Pennies for my Thoughts

So like I said before, I genuinely feel happy right now. As great as that is though, I still need to find a job! - Bills aren’t going to take care of themselves, I don’t think anyways. Not to mention the fact that I really need a haircut, unless I wanna go back to the shag!? The easiest and most logical thing for me would be to get a job serving somewhere, it’s one of things that I’m really good at. Although everyone, including myself, acknowledges that surrounding myself with alcohol, when I’m trying to cut it out altogether is a terrible idea. In spite of knowing this, I needed to get a job fairly soon, and nothing decent seemed to be available.- Something interesting about BC, it’s the most expensive province to live in, and yet the wages are the lowest?! - I’ve been told that this is because of the Asian and Indian immigrant populations that are willing to work for pennies on the dollar. - I headed to a local fine dining restaurant that was hiring, knowing that they’d probably offer me a job on the spot. The restaurant was called “Restaurant 62” and it was a very nice, quaint place, with only 5 servers on staff. Like I always do, I turned on the charm and walked in to talk to the manager. What happened next was pretty much to be expected. I started getting a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, definitely a sign that this wasn’t a good idea. I quickly reverted back to the old me... felt like crap on the inside, but kept up the superficial act on the outside. I continued with the entire interview knowing that I didn’t want to work there, but not saying a thing, but who would, right? - Not like I’m gonna stand up in the middle of the interview and say “I’m sorry, I get a bad feeling about this joint, peace out.” Anyways, they offered me the job and I told them that I could start next week, an obvious lie. - To me anyways. Guess I’m just going to keep on looking. So far the only job prospects I can find pay only about ten dollars an hour, which is almost two and a half times less than I made at RIM. But I might just have to put my pride aside and take an incredibly low paying job. ‘Cause at the end of the day, ten bucks an hour is better than no bucks an hour, right?

-Clev

Pursuing Happiness

Something interesting happened when I finished writing my story. I sat down and felt an emotion that I had not felt in some time. At first I wasn’t sure what the emotion was, usually it would be some sort of sadness or disappointment. But after a few minutes of sitting and thinking about it, I figured it out. I was truly and utterly happy. For the first time in year, I was HAPPY! How could this be though? I mean... I have no job (I like to say I’m “FUNemployed”) I have no money, I don’t have my BlackBerry, my car is still back in Ontario and I’m sleeping on a mattress in my cousins media room. Yet, in spite of all this, I truly feel the happiest I have in years. I think that goes to prove that you don’t need money and possessions to be happy. True, money certainly can help, especially when bills are piling up. But it’s definitely not a requirement for happiness. Often, too much of an emphasis on needing to obtain things in order to be happy. Have you ever said to yourself, “if I could just have this I would be so happy.” If I could just get that car, that job, that girl, etc. Why wait to be happy? Your wealth and possessions only make up a fraction of your happiness; pleasures of the moment will come and go. And more often than not, once you get whatever it is you’ve been holding out for, chances are that it probably didn’t make you any more happy. That’s because what you really wanted in order to be happy, wasn’t what you really needed. What you really needed was inside you all along, we just tend to forget that. Sometimes we need to completely let go of all our possessions, (Figuratively speaking of course... Keep the flat screen, it looks nice above your fireplace, I swear) strip ourselves to our foundation, and really look at our lives. Forget about everything and just let go. I think that’s what happened to me. I had everything stripped from me, bringing me down to my core. Forcing me to examine my life. And through my exploration, with (finally) nothing holding me back or dragging me down, I was able to find my happiness. Turns out he was there all along, just waiting to be called back out again.  

-Clev

A Favourite Poem

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are we not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn’t serve the world.
There’s nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us.
It’s not just in some of us, it’s in everyone.
And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fears, our presence automatically liberates others.

