the sides of their mouths. This gem is not performed very often, so pay extra for a seat out front and get the full immersive experience.




Albonini's Adagio in G minor is sad and haunting, making it the perfect soundtrack to Virgil's description of the fall of Troy. (See Chapter on Latin)




I also like the themes Murray Gold wrote for the TV series Doctor Who. I have been a lifelong fan of the series, which ran counter to one of my therapist's tastes (See Chapter on Therapists). I originally discovered the show when I was a kid. This was in the seventies when Tom Baker was the Doctor. I remember watching it every Saturday at 7:00 p.m. on TVO. Even at the time, I knew the special effects were awful. In fact, when I saw the BBC Radiophonic Workshop in the credits, I thought it was some sort of college program. The funny thing with Doctor Who is that you get it and admire the story despite the naive special effects, or you can't get past them to enjoy it. When Doctor Who returned in 2005, I was so excited. My son was 6 and hooked as much as I was. One of the standouts of the new show was Murray Gold's soundtrack. Gone were the synthesizer squiggling, and in were rich and timeless symphonic themes. "I Am the Doctor" is an epic confidence builder, much like the music from Pirates of the Caribbean. Try washing dishes to this theme, and you will be done in a flash. Or watch a sunset to the emotional Vale Decem. (I love that it's in Latin - “Goodbye 10”. See Chapter on Latin) Or float on the sadness of Madame De Pompadour. All are beautiful compositions.




Overall, I prefer to listen to music with headphones on. It is a private experience that I can unapologetically partake in without the possibility of offending others with my musical taste. I would go for walks in university with my Sony Discman providing the soundtrack. Everything seemed better. If I came across other people, though, I removed my headphones to ensure I had all my senses about me. I don't listen to music in public anymore. There are too many people out walking in my suburban neighbourhood. Occasionally, I lay down on my bed and lose myself in the music. I rarely listen to a whole album anymore. This is primarily due to Spotify, which, when searched, tends to prioritize individual songs and playlists over entire albums. I don't lose myself for an hour; I go song by song for ten to twenty minutes. The drawback is I lose the meditative experience that once refreshed my mind.




I generally don't like listening to music through a speaker, especially when it is turned way up. As a little boy, I used to pray when we went to parades that the marching bands would not start to play when they were in front of us. I preferred if they just marched by accompanied by the drums. I also didn't like the sound of trucks on the main street of Markham. I would walk with my hands over my ears.




Because I still don't enjoy loud music, I have only been to a few live concerts outside of the symphony, which, by the way, is played at the perfect volume.




For me, a live rock concert is too loud. To enjoy it, you must already have the tune in mind because it is often not discernible. Before having kids, I went to four concerts: James (Inspired by the song Sometimes), EMF (A one hit wonder (Unbelievable), who played their hit song twice. I think I won the tickets or something), The Cure (My wife's favourite band) and Neil Young (My first exposure to mass marijuana use). I went to a Depeche Mode concert this year. It was too loud but I enjoyed the visual effects.




When my children came along, my concert genres changed dramatically. With my son Jacob, I saw the Wiggles. Instead of Blasphemous Rumours, I sang along to Henry's Dance and the Big Red Car. And with my daughter, Hannah, I went to the Big Summer Ticket. We were surrounded by screaming girls as R5 blasted their hit, A Billion Hits. It was fun to share in her excitement.




Music isn't just for listening. I used to use it as a mnemonic device. I would pick a song for each high school or university exam I had to write. Before I studied a specific subject, I would play the chosen song, often a James Bond theme. I would then play it again when I was finished studying and once more right before I sat down to write the exam. It proved to be an effective way for me to compartmentalize information and remember it, at least in the short term. Of course, most of the material was subsequently lost in the days, months and years after the exam. More proof my critic uses to call me an academic imposter.




I use music in many different ways to manage my mental health. Sometimes, it's easy to forget the importance of those around you. One strategy I use is to make a playlist for each of my children. They are both a work in constant process created over years.




When I hear a song that evokes a memory about them, I add it to their Spotify list on my phone. More often than not, the actual lyrics have nothing to do with the memory connected to it. Instead, it was whatever was happening at the time I heard it.




