Catalyst Newsletters Archive - Page 12 of 23 - Mental Health Commission of Canada

By Michelle Murray

Years ago, when my depression was quite bad, I had wished for simplicity in some of my weekly errands that would allow me the least amount of human interaction. Get in, get out, and get home. This was long before I saw my first self-checkout machine, when I, like everyone else, no matter how we were feeling, had to engage in polite conversation with a complete stranger. Those interactions on difficult days often made me anxious.

When my dad and I go to the grocery store together, he comments on the self-checkout section, grumbling about “these machines” and how impersonal they are. He goes on about how annoying they can be with their robotic, “please put item in bagging area,” and how “these machines” have a negative impact on the workforce.

And he’s right. These machines are impacting jobs. But while he goes on about how terrible these machines are for people who need to work, I am silently happy for their existence. It’s not that I am anti-worker, far from it. However, “these machines” make my grocery shopping experience bearable, especially during times when I’m really struggling with my depression and my ADHD is on hyperdrive from sensory overload.

When I’m at my lowest, it’s hard to hold a conversation, especially with clerks, servers, and baristas. I don’t want to be rude, but small talk has never been my thing, even with people I like, and it’s almost painful to participate in such conversation with a stranger when I can barely function. The self-checkout aisle can get me in and out fast without having to engage in clichéd observations about the weather or how we feel about a specific day of the week when all I want to do, is curl up with my cat and binge on ‘Veronica Mars’.

And while I explain this to my father, he doesn’t seem to understand. He wants to; he really does. I’m lucky that I can talk to my dad about my mental health and how mental illness can affect each person completely differently it is still difficult for him to connect the dots on how an autonomous machine enables me to go out and get what I need. And I understand where he’s coming from as well, because people who aren’t living with mental illness don’t see things the way we do or are affected by the ‘normal’ routines of daily life in a way that can often sap our energy.

Stores can be stressful for those of us living with mental illness. Picture yourself in a 10’ X 10’ room, standing under the brightest lights you can possibly imagine, add in about 10-15 other people, a dash of strong odours, and a cacophony of bells, music, and voices. If you are able to picture this, you might understand why grocery shopping can be a little overwhelming when you are neurodivergent.

That is why I have modified how I approach some of my daily tasks, like grocery shopping. I shop early to avoid crowds (and I mean EARLY!), I know what I need when I go to a store to avoid becoming overwhelmed, and I use a self-service checkout machine as my safe space. Here are a few other tips for shopping:

Order groceries or supplies online for delivery if possible.

Avoid long trips by breaking up your visits.

Make your shopping list according to the layout of the stores so you can go in order and avoid back tracking.

Use earplugs or listen to your favourite music while shopping.

Try peppermint candy when feeling stressed.

Give yourself permission to leave if things go unexpectedly.

Author: Michelle Murray

A creative designer and has spent the last 15 years working in marketing, event planning, and fundraising. Michelle is passionate about raising awareness about mental health and shares her stories and struggles in hopes that she can create safer spaces for others living with mental illness. When she’s not creating, Michelle is working towards her first 200-hour yoga teacher training certificate, hiking on local trails, and in summers, you can find her on a lake with her paddle board. She also volunteers her time on the board of directors for her local United Way and an addiction recovery services organization.

By Dave Bidini

Figure-eighting through pain into possibility

This story is the last in the Mental Health for the Holidays series. While end-of-year celebrations can be a time of joy — they can also trigger feelings of stress and loss. Read the collection to learn how others were able to meet those challenges.

In 1984, I started skating again.

I’d skated as a kid, but this was more. This was devotion — eventually, obsession — that came after years away from the ice, having rejected sports because of what it represented to a kid into punk rock, politics, rebellion, and art. Sports was the status quo and the domain of jocks. It was a mainstream opiate and a place where men and women — mostly men — went to behave badly. But skating. Skating was different. Skating was an easy return, shorn of contact or competition.

I began under the lights of Valleyfield in Etobicoke — even the name sounded comforting and bucolic in sub-zero temperatures — and moved to rinks around the city: Weston, Rosedale, Ramsden, Dufferin Grove, Regent Park. I skated the city, even writing a story on it for the Toronto Star about how one could travel east to west across its frozen surfaces, like Burt Lancaster’s The Swimmer but in winter. I bought a pair of used skates, then another, and then a new set of Bauer 300s, bragging about my latest, best purchase to anyone who’d listen.

At first, I didn’t think skating was helping my head as much as it was helping my body, making it come alive in new ways and new settings: chugging against the cold and wind and working up a sweat while moving, a new concept for someone who’d suffered through the relative inertia of sit-ups and crunches. With skating, exercise was about constant motion eating up every inch of ice. And even though I wasn’t the kind of rink rat who imperiled kids with their looping O’s or berated older, slower skaters for getting in the way of their slaloms, the rest of the world dripped away. I felt free and good, even at my casual pace. My blood felt hot against the cruel wind, my legs deliciously sore after skating laps till nearly midnight, when someone blew a whistle and the gate shut.

Skating was partly about the pure joy of movement and partly an act of nostalgia meant to recapture those times before my world was complicated by having to choose between sports and music. I’m 59 now, but I still feel reborn into the young world while icebound, trying to get at growing up again, then again, and again. The truth is, it’s a melancholy act — if it had all gone so well the first time, I never would have stopped — and because I learned soon enough that being active also helps your head, skating fed my imagination and sense of memory. Yet where it led wasn’t always my frozen pond romance or youthful bliss. It also returned me to my most difficult years.

When it came time for me to write another book in 2013, my love of the ice pointed me back to something that happened in Grade 7 at Dixon Grove Junior Middle School in Etobicoke. That year, I was bullied by a taller, bigger kid named Roscoe (not his real name), who savaged me every day after class. I was too humiliated, and terrified, to tell anyone about it, even though he often preyed on me on the school grounds, in full view of students, teachers, and passers-by. No one ever stopped and wondered why that kid was sitting on the other kid punching him in the back of the head. Maybe some thought it was just what kids do — not untrue, sadly — but why no teacher ever did so became more troubling the more I dove into the memory. I used all of it as a framework for the book Keon and Me, where I tell the story of that year in alternating sections — one, in the third person, from the perspective of me at 11, and another, in the first person, from the perspective of me in my 50s, looking back. I was grateful that skating had delivered this creative idea to me at the expense of having to relive the stress, pain, and anger that came with reconstructing those times. I’d tried to make art through a discovery of this nostalgia. But nostalgia often uncovers the raw truths of the past while celebrating the best parts of being young and simple and new to the world.