Source: A Return to Love, by Marianne Williamson, as quoted by Nelson Mandela in his inaugural speech, 1994

Epilogue - Getting Help

People often avoid going to get help if they are suffering from a mood disorder or other mental health disorders. Many people won’t even acknowledge that they may have a problem. Quite frankly, I think many are afraid that they will actually be diagnosed with something, and what that might mean about them. The fact of the matter is mental health disorders, such as major depression, have been equated to that of chronic medical conditions such as diabetes. Would you be unwilling to get help if you had diabetes? How about a less severe example... Would you continue not being able to see, just because you were afraid people might make fun of you for wearing glasses, or that you will feel inferior? - Probably not. Now, I’m not saying if you think you have a mental illness you have to go and tell everyone about it. - You don’t have to run around showing everyone your shiny new glasses either, if you don’t want to. You can get contacts! But I mean, come on... you gotta be able to see, right?!

Clev

Part 5 - Restoration

At the end of the first paragraph of my last post, I mentioned that my soul had been washed clean. If you wanted proof that God was real, and he does miraculous things, here it is: Four days into my stay in the psych ward, my mom came to visit. She asked me, “what is one thing that you would never have expected to see again after Wednesday night? (December   22nd)” I said my BlackBerry, she said “close, but no. Your wallet has been found.” Pretty significant, seeing as I had chucked it off the Lionsgate Bridge at 3am, never thinking I’d see it again. But here’s what makes this so miraculous, it didn’t just turn up, it washed up on shore in Langdale, BC; some forty kilometres away from where I threw it in. And even more miraculous, it was in PERFECT condition; all I had to do was wipe off the sand. Business cards I had in there barely even looked as if they got wet. Why was this symbol of my wallet being returned to me so prophetic, you ask? Well, what is it that you keep in your wallet? - Your money, your credit cards, some pictures, sure. But the most important thing it contains is your identity. (drivers license, social insurance card, health card, etc.) So for me, It was like my identity was taken from me, seemingly destroyed, then washed completely clean and fully restored to me. Through all the years of therapy and all the psychiatrists I saw, none of them could do for me what the man upstairs could do. No one other than God could take my broken soul and wash it clean.

I’m certainly not saying that I have been fully restored. I acknowledge that there is a long road ahead of me and this will be a process. This acknowledgement was something I could never figure out in the past. I would often let my pride get in the way of my treatment. I would stop taking my medication properly, stop going to the psychiatrist, start staying out later and drinking more, etc. All because I thought I was good, I could handle it, I got this thing beat. I didn’t. I don’t. When I think about it, I kind of get the image of painting over rust. - No matter how pretty the paint is, there is still rust underneath, and eventually the paint will chip away and fall off, exposing the rust beneath. It’s important, and this is the journey I am on now, to fix what’s underneath. Because eventually, the paint fades away, and the good feelings are gone, and all you’re left with is your rust. My inner healing began with finding God through the darkest time of my life. He was there holding my hand on that bridge, He showed me that I was loved, and He washed my identity clean and returned it to me.

I will continue to Blog as my journey continues, documenting all the highs (and lows) of my path to recovery. As I said in the first paragraph of my first post, my hope is to help anyone that might be suffering through any mental health problems. - You are not alone, and although times may get dark and as hopeless as you may feel, please remember that you are loved. Don’t be afraid or ashamed to ask for help when needed, and don’t be afraid to tell people what you are going through. If my experience in writing this has taught me anything, people genuinely do care and are always willing to listen. It’s time to throw away our misconceptions about mental illness and start talking about it. Suicide is the number three cause of death in people aged 15-24. If even one of these were preventable by talking about mental illness, wouldn’t it be worth it?

Thank you from the bottom of my heart to everyone for supporting me and this blog. Please feel free to share my blog with ANYONE. I know that my story may not be an original one, but hopefully it will be the right one for someone out there. Like I said, if we can help at least one person, it will all be worthwhile.