My son's playlist includes everything from the Wiggles (Hot Potato) to Frank Sinatra (New York, New York) to Young MC (Busta Move). One reminds me of the live Wiggles concert we went to together at Roger's Centre, the other of New Year's Eve in front of the TV watching Time’s Square, and finally, when, as a man, he went up on stage in Mexico and sang Karaoke.




On my daughter's playlist, Coleman Hell (Fireproof) recalls when we hid from a torrential downpour in Ottawa, giggling at getting under cover just in time. Also included on her list is the song Attention by Charlie Puth. We always laugh and sing along to the misheard lyrics, "You've been running 'round, running 'round, running 'round, throwing that turtle on my name."




I rarely actually listen to the playlists. Instead, I scroll down and review the memories, letting each one flourish inside me. If I listen to one of the songs in another context or hear it on the radio, I shut my eyes and suspend myself in the happy moment. If I hear a new song that triggers a specific memory of my children, I add it to their playlists.



I also have my own playlists. One is called "Up," while the other is "Not Tonight." “Up” is full of positive lyrics and/or upbeat music, such as TNT by AC/DC, Take On Me by A-ha, It's A Wonderful World by Louis Armstrong, Sympathy with the Devil by the Rolling Stones, Return To Innocence by Enigma, Octopus's Garden by the Beatles. Unlike my children’s playlists mine are not associated with memories. It is the how the song itself effects me, how specific lyrics resonate. Some are romantic, some reflective, some have infectious bass lines, while others are just whimsy and escape.




"Not Tonight" has songs of defeat or despair, such as Creep by Radiohead, Have You Ever Seen The Rain by CCR, Not Tonight by Depeche Mode, Forever Young by Alphaville, Black Parade by My Chemical Romance (which I used in a video Obit I made for myself.), and Happens to the Heart by Leonard Cohen. I also include Don't Stop Believing by Journey. Some people see this song as hopeful and encouraging. I just feel like a failure. You will note that the playlist does not adhere to any genre of music or musical era. They are just songs that strike a chord and hold me in their grasp. They have one lyric that I can’t dispute or there is a devastating chord change that influences the emotion.




Both playlists are lengthy and robust, but they only reinforce my current emotion. They don't influence the opposite mood. If I’m feeling depressed and put on the “Up” playlist, nothing will happen. It won’t change my perspective. If anything, it gets me annoyed. The critic dismisses the songs as frivolous. After the first few notes, it immediately feels wrong, and I stop listening. If I’m already happy, though, the music lives inside me. I become light on my feet and glide on the lyrics and the melody. If I am alone, I might even dance foot loose and free. I even surprise myself!




Similarly, listening to the “Not Tonight” list when I’m happy feels wrong. I turn it off immediately. When I am low, though, the playlist is my companion. The words and melodies are like earworms that further reinforce my depression. They don’t push me to suicide but rather to spend time in conversation with the critic.




If I happen to hear any of my playlist songs in public, I’m immediately triggered. An “Up” song puts a smile on my face and a pep in my step, while a song from “Not Tonight” triggers my depression and the critic appears.




There is only one soundtrack to my suicide. Every time I hear A Dazzling End by Murray Gold, a fissure opens between my thoughts, up and down, my eyes close, and I visualize what needs to be done. It’s an all-consuming breath of motivation. I fall back in a hypnotic state. I rarely listen to this song because it is so powerful. I know one day it will be the last thing I will hear. It is the ultimate trigger not only of thought but of action; where the critic wins and is finally defeated, and I can rest on an endless repeat.

What to expect when your brain wants to kill you: CBT

Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT) is the darling of mental health treatments. Nearly every therapist I have had has in some way promoted CBT. They tout that study after study has scientifically proven its effectiveness. It’s as if they expect skepticism on the patient’s part, and they are desperate you understand that it is not some wibbly wobbly, cat poster, pseudoscience; that it’s a legitimate treatment. They want you to buy in immediately. 

At its core, it is really just thinking about your thinking, about stepping back and observing your own assumptions and reactions to them, separating fact from your “cognitive distortions.” They use bigger words to make it seem more impressive.  