Even though skating — and now, hockey (two or three times a week for the past thirty years) — is a beautiful way to keep moving, it’s also a place where I go to think. This may push against one’s natural impulse to find a pretty open space and let your thoughts reel, but I find that when I’m moving and playing doors get unlocked and windows are cracked open. I think with a kind of freshness brought in by the cold arena or outdoor rink, and my consciousness is freed by having to dwell on nothing other than the joy of play. Ideas for songs and stories — melodies, narratives — find me when I’m on and off the ice, sitting on the bench waiting for a shift or lining up for a face-off after the play has been whistled dead. Softball, tennis, golf, basketball — I’ve done all these things. But none of them has teased out or produced new ideas the way hockey has. I think everyone has something that gets them to this place — playing the cello, knitting, cycling, alphabetizing your albums — and this is what works for me. I’m grateful I found it, and grateful it found me.

I won’t skate forever; no one does. But while most will lament each year’s turning calendar page — in COVID times, the winter’s dark and cold is ominous for those who must avoid indoor groups to avoid the risk of infection — I’ll look forward to the cold because, for me, its arrival has always meant the promise of ice and the expectation of play. The ground will freeze and smoke will rise out of rink houses.

I’ll be skating again.

Author: Dave Bidini is a founding member of the Rheostatics, the author of 13 books, a three-time National Magazine Award winner, and the publisher of the West End Phoenix, community newspaper in Toronto.

More resources to support your well-being over the holidays:
How to Give Back (or Reach Out) This Holiday Season (Mental Health Commission of Canada)
Five Ways to Protect Your Mental Health This Holiday (Canadian Mental Health Association)

By Moira Farr

This story is the second in the Mental Health for the Holidays series. While end-of-year celebrations can be a time of joy — they can also trigger feelings of stress and loss. Read the collection to learn how others were able to meet those challenges.

I often hear people say how much they hate New Year’s Eve. But I love it, for one simple reason: it’s not Christmas. The relief! On New Year’s Eve, you have options if you want to glam up for a glittering soiree to pop champagne corks, wear festive hats, and sway with strangers to Auld Lang Syne. If you’d rather stay home in your pajamas, binge-watch TV, and head to bed early, no one will judge you for it.

Christmas, though, is a different crock of mulled wine — the expectations are many, as are the possibilities for conflict and emotional pain. I wouldn’t say I anticipate it as I would a root canal, but a cleaning or small filling wouldn’t be far off. While it has to be done, as it’s happening, oh how I wish the slightly painful, tedious process was over.

Why, you ask? The truth is, I actually have many fond and happy memories of Christmas from childhood. I had secular parents who emphasized the holiday, not the religion. Yet there were always echoes of its “true meaning”: goodwill to all, peace on Earth, mercy mild, giving rather than receiving.

Adult life was where the difficulties began. One was being diagnosed with dysthymia (now called persistent depressive disorder or PDD) – its symptoms include low mood, hopelessness, worry, guilt, and a host of other challenges.

Then, when I was 21, my 58-year-old mother had a stroke, a catastrophic event she struggled with (having both physical and mental effects) for more than a decade until the day she died. When that happened, my sister and I worried about how our father would cope after 46 years of marriage. That first Christmas without her was tough on us all, but our normally reclusive and unemotional father was surprisingly (to us) resilient. While he cried one night after dinner — only the second time I’d ever seen him do so, besides the day after my mother died two months earlier — we gave each other what comfort we could and weathered the season, despite how heartbreaking it was and how unfestive we felt.

A week later, we managed to convince him to attend his politician neighbour’s annual New Year’s Day levee. Of course, he grumbled — it was probably the first time he’d been to such an event in decades — but to our surprise, he mingled gracefully. Every time I looked around, he was making small talk with a different cluster of people. “He’s working the room,” I remember telling my sister as we stood beside a potted plant away from the madding crowd. I know that at least one of the older people he spoke to had also recently lost a spouse. It was touching to see them talking.

At home later, when we remarked on how many people he’d managed to speak to, he let us in on his philosophy of party etiquette. “Get in and get out,” he said. A few minutes tops with each person, then move on. “No one wants to hear your life story.” He did have a point.

When you live with a mood disorder, especially PDD, what should make you happy – or at least cheerful – can have the opposite effect. Years of living with it and successful treatment (for which I’m grateful) have given me insight, coping tools, and perspective. I know what will pull me down — so I avoid malls, pass on Christmas movies, mute Christmas TV ads, plan realistically, and pace myself when it comes to socializing.

But you can’t avoid everything. An old carol on the radio as I’m anxiously wrapping gifts I hope someone will like can send me into a tailspin of brooding about all that’s wrong with the season and the world. People like me are the Eeyores and Charlie Browns of the world (Charles M. Schulz suffered from depression) — we’ll find the worm in the apple, or the mince tart, just give us time. We can’t help dwelling on the fact that most people don’t live in a Norman Rockwell painting. We think of those without family or those with families so complicated that the stresses of holiday planning are hard to justify. This year in particular, lots of people will be struggling with holiday expenses. And let’s not forget all those who don’t celebrate Christmas, and how they must endure a world awash in red and green and ho-ho-hoing Santas for two months after Halloween. Millions of turkeys raised for mass slaughter, what fun the season is for them. And mountains of shiny unrecyclable wrapping paper clogging up landfills.

You can see where PDD takes me. Nowhere good.

I take deep breaths and remind myself that, while fleeting feelings of sadness are not unhealthy, mulling endlessly on the world’s ills won’t change them. Appreciating your good fortune is one thing, but feeling guilt over having enough to eat, a loving family and friends, and a warm place to live, will not help those who don’t have them. Comfort and joy don’t just happen. You have to create them, and that requires generosity of spirit (as Scrooge famously learned) instead of going so far inward you can’t see beyond your own navel.