God Bless,

David Cleverley

Part 4 - A Brand New Day

After a few days in Abbotsford, my cousin introduced me to one of the pastors in his church, named Pam. She had done a lot to help him, and he felt it would be good for me. Of course, I was skeptical but I was willing to give anything a shot. Now, to put things in perspective, I’ve seen at least five psychiatrists, numerous therapists and a few different counsellors. I tell you though, no one ever got me or was able to see through me like Pam. My immediate instinct was to put my guard up and not let her in. She tore down my superficial safety wall in a matter of minutes however and we were able to proceed. Pam helped me to do something I’d never really done effectively. Pray. And more importantly, listen to what God wanted to tell me. The first thing we talked about was the burden’s I’ve been carrying around with me for the majority of my life. We worked extensively on removing these burdens, many of which were not even mine, I had just seemed to pick up along the way. For some reason I felt I was responsible for taking on other peoples problems and trying to help them, all the while ignoring my own. At one point Pam made me hold out my arm, she kept stacking books on it until it eventually gave out. A powerful demonstration for me, because that’s exactly what happened in my life. I had been carrying so much baggage around with me, it was weighing me down so much, that I eventually gave out, and gave up on myself. Pam spent hours praying with me, helping me to ask God to remove my burdens, which he did. We eventually moved on to forgiveness.

I’ve always believed in the power of forgiveness, and I’m always forgiving people in my prayers. I worked extensively at asking God to forgive me for my past transgressions. I continually forgave anyone who might have slighted me in the least. But what I never even thought to do was forgive myself. It never even occurred to me that that was a possibility. I needed other people’s forgiveness, not my own. But here’s the thing about forgiveness, how can you give it to someone else if you’re not able to give it to yourself? How can you give anyone anything, if you don’t have it yourself to give? So I began to forgive myself.  I forgave myself for screwing up in school,  I forgave myself for getting in trouble with the law, and my drinking, etc. Most importantly, I forgave myself for the burden of shame and guilt I had been carrying around with me for the past 12 or so years. - The reasons for which I’ll get into in later posts. After going through the process of removing so many burdens I’d been carrying around, and forgiving myself, and receiving God’s forgiveness, I felt as though a weight the size of Mount Rushmore had been lifted off my back. I felt as if my soul had been washed cleaned, like my identity had been cleansed, and then restored to me.

It was becoming increasingly evident that I should stay in Abbotsford. I think I knew all along that I should stay, but I couldn’t seem to get over how much I missed my family; even though I often felt withdrawn from them. I remember my sister saying to me once that I’m always the last to arrive and the first to leave family functions. And it seemed, at times, as though I didn’t really want to be there or that I had someplace better to be. Of course, I always defended myself and said that this was untrue. However, the more I think about it and the more I heal, the more I know that she was right. Because of this hole that was always inside of me, I’d look for ways to fill it with counterfeit affection. (alcohol, gambling, sex, etc.) Consequently I shut myself off from the possibility of real affection my family could provide.  I’d never allow myself to give my heart fully to anyone. I was afraid to get too close; I put up superficial walls to protect myself, all the while terrified someone would find out how fake I was, and expose me. You can see how cyclical depression can be!

To be concluded...

PS: I think it’s important to note that everybody is different, and each person’s approach to transformation will be unique to his or her particular situation. What works for me may not necessarily work for you. I don’t have a checklist on what to do if you’re sad, all I can do is share with you what I’m going through and what helps me. What’s equally important to note is that mental illness shows no bias. It doesn’t care if you’re popular, rich or good looking. It doesn’t even care if you feel happy and come from a good home. Mental illness can strike anyone, at any time.

Part 3 - One day in the Valley

After spending nine days in the hospital, I was released into my parents care, with every intention of heading back to Ontario. However, before I headed home, I wanted to go see my cousin and his family in Abbotsford, BC. After a while of hanging out with the family, my cousin, Ben and I went out for a coffee, he said he wanted to talk to me about an opportunity, I assumed he was talking about a business opportunity. I was wrong. Ben had seen the pitfalls of addiction first hand; through his brother, Joshua. Fortunately Joshua was able to recover and is now married with three beautiful daughters. I never really  spent any time thinking that I had a problem with alcohol. But the fact is I did, I do. I am a binge drinker, and when I start drinking, I have a very difficult time stopping. I’d often consume 25-30 drinks a night, at least once or twice a week. I convinced myself that I wasn’t an alcoholic because I didn’t drink every day. But come on, let’s call a spade a spade. There was a growing sense of fear in both Ben and Joshua, as well as my immediate family, that if I headed home to Ontario too soon, I’d fall back into old habits quickly. Ben offered to let me stay with him and his family in BC for a little while longer, I figured I might as well give it another week or so. At the very least, it would give me some more to time to reflect in a safe environment.