The therapy is based on paper worksheets, some of which were photocopied and recopied so many times the hand-out was faded and flawed. As I mention in my therapist chapter, a course of therapy typically lasts 4 to 6 weeks. Some therapists’ whole spiel was just working through CBT questionnaires. They would give me homework to read and thought charts to fill in. It was not very helpful. In the end, I was left with pages and pages of proof that I had been therapized, but I still didn’t feel any better. I was told to review the worksheets again on my own and to keep working on them. I was left feeling that it was my fault it didn’t work. 

I never really understood CBT until I was put into a 14-week group therapy series, where each session lasted two hours. It was part of the outpatient services offered by the Psyche Hospital, where I was an inpatient for six weeks.

Instead of worksheets, we were given a comprehensive workbook that provided a detailed overview as well as deep insights into CBT. It highlighted the interconnectivity between your thoughts, behaviour, mood, and physical sensations. In other words, if your mood is severely depressed, your behaviour, thoughts, and body will follow that lead. The darkness would then take hold, and your inner critic would have free reign to berate and destroy your self-esteem. The theory goes that if you can improve one of the four, you can lift all four. It encourages you to become your own therapist and use self-talk to calm your own thoughts. The idea is to rewrite your brain, which they confidently declare can be done. Again, they demonstrate more scientific proof that it works. Brain scans have shown changes in brain function before and after treatment.

At first, I was not impressed with the idea of a group session. I’m an introvert. I’m shy and anxious. Why would I want to share my deepest thoughts with strangers? In the end, though, it was actually helpful. It turned out that all 7 of us were depressed, anxious introverts.  

The first class was painful. There were no extraverts to carry the introductions. We all gave the simplest responses possible, keeping our heads down as we talked. Noone felt their lives were interesting enough to elaborate on. Besides, we didn’t want to be judged. Happily, the two therapists had a great deal of experience with people like us. They carried the mail that first class but left us with homework for the next week.  

Our first assignment was to create a record of thoughts and events that produced distress or anxiety and rank them from 1 to 10 in intensity. For those not in therapy, these triggers are non-events or inconsequential, but for us they were challenging. These included being nervous about using a drive-thru, going to Costco on a Saturday, wearing a shirt with a logo of some kind on it, checking out with a cashier, and talking on the telephone. All produced a high level of anxiety, often leading us to catastrophize the situation (i.e. expecting the absolute worst outcome, such as driving into the drive-thru speaker, not only breaking the sign but getting the car stuck in place so severely that a tow truck had to be called. Catastrophe!)   

At our next session, we started to break down those negative thoughts and try to get at the root cause of our anxiety, so we could understand the underlying emotions. It was comforting to hear that others had the same distorted thoughts. There was no judgment. I remember one of the patients bursting into tears in the middle of class. She quickly explained she had never felt so accepted and understood before. We all had the same sentiment.

We then had to come up with three SMART goals for the coming week. (Mental health care is full of acronyms. The idea is that as a mnemonic device, you’ll remember the details, but after three or four, they tend to lose their effectiveness.) At any rate, in this case, SMART stands for Specific goal, Measurable (you know when it is completed), Attainable (it is within reach), Realistic (it is doable) and Timely (has a deadline). The purpose was you had a plan to follow that could not be derailed by your mood. In other words, you couldn’t just say I don’t feel like it. If, for some reason, you were unable to achieve your SMART goal, there were no consequences. The instructors just encouraged us to set a more attainable goal, such as making your bed or brushing your teeth for three days in a row.

Each week we also had to fill in a WAS - Weekly Activity Schedule (yet another acronym) where we rated our mood throughout the day. It helped to dismiss the erroneous belief that the whole day was terrible and to identify triggers that distorted our thoughts.

As a class, we reviewed 10 different Cognitive Distortions. I still struggle with all of them in varying degrees however, now, with the help of CBT, I can manage them better. The key is identifying the distortion and then recognizing the evidence that brings the dark thoughts into question.

1. All or nothing. - There is no middle ground. If I am on a diet and eat a cookie, it does not mean my diet for the day is blown, so I might as well polish off the whole bag of cookies and binge on chocolate-covered almonds or whatever else is in the house. Show moderation. You ate one cookie. That is OK. You can have one or two, which will not dramatically change your weight loss progress. By not eating anything more, you are respecting your diet.