Ironically, I now share my life with someone who loves Christmas. He doesn’t build Christmas villages, bake fancy cakes and cookies months in advance, or wear ugly home-knitted sweaters. But he owns a sizable tree-ornament collection, insists on a live tree, and hangs garlands of outdoor lights without fail — humming tunes and thinking of his adult children and grandchildren as he does so.

We have turned my aversion to Christmas into a shared joke. Randomly, we’ll sing Holly Jolly Christmas to each other with great enthusiasm while pretending to sob uncontrollably. Maybe you have to be there to appreciate the dark humour, but trust me, it turns my tears into laughter and lifts me out of the dumps every time.

Another depressive friend copes by focusing on the pagan origins of Christmas — the lit tree, a hopeful sign of life in the dark winter, keeping evil spirits away. All the greenery decking the halls are laden with symbolism: the wreath is a circle of life; mistletoe, a tribute to love and reconciliation.

I’m sure my father didn’t always love Christmas after my mother died. He lived another 13 years, grieving with quiet dignity and moving on to a life of his own, which I believe he enjoyed. When he was diagnosed with lung cancer at age 86, we scrambled to make sure he wasn’t alone. We had a modest Christmas together, accommodating his fatigue from radiation treatments and the cancer itself. He had little appetite and mostly slept. While we didn’t know he would die just six weeks later, we knew it would likely be our last Christmas with him.

After his death, as we cleared out his house, I found several Christmas gifts with my name on them under his bed. Obviously, he’d forgotten to put them under the tree. One was a silver pen carved in a swirling Celtic pattern. Of course, it caused heartache, but I will always treasure it. More than that, I treasure the thought of my father going out, despite the ravages of cancer, and shopping for thoughtful gifts to give his daughters.

Comfort and joy. He tried right to the end to provide them. I often remind myself of that. If he could do it, so can I.

Author: Moira Farr, is the author of After Daniel: A Suicide Survivor’s Tale. She teaches in the journalism programs at Carleton University and Algonquin College in Ottawa.

By Debra Yearwood

Over the holidays my inner voice proves to be the most critical as I straddle the pull of a commercial Christmas and the deep-seated draw of Kwanzaa. On tackling the minefield of tackiness, tinsel, and trappings of the season.

This story is the first in the Mental Health for the Holidays series. While end-of-year celebrations can be a time of joy — they can also trigger feelings of stress and loss. Read the collection to learn how others were able to meet those challenges.

It always starts with childlike glee. The excitement, bubbling over with an irresistible anticipation of the merriment, the food, the socializing, and of course, the presents. Christmas time is the best. Well, almost. There are always undercurrents.

There’s the worrying about the consequences of all that good cheer. Actually, worrying doesn’t quite cover it. It’s more like gnawing than worry — more like guilt, really. You know how it goes. Should I try the yummy cookies? It’s Christmas after all. How many? Perhaps just one. . . they’re not that big. How much butter and sugar could they have? Oh, but they’re so good — and gone so quickly. I barely tasted that. Perhaps two, three. . . seventeen?

Then comes the guilt. I ate way too much. All that butter and sugar. Ugh. I think I can hear my arteries hardening. The familiar commitments to do better follow. Tomorrow I’ll have a salad. . . but then someone invited me out for lunch. Dinner with friends is on for the next day and of course all those friends I haven’t seen in, like, forever. Drinks! Wasn’t that a special bottle of rum! Oh, and the best Côtes du Rhône I’ve had in an age. Recriminations arrive in the morning, delivered in that scathing voice I reserve just for me. Ugh, again! But the see-saw of pleasure and punishment is just getting started.

I turn my attention to the glitter. All that sparkle and rich, scented greenery. Bright bulbs touch every surface until the house feels like a fairytale wonderland. I love the Christmas cheer. But is it excessive? How many garlands are too many? Is tinsel elegant or tacky? What does “less is more” even mean? What do designers think it means?

Soon I’m surrounded by magazines, each offering contradictory advice. My house isn’t that big, and I don’t have a bevy of assistants to help me add glamour. Could someone also explain to me why I would I want an all-white tree? Or an all-red one? It all seems less like Christmas and more like branding. Perhaps a more traditional approach is the way to go. But honestly, string popcorn just seems like a good way to invite a mouse infestation. Besides, the way the dog is eyeing the popcorn bowl has me thinking I’ll have to guard the tree 24-7. It all seems unnecessarily constrained and formal. Maybe I’m just too tacky.

How much money am I spending on decorations, food, presents? Too much. Not enough? How many families are doing without while I squander cash on the most useless items imaginable? I look at my silver bells laid carefully beside my silver reindeer and big bowl of shiny do-nothings and think, Wouldn’t that money have been better spent on a donation? Am I selfish and self-centered?

All these concerns mark the coming together of my neuroses — otherwise known as Christmas time.

But then there’s the secret guilt I hold close to my chest. The guilt of being Black while enjoying Christmas — I like to call it my Kwanzaa guilt. It starts to simmer a few months before the week-long celebration of African American culture, beginning on December 26th. Why the guilt? Because I don’t actually celebrate Kwanzaa. I’m not sure I even want to. Yet such an admission from a proud and — I like to think — progressive Black woman, can be tantamount to proclaiming my status as an Oreo or a coconut — Black on the outside, white on the inside.

Kwanzaa is not supposed to replace Christmas, but coming when it does certainly feels like competition. Healthier, more thoughtful competition. As I rub my hands in greedy anticipation of the fatty foods and rich desserts of my usual Christmas gluttony, I imagine the contrast to what my Kwanzaa sisters will be enjoying: fruits, vegetables, and corn. More guilt follows (not to be confused with the reams of gilt I’ll be spreading with abandon across my home, with nary a straw mat in sight).

Kwanzaa is the thoughtful creation of a Black academic. At its core, it’s a celebration of reflection, a seven-night toast to the Black diaspora, and our success in overcoming a multitude of struggles. It slides in, brimming with the aspirational concepts of unity, self-determination, collective work and responsibility, cooperative economics, purpose, creativity, and at the forefront, faith. For Kwanzaa, homemade gifts are offered, and commercialism is avoided. In lieu of string lights, we find seven candles burning.

Yet, despite its wholesome message and optimistic values, I shun it — instead embracing a holiday that has me wondering if any of the wise men were Black.