Now, I would estimate that around ninety percent of people that know me, would say that I was a smart, confident guy that had it all together. What they never saw below my fabricated exterior, was me screaming at the top of my lungs, hanging on by only a thread, wanting to just lash out into an emotional outburst. I never did though, I always kept my composure, kept up appearances. I would suffer in silence. I couldn't risk having people think poorly of me, or that I was crazy. I have this constant need for approval inside of me. I always feel that if I don’t act a certain way, or do a certain thing, that people won’t like me. Or that people will say negative things about me behind my back. Of course, all of this is total crap, but I could just never wrap my head around that; I feel like I need to be affirmed by others to have significance. People would often tell me that I was cocky, or conceited. In reality, it was a lack of confidence in myself that led to this behavior. If I didn’t get the affirmation I was seeking, I’d try to create it by boasting about some achievement, or making up stories about myself. I never really took the time to realize that a lot of people just liked me for me. There was a constant emptiness inside of me, which I began filling with drinking, gambling, meaningless sex, etc. anything that would give me an artificial sense of happiness, fleeting as it may be.

When you are already a depressed person, drinking is the last thing you should be doing; I alluded to this in my first post. Drinking only makes you more depressed, withdrawn and feeling alone. Your mind gets so clouded and blurred that it’s impossible to make proper decisions. The drinking in itself was definitely an issue for me, but what was infinitely worse were the decisions I made when I was drunk. There were times, and I'm certainly not proud about this, that I would go out and get completely intoxicated and have no issue with hopping in the car and driving 160 km/h down a country road. I just didn’t care. Looking back, the thought of that terrifies me. What if I had actually hurt myself, or even worse, what if I hurt or killed someone else? I would often drive to the casino and gamble hundreds, if not thousands of dollars away, all in a vein attempt to feel good or to get some sort of affirmation. Neither of which ever came. I always ended up feeling alone and even more depressed. It began to become very evident that there was something deep down in me that needed to be healed.

To be continued...

Part 2 - PASU

I had never been admitted to a psych ward at any hospital. But there I was, involuntarily admitted. Let me just say one thing; if you thought it was anything like you’ve seen in the movies, you’re pretty much right. I was in the PASU ward for 9 days, which stands for Psychiatric Assessment and Stabilization Unit. We had a very interesting crew of about 10 or so patients there, some of which I’ll never forget. There was “Slayer” (on account of his Slayer t-shirt) He was a paranoid schizophrenic, who seemed to believe that the government owned segments of your brain and I might not actually be the real me. My personal favourite was that “non-whites were infiltrating our society and stealing our skin. So watch out, because I might actually be black.” We talk a little bit longer and he tells me that he is the Arc Angel Michael and that he has the power to save the world, as long as he keeps his magical bag of tobacco with him. He asks me if I want to go fight evil spirits with him someday... I figure sure, why not?

It can be pretty difficult to find a way to fill up 14-16 hours a day on the psych ward. Most of the other patients stay pretty doped up all day, and don’t seem to have a problem just sitting in the lounge and staring at the tv all day. They did have an exercise bike though, which gave me about 30 minutes of leisure. I asked my nurse, Nicole to get me something to read to kill more time. She comes back with “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.” I thought to myself, really?! - Oh well, at least I could appreciate her sense of humor. The nurses, I can tell, were having a difficult time treating me like the rest of the patients. I got the feeling that they knew I was a normal guy, and that I just hit a bit of a rough patch. But they had to stick with protocol in treating me like a regular patient. It’s funny, I never felt crazy till I was locked up with a bunch of “crazies.” I guess I am the most “sane” person here though. But that’s like winning a participant medal at the Special Olympics.