2. Overgeneralizing - This always happens. This never happens. I am trying a new recipe for mushroom fried rice. I mess up. My thought jumps to the conclusion that I can’t cook anything right, ignoring the fact that I make a mean chocolate chip cookie. Hot from the oven, they don’t last long. 

3. Minimizing positive compliments. Compliments are spontaneous words of praise or admiration, but for me, they are much more complicated than that. My self-esteem has never been strong. I often overthink someone’s words and intentions to the point where my anxiety is spun into a tight knot. I am either scared of a new perceived expectation, or I dismiss someone’s words as unfounded. 

When I was a child, I hated going to the dentist. Not because it hurt or because I was scared but because I had never had a cavity, and the dentist, after initially looking over my chart, always called me his “superstar.” I was terrified I would let him down, and he would find out his praise was unfounded. If I wasn’t his superstar every time, I was a failure.

  

Other types of compliments also ring hollow. I once had a manager in a grocery store who was very upbeat and positive. He always said, “Great work!” numerous times throughout a shift. I never believed I was worthy of all that praise, definitely not that much in one shift. His words were baseless. He didn’t see me struggle with the apple display just moments before, so I dismissed his compliments. On the flip side, though, if he didn’t compliment me the same number of times on another day, I interpreted it to mean I had let him down. I know it does not make sense to think his words are not sincere but then miss them when he remains quiet, but that is how my mind works. I am either unworthy or a disappointment. 

CBT encouraged me to recognize that a compliment is often just a spontaneous comment, a nice thing to say. It is not a future expectation of performance or unfounded praise with some ulterior motive. It is just a kind word shared between two people. It’s not meant to define who I am or gauge my value. It’s just a smile that someone wants to share. 

4. Jumping to conclusions - I sometimes believe I can read people’s minds or can predict the future and thereby react to situations as if I have a deeper insight. A full-time teacher walks by the classroom I am supplying in just as the students get a little loud. I immediately believe the teacher is judging my classroom management skills and does not think I am very good at my job. She will then tell other teachers how bad I am, that I am a disaster. Of course, if I stepped back, more likely than not, she found my situation relatable and expected that the class would settle soon after she passed. Which, of course, it did.  

At university, during my graduate degree, I had a professor return one of my essays with the comments “naive and unsophisticated,” which, even for the U of T standards, was particularly harsh. I immediately put the label on all of my papers, future and past. It didn’t matter if I got an 80% or better; they were now all rubbish. That was a major blow to my academic career.

5. Catastrophizing - Everything is the worst possible scenario. If I tell you who I really am and show you my true personality, you will hate me and never talk to me. Or I could destroy a whole McDonald’s drive-thru if I try to place an order.

6. Should have statements. - My inner critic hounds me with this one, constantly heaping more “should haves” on top of me. I skip through my life from one (e.g. I should have stood up to Mike Coldorella in grade 5) to another (I should have accepted the new Stats Can position when it was offered) to now, (I should be losing weight. I should be eating healthier).

7. Emotional reasoning. Going by your gut feeling rather than looking at the evidence. My ability to predict sporting outcomes should be proof enough that my intuition is not very accurate. Sometimes I feel guilty for no apparent reason, like when a conversation goes silent, I assume I’ve done something wrong, that people disagree with what I’ve said or just don’t want to be around me.

8. Personalization and Blame - accept too much personal responsibility. It is my job to absorb all the stress, to be calm, to be everyone else’s deep breath, patient in the face of crisis. If there is a challenge, it is my fault and my job alone to fix it. 

9. Labelling/Mislabeling - When I made a mistake at the grocery store, such as being reminded by my manager to check Asian Fresh, my self-talk, my critic was corrosive, “I’m stupid,” “I’m a loser.” The worst part of depression is that it steals all your confidence and leaves you full of doubt and despair.  

10. Double Standard - My critic, my negative self-talk, is far more understanding of others’ actions than my own. You took the wrong turn; that’s OK. We will circle back. I made the wrong turn: I am useless as a driver and stupid.   

I hear their thoughts,

I hear their chatter,

their opinions and complaints.

I know they’re only in my mind

I know that is a fact

but they don’t stop... ever.