My Kwanzaa guilt didn’t start with its inception in the ‘60s or even its prominence in the ‘90s. No, my love of — OK, let’s face it — hate of Christmas started as a child. No one in my family looks like Santa and, until very recently, every tree angel had golden hair and the rosiest of cheeks. I got my first fireplace when I was 28, so there was no hope of Santa making his way down the chimney when I was a girl. And Barbados, which my family calls home, doesn’t have a single pine tree. In fact, from mistletoe and cranberries to rutabaga and turkey, for my family the traditional dressings of Christmas were an exploration in foreignness. Yet we embraced its customs and, over time, made them our own.

So every year I drag boxes upon boxes of Christmas décor out of the basement. I string lights outside and inside my home, and I sing and dance — like Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air — to Christmas carols as I do so. Thank you, Sir Paul, I’m sim-ply haaaaaving a wonderful Christmas time. While Kwanzaa intentions are good, the trappings are even more foreign to me than Christmas. Why should I give up the traditions of a lifetime?

Though I’m not one, like a good Christian I’ve learned to change the holiday to suit my cultural needs. So this year, we’ll be serving rice and peas, fish, and oxtail. I’m looking at Weight Watchers for healthy Christmas recipes and, despite having a beautiful fireplace, we’ll be hanging our stockings along the banister by the front door. As usual, our treetop will be home to a glittering pair of lovebirds instead of an angel.

Every year I find new ways of making the holiday mine, adding touches of me and stripping away those things that reflect a colonial mindset. As I draft each of them to my own cause and purpose, I’m learning to make peace with the parts of Christmas that may have had a different meaning in the past. Hopefully, the only Oreos at my house will be those I enjoy while indulging in a Hallmark Christmas movie. Happy holidays!

More resources to support your well-being over the holidays:

How to Give Back (or Reach Out) This Holiday Season (Mental Health Commission of Canada)
Five Ways to Protect Your Mental Health This Holiday (Canadian Mental Health Association)

Author: Debra Yearwood, is a communications specialist living and working in Ottawa.

Debra Yearwood

A communications pro with more than 20 years of executive experience in the health sector, expertly navigating everything from social marketing to crisis comms. When she’s not advising on the boards of Health Partners or Top Sixty Over Sixty, she’s busy finishing her book on thriving in later life (because why stop now?). Certified Health Executive by day, diversity advocate and magazine contributor by night—Debra’s the one you call when things need fixing or explaining.

Author: [Name withheld]

Fleeing from intimate partner violence takes a network of supports

The day before I left my relationship, I wouldn’t have believed you if you’d told me I was a victim of intimate partner violence. Looking back, I understand there can be many reasons and complex factors involved, like the way people living with abuse (physical, mental, or emotional) normalize their situation.

“It’s not so bad, things will get better when he gets that promotion/finds a better job/comes back from that trip. . . .” You get the picture. Meanwhile, as you’re waiting for things to improve, the risk that they’ll actually get worse — with more frequent and severe abusive episodes — grows higher.

I also understand that normalizing is a very common coping mechanism. It can be hard to accept that you’re in a life-threatening situation. I know because I did it myself. Yet normalizing can also keep you stuck in bad circumstances, especially if your partner is manipulative. Such people can sense when you are becoming distant or thinking of leaving, and they work hard to reel you back in — going into honeymoon mode, bringing home flowers, and making big shows of affection.

I endured two years of abuse before I woke up one morning and knew that I had to leave my relationship — no matter what. It was as if my survival instincts had finally kicked in after being dormant over many months. While I’d considered leaving many times, and even threatened to do it on a few occasions, things were now different. Suddenly I knew there was no going back.

People who’ve never had these experiences wonder why those of us who do choose to stay or find it hard to leave. I don’t think there’s any simple answer. Often, the abuser has tight control on them, on their finances, on their children, and on the family dynamic.

A sense of shame is also a powerful factor. It’s very common in these relationships to feel shame for being on the receiving end of abuse and for enduring it. An abused person will often blame themself, sometimes subconsciously. And abusive partners often blame the person they abuse for their own behaviour.

Abuse happens far more often than you might think, regardless of age, gender, culture, nationality, or socio-economic status. To someone experiencing abuse and the collection of dilemmas it brings, it can feel like a problem that can’t be solved on its own terms. Because it is. The abuser has defined and set the terms of the relationship, and the person who wants the abuse to stop sees no clear way out. Because there isn’t. Not until they find their way through to the point of rejecting the entire power dynamic and accepting the consequences of leaving. And such consequences can be severe. Someone fleeing abuse will frequently experience loss on many levels: material, social, emotional, and personal.

Family members or friends often express surprise when they find out about abuse. While that’s partly due to the silence and isolation fuelled by shame, much of it arises because the abuser goes to such great lengths to control their image, their reputation, and the narrative of the relationship. Despite these efforts, abuse almost always leaves signs. It’s just that people don’t usually recognize them, or else they choose to look past them or discount them.

Running on instinct
My abusive partner was highly manipulative, callous, selfish, and controlling. One way he controlled the narrative of our relationship was by constantly calling my commitment into question. Even after moving in with him, and lending him large sums of money, he frequently lamented my “lack of commitment.” He painted a picture of himself as a victim of my uncaring selfishness.

This kind of victim blaming is a frequent weapon of choice for an abusive partner. Another is gaslighting, a term from an old movie (Gaslight) about a young woman whose husband manipulates her into believing that she’s losing her sanity. In the context of disordered relationships, the term means emotionally manipulating and abusing a partner to the point where they doubt their own sense of reality. It’s a way of keeping all the control in a relationship and sustaining access to resources: money, affection, attention, energy, validation, admiration, and respect.

The day I woke up and decided to leave, I knew I needed to find a way to stay the course. I also knew that I was in danger of losing my nerve and my resolve. While I was able to recognize that I was fragile and emotionally unstable, I was struggling to think clearly (a psychological effect of ongoing trauma). But it was now or never. I had to do something quickly because it wouldn’t take long for my partner to sense that something was up. I didn’t have the wherewithal to call an 800 number or do a Google search. If you had told me I needed a safety plan, I would have drawn a complete blank. All I knew was that I needed to leave and that my life depended on it. Because of that, I somehow switched into a survival mode that allowed me to formulate a plan and act on it.