I really began to get the sense that living in a place like that could very well drive a sane person insane. It’s a very weird thing having so many basics rights stripped away. But then again, it could have been worse. I could have been dead. I spent most of my time in my room, either reading or writing or listening to music. Sometimes the phone would ring, it was usually for me. After about 5 days without any fresh air, I began to get anxious. Thankfully my parents had arrived from Ontario and were able to take me out for a couple of hours at a time. They brought me in a bunch of chocolates, I didn’t eat any of course, but the other patients loved them. I was able to use the chocolate to control the TV and watch all the sports I wanted to watch, without any complaints. I quickly became not only the sanest guy, but the coolest. (Again though, participant medal)

On my seventh day on the ward, I was allowed to leave for the whole afternoon, with my parents. And thankfully, it was a beautiful day. First on the agenda was Starbuck’s, then a walk along the beach and finally a barber shop, so I could get my scraggly Grizzly Adams beard shaved off. I hadn’t shaved in well over a week, because we weren’t allowed razors on the ward. When I got back to the hospital none of the other patients recognized me. One girl, we’ll call her Aretha, because she was big, black and loud, came up to me and introduce herself, forgetting that we had already met. She asked me if I was her doctor, to which I replied “No, but I play one on TV.” (Note to self, mental patience don’t get sarcasm) She then wanted to welcome me to the ward, I don’t bother trying to explain that I’d been there for a week. On the way back to my room, I got stopped by Glasses, I call him glasses cause he always wears sun glasses. He pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and begins to explain to me a formula he’s figured out to prove that the earth will shortly be covered by 13,000 feet of water. - Then asks me for spare change.

To be continued...

Part 1 - December 22nd

I've never blogged before... So bare with me. My hope is that by being as transparent as possible in sharing my story, that I may be able to help anyone else suffering from similar mental health problems as I have. I decided to entitle my blog "Chasing The Ghost" because that's often what I feel mental illness is. - Chasing something that isn't there. I've suffered from ADD, Major Depressive Disorder and Social Anxiety Disorder for what I expect is the majority of my life. The Obsessive Compulsive Disorder on-set in my teens. As my blog progresses, I will share more about the magnitude of the issues and how I am finding ways to overcome them. For my first post though, I want to share a little bit of my story since I moved from Ontario to BC.

I never thought that I would end up where I did over Christmas, but there I was... The psych ward at St. Paul's Hospital in downtown Vancouver. Before I go into any specifics about the my experience in the psych ward, I should probably explain how I got there. It's hard to explain what goes through the mind of a suicidal individual, but I will try my best to recollect.

I moved to BC about 3 months ago. I don't think I was moving out here for anything in particular as much as I was moving away from my problems and life back in Ontario. However, as I quickly learned, problems will follow you wherever you go. Which brings me to the night of December 22nd. Often, when I am depressed, I find that I want to go out to a club or a bar and be surrounded by people. The problem with this is that my anxiety usually kicks in and I begin to drink. Which, when you are a depressed person, is never a good idea. The anxiety causes me to keep drinking, which further fuels my depressive thoughts. Then, before you know it, you are all alone; intoxicated, depressed and lonely. Which brings me to the Lionsgate Bridge.

It's around 3 or 4 am, I just left a bar in downtown Vancouver, all alone. I hail a cab and get him to drive me to the foot of the bridge. I climb up and decide that I'll walk to the highest point of the bridge. I get there. I jump over the railing. By this point, my BlackBerry is going crazy, because I had texted my mom and told her I was sorry and that I loved her. I decide to throw my BlackBerry into the water, some 200 feet below, I throw my wallet in for good measure. I stand awkwardly on a narrow strip below the road, barely hanging on to the railing above. Staring at the water below, I try to jump a few times, but my body does not respond. (It's kind of like the feeling you get before you jump off the high dive at a pool or something) I begin to think that the fall won't actually kill me instantly, but i'd probably drown or die of hypothermia, neither of which is a desirable death. I decide that I'll climb up one of the towers and leap from there instead. Surely a fall from that height would kill me instantly. I didn't get more than a couple of meters when a few police officers pull up and jump out of their cars. I immediately turn back to the railing to hop over and jump. But the police lady yelled to me "Please sir, don't make me have a bad night" something that I'll never forget, and that probably saved my life.

When your vision is clouded by a persistent thought of suicide you are unable to grasp actual reality. You find a way of rationalizing the things going through your mind. Things like "You are worthless, no one cares about you, no one will miss you, the world will be better off without you, etc." Needless to say, all of these things were filling my mind. In one sentence though, "please don't make me have a bad night," I realized that it wasn't all about me, and that there would be a lot of people terribly affected by my decision.

To be continued...