While all this theory was helpful, the real CBT success came from the exposures. The four to six-week therapy sessions never progressed to this point of CBT, so I could never make the great leap forward where I would quell the distorted thoughts and actually live a happier and healthier life. An exposure is basically putting yourself in harm’s way. For example, I was terrified of drive-thrus, so they encouraged me to use one at least three times over the upcoming week. When we agreed to an exposure in class, it became a promise we each made to each other. It seemed like a good idea until it came time to do it.

I was very nervous, thinking about everything that could possibly go wrong. I took my 14-year-old daughter in the car so I could not back out. I never told anyone about my drive-thru phobia. I was embarrassed, so with her with me, I was committed as soon as I told her where we were going. She had no idea of my skyrocketing anxiety.

 I carefully selected which fast food we would go to, based on how narrow the drive-thru lanes were and how many there were to choose from. I picked the middle of the afternoon, hoping it would be less busy. I decided on Dairy Queen. As I approached the point of no return, when you have to drive through, regardless of whether you order something, I took a deep breath and focused on driving up close to the speaker. You have to get close but not too tight. The car had to stop so the driver’s window was at the right place to order. I inched along, repeating a mantra in my head, “not too close but close enough,” and “watch the driver’s side mirror.” I managed to aim the car directly and pulled up to just the right spot. 

I took my daughter’s order ahead of time - an M&M Blizzard - and to keep it simple, I decided to order the same even though I probably would have ordered a Mocha Moolatte if I had my choice. I wanted to keep it simple for my first time through. I repeated the order over and over in my head, “Two M&M Blizzards.” 

As soon as we pulled up, the cashier said, “Just a minute please.” 

My breathing was erratic. This pause wasn’t planned. “OK.” I replied, “not a problem.” What a dumb thing to say! I should have just left it at “OK.”

And then my daughter changed her mind. “No. Wait. I want a dipped cone.”

My mind chattered. An ice cream cone could fall over. I could drop it outside the car as she gave it to me. I could spill it as I passed it to my daughter. What a mess. And now I thought, what was I going to order. The same? Two cones would be even harder to manage, especially as I drove out of the drive-thru. I couldn’t put them down on the seat or in the cup holder.  

The helpful voice broke my spiral. “Hello, welcome to Dairy Queen, how can I help you today?”

“Umm,” I replied, then realized I was holding everyone else in the drive-thru lineup. I was sure it wouldn’t be long before they began honking their horns and swearing at me. I finally stammered, “Can I have a dipped ice cream cone and an M&M Blizzard, please?”

Unfortunately, I mumbled too fast, so she had to extend our conversation. “Pardon me, could you repeat that, please.”

“What a fucking idiot,” I thought. I felt like abandoning the whole thing and just driving through without ordering, even though I knew that would only make matters worse. If you don’t live with anxiety, this will all seem silly but for those who do, I’m sure you will relate to all this excessive thinking.  

I took a deep breath and reassured myself, you can do it, then repeated my order at a more pedestrian pace.  

To which she replied, “What size of cone?”

What? Why was she doing this to me? I had not anticipated her question and was about to ask the most ridiculous of questions, “What sizes are there?” when my daughter spoke up, “Small, please.” 

That’s right, I thought. I forgot to say please. 

“What size Blizzard do you want?”

At this point, I didn’t really care. I was about to say, “Whatever’s easiest is fine.” but that would have been a silly answer, as would have been, “I don’t care.” or “Surprise me.” I paused for a moment until she was just about to repeat her question, then said, “Um. The same. Please..”

“Great. Drive on up.”

She mentioned the cost as well, but I forget what it was. It could have been $100, and I would have paid just to get this ordeal over with. 

Next, my anxiety focused on payment. What if my debit card didn’t work? What if the tap didn’t work? What if I forgot my pin number? I would look so stupid. By the way, I had my card already out of my wallet and in the door handle. I put it there when we were still in our driveway at home. 

I slowly pulled up to the window, again making sure I positioned the car just right. I desperately hoped there was nothing stuck in my teeth. I couldn’t remember if I brushed just before we headed out. I didn’t think so. That’s when I noticed black scrap marks on the drive-up window.  Someone had hit it with their mirror before me. I found comfort in another’s mistake.  My mirror was clear by about 30 cm. 