I booked a few days off from work (I had managed to maintain a successful career despite my situation) and began searching for an apartment to rent. Though I was able to secure the first suitable apartment I could find, it wasn’t available right away. So I booked a storage facility for my belongings and a hotel for myself, while thinking, How would someone with fewer resources manage all this?

To take care of the larger items, I booked a mover for a day that I knew my partner would be at work. But my plan hit a snag. Instead telling the moving company that I was fleeing an abusive relationship, I simply told them it would be a small job. Assuming that they would arrive when they promised turned out to be a big mistake: they showed up four hours late.

I would end up leaving most of my possessions behind, almost everything.

How to help
If you know (or suspect) that someone you know is facing this kind of unsafe situation, the best way to help is offering to listen. It’s also important that you mean it. Don’t offer just once and fade into the background. Be persistent. For someone experiencing abuse, it often takes more than one try for someone to confide in you. By taking on the role of an oblivious bystander and doing nothing, we can unintentionally contribute to the abuse. When you see something, say something.

An abusive partner may display anger or have a quick or unpredictable temper. They may blame you for their violent outbursts and physically harm (or threaten harm) you, themself, and members of your household, including children or pets. They may be demeaning or put you down by insulting your appearance, intelligence, or interests. They may try to humiliate you in front of others and attempt to destroy your property or things you care about. They may keep track of everything you do, insist that you reply right away to their texts, emails, and calls, and demand to know your passwords to social media sites, email, and other accounts.

Recognizing signs that someone you know is experiencing abuse:

Checks the time constantly and is expected to be home at a certain time
Engages in constant texting/phone calls with their partner when they’re apart
Reports to their partner before making decisions
Becomes distant when you communicate with them
Loses interest in hobbies or activities
Experiences sadness out of nowhere, with sudden crying or anger
Goes overboard to make the abuser look good
Stops taking care of their own mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual needs
Withdraws from your friendship, with no calls or visits, and cuts off communication
Retreats from social events and family gatherings

If you are worried about a friend’s safety, stay in touch. To keep communication lines open, avoid making the abuser suspicious. You can create secret code words to use in conversations that can help you communicate more safely. Ask your friend how they prefer to connect. Establishing a safe communication channel is important since, in many instances, they will be physically close to an abuser who might be monitoring conversations. Ask if your friend prefers an instant message or text over a call, and if there’s a specific platform or app they prefer. Be supportive and believe them. Reassure them that they are not alone and that help and supports are available. Recognize that it may be difficult for them to talk about the abuse. If they want to talk, listen carefully and be empathetic.

Sixteen Days
The National Day of Remembrance and Action on Violence Against Women on December 6th is about remembering those who have experienced gender-based violence. It is also about taking action. Each December 6, people across Canada are invited to honour and remember the 14 women who were murdered at Polytechnique Montréal on that day in 1989, which falls within the 16 Days of Activism Against Gender-Based Violence from November 25 to December 10.

Learn more
Read the Women and Gender Equality Canada plan: It’s Time: Canada’s Strategy to Prevent and Address Gender-Based Violence.

Resources
Recognizing signs of abuse: Frequently Asked Questions: The Signs of Relationship Abuse and How to Help, from UN Women.

Support services across Canada from the Canadian Women’s Foundation

Author: [Name withheld] continues to reflect upon and share her lived experience to raise awareness of intimate partner violence.

**A children’s book on depression is a tough sell, but it’s an important topic. On authoring and self-publishing The Semicolon.**

When I think of the countless rejections I received for The Semicolon, two stand out. The first was from an incredulous literary agent who wondered why I would even choose depression as a topic for a children’s book. The second agent, even more blunt, told me flatly: “I’m not interested in the mental-health-for-children part.”

Rejection comes with the territory as a writer, and I am the first to admit that my story is offbeat. I was inspired to write it after reading an article about Amy Bluel of Project Semicolon and other mental health advocates adopting the semicolon as a symbol of hope and resilience in anti-suicide initiatives. Many of these individuals have gotten semicolon tattoos in solidarity or as a way to validate their own experiences of survival. The choice is informed by the reason a semicolon is used; it signals the continuation of a sentence rather than its end. That symbolism resonated with me — not only as an author but because, having gone through severe depression in my 20s, I knew that depression could be just as misunderstood as grammar.

I wondered if I could take this beautiful concept of the semicolon and, in a non-didactic and age-appropriate way, introduce it to younger readers who are themselves susceptible to mental health struggles.

Yet I chose an uphill climb. The children’s book market is difficult enough to crack for writers who don’t illustrate their own work, and here I was pitching a story about a difficult topic told in an abstract way. Still, I didn’t want to underestimate the depth and capacity children have to imagine and reflect, even those unfamiliar with semicolons. My concept may have repelled literary agents, but I saw it fitting into a category of picture books on difficult themes that are intended to be read — and discussed — with children (alongside titles such as The Scar by Charlotte Moundlic and Virginia Wolf by Canadian author Kyo Maclear).

Britt Sayler

What’s more: this was (and still is) a topic that desperately needs talking about.

Even before the pandemic, the CDC assessed the prevalence of depression in children between six and eleven years old at two per cent (and more than triple that for adolescents). By all accounts, children’s mental health has only worsened since then. Manitoba-based Kidthink now estimates that 10 to 20 per cent of very young children in Canada are experiencing mental health problems. And in October, the Canadian Paediatric Society warned that young people are experiencing growing wait times for mental health support.

In this light, why did writing about mental health for a young audience feel so taboo? Was it the act of putting it into words? Was it because, as a society, we still cling to the idea of childhood as a happy and carefree time? Or was it depression specifically, rather than mental health in general, that was uncomfortable?

More than once, I was advised to pitch the book as a story about grief, since the main character’s depression follows the loss of a parent (drastic life changes are a common trigger). To me, this guidance missed the point. So finally, I decided to self-publish. I just couldn’t mute the very point I was trying to get people talking about.

Reaching kids who aren’t all right
Even for children, depression can be all-consuming. I wanted to capture that (literally — a slurping pit figures prominently in the book) and engage readers without being moralistic. That is, story first, message second. I also wanted to trust children’s ability to learn new concepts, in hopes of offering something that resonated beyond the last page.