A teenage girl with a complete set of braces held out the machine for me to tap. I tapped, and nothing happened. Oh my god, what’s wrong? Now what am I going to do? Just as I was about to apologize and speed off, she pleasantly suggested I tap more toward the top. I did, and it beeped immediately. Should have known to tap up above. She must think of me like some sort of fool. What an idiot!  

She passed me the cone first, which I immediately passed to my daughter. I then took my blizzard and put it into the cup holder. I said, “Thank you.” and rolled up my window as I pulled away. Once we were out of the drive-thru, I immediately pulled into a nearby parking lot to assess what had happened. In hindsight, I congratulated myself. It had actually gone relatively smoothly. I had done it. My daughter and I enjoyed our treats.

I repeated the exposure two more times that week. My daughter was the unexpected beneficiary of my therapy. And so I went through the DQ drive-thru, and each time the anxious chatter settled more. By the third time I ordered a Mocha Moolatte. I proudly reported my success at my next CBT class.  I could even laugh at my own anxiety. I have since gone through a variety of drive-thrus, even the McDonald’s double drive-thru. I still run through the same distorted thoughts when I am in line, but I can now quickly identify them as distorted and dismiss their impact. My heart still races, but I can do it.

Another exposure had me dropping change at the check-out. I do not like checking out of a store. Like the drive-thru, I catastrophize the exchange, where I drop all the coins on the floor. To avoid this possibility, I usually use the self-check-out and my debit card. I never use cash. The possibility of disaster it too great.  The purpose of CBT is to confront a distorted thought and identify it as baseless. It’s not so much the staged situation but instead recognizing reality. 

So I dropped the coins, which was a disaster; the coins went in every direction, rolling and spinning. I thought for sure something “bad” would happen. That someone would yell or sigh at my clumsiness, but surprisingly, the cashier, a middle-aged woman, didn’t even react, and the person behind me didn’t shout or swear. She actually helped me gather them back together. Contrary to my distorted beliefs, people were not just waiting to judge me and call me stupid. If anything, they were willing to be patient and helpful, something I thought only I did. 

Another exposure was logo shirts.  I used to avoid wearing anything with logos on them when I went out in public.  I didn’t want to attract attention to myself.  I was worried about someone jumping to the wrong conclusion, that they would judge me by the logo and in some way be offended. Just to be clear, the logos I am talking about are not political.  Most of them are related to sports teams.  For my exposure, I wore a bright red Chicago Blackhawk jersey.  I was worried everyone would know I liked the Hawks.  I didn’t know why that mattered, but with my distorted cognition, it couldn’t be anything but bad.  

As the day wore on, though, I noticed that no one seemed to really care, that is, until a man behind me in an ATM line said, “I like the hawk’s too.”

I wanted to hide but was trapped between the person entering his pin number and the man smiling behind me.  I actually made eye contact which for me was a challenge.  He continued, “My son is the manager of media relations in Chicago.”  He quickly produced a business card from his wallet to prove it.  It looked genuine with the logo that matched my shirt.  It’s funny because the worst-case scenario I could imagine,  that someone would talk to me based on the logo I was wearing, was not bad at all.  In fact, it was downright bizarre.  What are the odds that the father of the manager of media relations for the Chicago Blackhawks would line up behind me in an ATM line when I happened to be wearing my brightest Chicago jersey?   As I related my encounter in therapy, we all laughed at the interaction.  My fear was unfounded.  Even being signaled out wasn’t all that bad. I am still a little nervous about logos but I can wear them out if the laundry basket is full.

CBT has been beneficial for my anxiety. I still get anxious, but it is not as debilitating. This breakthrough, however, did not come from a few worksheets filled out over 4 weeks. It only worked when it was long-term, intensive and shared. Group therapy was probably the most significant factor in its success. I hate to admit it, but they were right; we encouraged each other to success.

 

While all of this was great news and my greatest therapeutic triumph, it did nothing to temper my chronic suicide ideation. My brain still wanted to kill me. I may have rewritten neurological pathways to calm my worst anxiety, but the critic, the narrator of my depression, still remains.   

.