Of course, without the near-automatic access to schools and libraries that established publishing houses enjoy, reaching kids becomes the challenge. I worry generally about the commodification of mental health, but to get my book to those who need it, I would have to market it.

There is an obvious audience in mental health practitioners who work with children. Equally important, though, are the parents, educators, and caregivers with first-hand experience of mental illness — especially recovery from depression or familiarity with semicolon tattoos. The fact is, most picture books are marketed to adults who buy and read them to kids, and those with lived and living experience can make for the most passionate advocates.

The biggest hurdle would be getting the book to children who need it now, not just those at risk of depression in the future. It can be unpalatable to think of a young child in your life as depressed. Furthermore, depression rarely looks the same in children as it does in adults — a clear theme from the experts I spoke to in writing this book. We all struggle at times to process our feelings, but children are still developing their self-awareness and vocabulary to communicate these. It’s up to adults to look for the signs.

Because 2SLGBTQ+ youth are at a higher risk of depression and suicide than their peers, I also made the conscious decision not to specify the gender of the child narrating the story. The language is gender-neutral, and the illustrations are ambiguous to leave space for each reader to perceive the main character according to what they need.

Now that The Semicolon is in print, I hope it finds a place among the growing number of picture books devoted to mental health. Many of these focus on aspects of wellness like emotional awareness, self-regulation, and self-esteem; I want mine to shed light on the prevalence of childhood depression, and deepen society’s understanding without diluting it. There’s a difference between ordinary sadness and depression, just as there is between normal worry and clinical anxiety.

As a resource for children, I hope it can spark conversations and help readers gain lasting perspectives on dark feelings, but all of these books should be viewed in context. They are not substitutes for diagnosis or treatment. They are tools in a bigger toolbox intended to help children be the healthiest possible version of themselves — a box our kids are needing more and more.

Further Reading

Talking to Children About a Suicide.

Proactive prevention: A model to stop bullying.

Author: Britt Sayler‘s book, The Semicolon, is now available through FriesenPress.

Britt Sayler

Illustrator: Dorota Rewerenda

Author photo: Andrea Gray, Trio Photography

It’s time to talk about mental health in football

The world of professional sports brings to mind scenes of packed stadiums, screaming fans, and lavish contracts for the most celebrated athletes, who display dazzling feats of skill and endurance. But this image of players fulfilling a life’s dream doesn’t always square with reality: the challenges many of them face in maintaining their mental well-being. The truth is, many elite athletes are struggling. Ahead of the 109th Grey Cup, The Catalyst looks at the way organizations like the Saskatchewan Roughriders are joining with others to tackle the issue.

According to a recent study in Psychology of Sport and Exercise, more than 40 per cent of 186 elite national team athletes in Canada “met the cut-off criteria for one or more mental disorders,” with stress and training load being “significant predictors of depression and anxiety.” To understand why, it’s important to acknowledge the realities athletes run into, both on and off the field.

Before reaching professional or top amateur levels, competitors must prove their skills in junior, university, and semi-professional leagues. This often means having to balance their sports aspirations with school, work, and family obligations, not to mention the growing public profile that comes with each success.

“It can be a grind at times,” said Ty Logan, a former university athlete and current professional defenceman with the Albany FireWolves of the National Lacrosse League. “When you’re in school, your weekends are spent travelling on a packed bus between cities, while trying to finish assignments and catching up on the lectures you missed during the week. It’s late nights in the library followed by early mornings at the gym. If you’re not careful with your time, it’s easy to fall behind in one way or another.”

Only as good as your last game
The expectation to perform in the midst of multiple obstacles and responsibilities can be a huge source of stress for young athletes. “You definitely feel the pressure from both sides,” Logan said. “Even when you turn professional, there are no days off, and you never know when it might be your last contract or last game in the league. You have to try to block out the outside world and focus on playing your best.”

This pressure intensifies for emerging athletes with the increasingly slim chances of becoming a professional in any given sport. According to the National Collegiate Athletic Association, around four per cent of all college athletes will reach a professional league or the Olympic level. Even fewer will stay there for more than a handful of games.

When you have a large group of highly motivated, competitive athletes battling for a finite number of spots, with the promise of fortune and fame on the line, it’s easy to see how the pressure can mount for aspiring professional athletes. Add in the need to maintain grades and a part-time job to help pay the bills, and the risk to one’s mental well-being becomes just as clear.

Knowing this, the Mental Health Commission of Canada (MHCC) adapted The Working Mind (TWM) training program to address these issues. TWM Sports modules focus on scenario-based, practical applications for both athletes and coaches which are grounded in the voices of people with lived and living experience of mental illness

Research shows that coaches fulfil multiple roles as motivators, counsellors, advisers, and parental substitutes — all of which require considerable emotional labour. And athletes must fully understand their own mental health — and that of those around them — to maximize their capabilities. To address these requirements, each of these TWM Sports courses provides tools and skills for adverse situations and the ability to support teammates — skills that apply just as much to people in beer and recreational leagues as they do to top athletes.

A nation of athletes
According to a 2016 Statistics Canada poll, 27 per cent of those age 15 and older regularly participate in sports. That’s more than eight million people across the country in some form of sporting activity, with fun, fitness, and physical health cited as the main benefits. But beyond the average individual, the trend shifts. For elite athletes, who dedicate their lives to professional competition, sports can change from a positive influence on physical health to something that puts mental wellness at risk. For instance, when it means sacrificing friendships and one’s personal life to the pursuit of sporting greatness.

This was one of many insights that emerged out of the development process for TWM Sports. The MHCC partnered with the Saskatchewan Roughrider Foundation to pilot the program with players and coaches, along with other elite athletes from Saskatchewan communities.

After Cindy Fuchs, the foundation’s executive director, saw the potential of having a TWM program designed specifically for athletes and coaches, she immediately contacted the MHCC to ask how she and her team could get involved.

“The Roughrider Foundation is dedicated to supporting health, education, and amateur football in our local communities, and the TWM Sports program weaves perfectly into those pillars,” she said. For Fuchs, TWM also aligns with the foundation’s other initiatives, including Win with Wellness and Game Changers Playbook, a collaborative project with the Saskatchewan Ministry of Education to address youth mental wellness in the province.

Throughout the pilot phase, a common thread in the feedback she received from participants was about how impactful the sessions were. “It forced them to reflect on their own mental well-being,” she said. “I think a lot of the players didn’t realize the stress they were going through until they reflected on it.”

By implementing a box-breathing technique from the program into his game-day routines, one kicker was also able to help his on-field performance. And the program also had a positive impact on team morale.

“You can see that the players who have taken the training have a special bond,” Fuchs added. “They know they can be open with each other about how they feel without any judgment.”

It’s this sense of openness — and the de-stigmatization of mental health in sports — that motivated the foundation to spread the word about the program and cover the entire cost of TWM Sports training for all university athletes in Saskatchewan.

Starting with the University of Saskatchewan, all student athletes — regardless of their sport — will have the opportunity to take the program. In addition, all Roughrider players who give presentations for the foundation’s in-school programs will undergo training, allowing them to share the lessons they learned through the course with young people in the community.

“We want as many athletes as possible to have the opportunity to experience this program — it’s that impactful,” Fuchs said. “How cool would it be for a player to be able to tell their coach they aren’t having a good day and not have to worry about being benched or blacklisted? It’s about mutual respect and openness to have this dialogue between the two sides.”

Author: Eric Gronke is a marketing and communications specialist at the Mental Health Commission of Canada. A graduate of Carleton University’s Sprott school of business, he has extensive experience in the fields of sports and entertainment. Eric is the co-founder of mssn, a brand dedicated to fundraising and awareness for youth mental health in the Ottawa area.

Photo: Player ambassador Mitch Picton, a current wide receiver for the Saskatchewan Roughriders, leads a wellness presentation at Sacred Heart Community School in Regina SK.

A broader term captures the rich diversity within communities. Why we use ‘ACB’ over ‘Black’

This article is part of the Catalyst series called Language Matters.

In early 2021, the Mental Health Commission of Canada adjusted its language guidelines and started using the term African, Caribbean, and Black (ACB) when referring to the diaspora who were often grouped under the heading, “Black.” Prior to the change, Black was broadly applied to anyone with dark skin, regardless of their cultural identity or heritage. Imagine the differences of experience and perceptions between a multigenerational Black Nova Scotian and a newcomer from Gambia.

While my family hails from Barbados, I was born in London (England) and grew up in Montreal. I self-identify as a Black woman, a Canadian, and a Caribbean, and I’m not conflicted by those intersecting titles. On countless occasions, people have attempted to “other” me through comments or questions, now identified as microaggressions. “You speak so well,” one of them said, surprised as if, despite my going to the same schools and receiving the same education since age three, my Blackness would subvert those teachings. My personal favourite is, “Where are you really from?” — because Montreal and London didn’t fit the expected answer.

My Caribbean background has often felt like a cozy place of retreat in the face of this insistence that I am not Canadian. I imagine that for folks born and raised in Canada with parents and grandparents who had the same experience, these questions would be more than frustrating. If you can spend your whole life in a place, be taught at the same schools, eat the same food, and still be considered an outsider, it is like remaining stranded on the ancestral slave ship, belonging neither to the new world nor the old.

Our identities are wrapped up in myriad little and big things that give us definition and grounding. What we are called matters. Those names do more than identify our skin colour. They reflect our experiences and knowledge. I have no idea what it would be like to arrive as an adult in a new country and have to fit into a different, often unwelcoming culture. Nor do I want to maneuver through the expectations of those who assume that this is my reality. Whether here by choice or by birth, we are Canadian. Like my fellow citizens of Italian, German, or other descent, I also proudly enjoy the rich offerings of my Caribbean history.

Setting the tone
I don’t blame people for feeling confused or even frustrated with the evolving use of terms. They are legion and often come with an array of confusing and (at times) contradictory explanations. I spent many years explaining to friends and neighbours that I was not “coloured” but “Black.” Then, some well-meaning collective determined that “people of colour” was acceptable. Years later, after moving through the terms “visible minority” and “racialized communities,” Black Lives Matter blew into the media spotlight with “Black, Indigenous, and People of Colour” (BIPOC). At that time, it had become more important to acknowledge that a disproportionate number of ACB and Indigenous people were being incarcerated and attacked by police or denied access to health care (the list goes on), that their realities were different from others. The debate over the merits of capitalizing the “b” in “Black” is forged in the same social furnace. The use of uppercase is an attempt to recognize the shared history of violence, oppression, creativity, and triumph. Though it may seem like a simple grammatical issue, it covers a host of previously ignored or denied experiences.

These conversations reflect a complex and ever-changing social dynamic. It isn’t as simple as saying, opinions vary, or minds have changed. At their heart they reflect emerging knowledge, a growing awareness. More voices are being heard, and that results in more measures being taken, more information being gathered. Consider how hard it is to talk about the disproportionate police-on-ACB violence when authorities refuse to capture skin colour in their reports. It took a collective of intrepid reporters working nationally to collect, collate, and track how many ACB people had been shot by police before those numbers forced authorities to acknowledge that reality. Armed with the facts — the evidence of racism’s impact — people could suddenly be heard when they said, Don’t call me that. Don’t lump me into a broad group. My experiences are different.

Names matter. Using ACB rather than Black (if preferred) is not a new politically correct affectation. It’s a respectful reflection of the very real and very different experiences of people who may share nothing more than similar skin tones.

Author: Debra Yearwood is a communications specialist who works and lives in Ottawa.

Debra Yearwood

Are you having a lightbulb moment?

The SPARK Knowledge Translation Program charts a path for those with an idea to improve research and practice around mental health, substance use, or addiction. A look at the Grand Council Treaty #3 project, which serves as a mental health life-raft for 28 communities.

In the early days of COVID-19, Darlene Curci was taking note of the challenges in Kenora, Fort Frances, and Dryden. She is the Indigenous systems coordinator for Grand Council Treaty #3, which comprises 28 First Nation communities across 142,000+ square kilometres in northwest Ontario and southeast Manitoba.

“A lot of things were happening on the ground while we were going through lockdown,” she recalled. “Our health team was being deployed to help our communities through COVID by providing resources.”

As she worked, Curci was able to observe the evolving needs and challenges of coping with the pandemic. “Some of the communities are isolated and have few resources, which must then be shared across a large geographical area,” she said. “We don’t have specialized resources to address mental health or addiction issues. Psychiatrists have to fly in from Toronto, or else people must go to Winnipeg for specialized services.”

While those services may be rooted in a clinical practice, Treaty #3 communities have land-based, traditional, or combined approaches that include Western models of health and wellness. As Curci was looking for a way to bridge these approaches for Treaty #3 communities, she saw a social media posting about the Mental Health Commission of Canada’s SPARK program. After seeing how SPARK works to ensure success, she applied to the program — which includes 16 hours of workshop time and a one-year followup mentorship — to turn that idea into action.

Connecting the dots
SPARK’s Knowledge Translation Program seeks to provide the tools and resources needed to close the gap between what we know and what we do in the mental health and substance use fields. It gives people who have the germ of an idea — the spark — the means to foster positive change in their communities. As studies show, that process normally takes several years. But the SPARK Innovation to Implementation (I2I) framework can dramatically reduce that time.

Recent graduates (or SPARKies) include the Writers Collective of Canada, a charity that creates workshops for those under-represented in society. They partnered with Veterans’ organizations to offer expressive writing workshops as a non-clinical health intervention. Another charitable organization called Body Brave also worked with SPARK to help address service gaps for people seeking support for disordered eating.

The SPARK program asks applicants to focus on a problem they’d like to address and provides coaching and mentorship to participants across the seven I2I steps:

State the purpose
Select an innovation
Specify actors and actions
Identify agents of change
Design the knowledge translation plan
Implement
Evaluate

For Curci, “the exercise provides a rigour that focuses the mind while also balancing the need to be agile and adaptable in working with different communities, specialties, levels of expertise, and ways of communicating. When I was going through the application process, I had to write out my intention, and that helped me focus on where I wanted to go with my idea.”

Over the course of the program, she developed the key output — The Grand Council Treaty #3 Mental Health Survival Guide Toolkit — which now serves as a “mental health life-raft” for all of its First Nation communities.

“It was a challenge to bring great value to the community by analyzing a large volume of information and conveying it in such a way that it would be useful to them,” she said. “But in the end, that process helped me reconnect with people in a less intrusive and more engaging way.”

A SPARK planning session from February 2020.

The 50-page booklet includes practical advice on how to respond while in crisis, guidelines for engaging with Elders, practical hang-on-the-fridge lists with key phone numbers, colouring pages, worksheets to assist with stressful times, and tips for interacting with people based on where they’re at. For example, a section for teens and youth discusses boundaries, pointers on creative expression as a form of wellness, and red-light/green-light examples of healthy relationships.

The booklet is based on Ga-nan-da-wis (good health), a therapeutic concept rooted in traditional and cultural healing approaches to achieve emotional and mental balance, culturally and spiritually. Also included are mental health tips for parents, activity suggestions for Elders — like taking a walk or having a sweat with people in your bubble — and those contending with the cumulative and collective effects of historical (or intergenerational) trauma. Substance use, addiction, family violence, and suicide prevention are all addressed, along with isolation, loneliness, and finding balance when using technology.

Curci’s project is rooted in the Minobimaadziwin strategy (cited below) developed by Treaty #3 organizations, Elders, and community members, and was launched as a guiding framework in December 2019. Its 13 values are a throughline connecting Indigenous knowledge, wellness, and current realities related to COVID-19.

Grand Council Treaty #3 Minobimaadziwin Strategy

Unified approach
Engage Elders
Promote cultural way of life
Support Anishinaabemowin as healing mechanism
Partnership and network development
Address root causes of mental health
Build community capacity
Education and prevention centered
Treaty #3-specific tools and training — Promote education and awareness on COVID-19 prevention practices
Culturally safe services
Healing rooted in traditional knowledge and practice-land based approach
Respect treaty rights and relationships
Every door is the right door

These guiding principles are informed by Treaty #3 traditions. “We are very strong and focused in our traditional ways,” Curci said. “We have developed our own child-care law, health law, and natural resource law — Manito Aki Inakonigaawin — it is the framework for how we do business.”

Her survival guide toolkit was launched during Mental Health Week in May 2021. After all 28 communities received an initial box of booklets, an increasing demand led to a subsequent reprint of 2,000 more copies. People see great value in what it offers, often using different resources for their specific needs. They tear out pages to post near their desks or take photos of the contents that help them most in challenging times.

“In a moment of distress, when things seem impossible, it’s a way to check in on yourself,” Curci said. In addition to being the creator of the booklet — she uses the tools herself. “I find it relaxing,” she said, referring to the colouring pages, along with activities like 10 Minutes to Reflect on Your Day (to build self-esteem) and the My Moods exercise.

Social workers also appreciate the quick tips to help guide people through thoughts of suicide by discussing risk and protective factors and providing counselling helplines, in addition to traditional guidance on grief and loss. The booklet’s foreword from the Grand Chief notes that “everyone’s mental health needs are different.” Rather than put forward well-intentioned platitudes or oversimplifications, his message focuses on the importance of asking for help when it is needed, “because there is always hope for new and better day.”

Learn more about Grand Council Treaty #3.

Author: Fateema Sayani

Fateema Sayani

Fateema Sayani has worked in social purpose organizations and newsrooms for twenty-plus years, managing teams, strategy, research, fundraising, communications, and policy. Her work has been published in magazines and newspapers across Canada, focusing on social issues, policy, pop culture, and the Canadian music scene. She was a longtime columnist at the Ottawa Citizen and a senior editor and writer at Ottawa Magazine. She has been a juror for the Polaris Music Prize and the East Coast Music Awards and volunteers with global music presenting organization Axé WorldFest and the Canadian Advocacy Network. She holds a bachelor’s degree in journalism, a master’s degree in philanthropy and nonprofit leadership, and certificates in French-language writing from McGill and public policy development from the Max Bell Foundation Public Policy Training Institute. She researches nonprofit news models to support the development of this work in Canada and to shift narratives about underrepresented communities. Her work in publishing earned her numerous accolades for social justice reporting, including multiple Canadian Online Publishing Awards and the Joan Gullen Award for Media Excellence.

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**A children’s book on depression is a tough sell, but it’s an important topic. On authoring and self-publishing The Semicolon.**