This post originally appeared as a Facebook post on Rob's page. It has been republished with permission.

I have been visiting this house on the regular since April. Behind those doors are two or three different psychologist who conduct their daily operations. After having three friends of mine tell me about their positive experiences with therapy, I decided to give it a try myself. After the first session, I was not sure if I wanted to continue going. Not because I thought that it was fake or phony or too expensive, but because I was scared. I was afraid of being vulnerable, working through tough times in my past, and showing my emotions.

Over the past few years I have developed an internal locus of control, where I believe that I have the ability constantly improve myself. I am pretty realistic, and I know my strengths and weaknesses. One specific dimension of my well-being that needed work was my mental health. I recognized that my lifestyle was becoming very costly, and unhealthy. I recognized that patterns in my family life (that I did not want), were slowly creeping up on me. Lastly, I realized that my ability show emotions and just 'let it out' needed to be better. To truly improve myself, working on my own baggage was going to have to happen. Although it was scary, I worked up the courage to take the next step and continue attending therapy.

Throughout the next five months, I learned a lot about myself. I had to articulate thoughts that I had kept tucked away for many years. Some of these thoughts were things that I have known for a while, and some were brand new realizations about myself and my life. I had to be open to showing emotions, which was really hard for me to do. I had developed an inability to express anger and sadness because of certain traumatic childhood experiences. These sessions were filled with tears, rage, and many teachable moments. The lessons that I have learned through this experience will stay with me forever, and will continue to help me be the best version of myself.

I am not sharing this post because I want praise for going to therapy. The message that I want to send is that people should not be afraid to get help or talk about their feelings. Therapy is not just for people with mental health problems. Everyone has their own traumas in life, and unfortunately not everyone knows how to process their emotions and heal in a positive way. I hope that after reading this, some of you will feel inspired to maybe take that first step into improving your mental health.

After attending therapy I feel like I have the tools and mindfulness to be able to handle any of lifes obstacles. I feel like I am much better control of my future and how to handle my emotions, and I have my friends who inspired me(BH, JS, & NB) and the people in this house to thank for it.

"I have been very surprised and happy with the amount of positive support that I received after one Facebook post. I have received many texts and messages from friends, family, and people who I have not spoken to in years. There is so much support out there, and more people need to know it!" -Rob

Brenda Whiteside at one point mentioned that she wants to see empirical evidence before making any moves- and that we need to be strategic with our decisions. I wholeheartedly agree- but I do wonder at what point do we integrate empirical evidence with human stories? When will we consider qualitative evidence in the conversation, and how can academic institutions encourage this type of research?
 
By my observations, university funding is funneled straight into the sciences. But in a world where the demand for skilled social workers and counselors is growing, how does this affect our funding of the arts and humanities? If psychology, family studies, and the like aren’t going to be supported, how are we preaching to our students that we are doing our best? How are we ensuring our graduates not only graduate with the knowledge to help themselves, but to help others? How are we valuing these subjects as integral parts of a successful society?
 
The panel also mentioned the government’s “commitment” to creating more jobs for youth to alleviate stress of graduating with no job prospects (a reality I am too familiar with). After being underemployed for 2 years after graduating with an honours Psychology degree, I often wonder what we are doing to support youth with passions and academic background in this area.
 
One attendee mentioned that doing the same things over and over is not going to change anything. I felt this comment shifted the conversation into an uncomfortable area for Longfield, who seems to have little if any novel ideas. If we want people to grow beyond stigma, we need to hear more than just stats. We need to hear real stories, and find themes within them to investigate the why. We are so far past the statistic of 1 in 5. We know the stats. Now what are the stories?

It was at that point that I hit what I would refer to as my rough period. Up until that point my life had been relatively easy overall. I had a good home life, had a number of close friends and was a good student involved in a couple of sports and activities. I don’t want to act like I had some incredible fall into hard drugs or gang involvement or anything. Just the positivity in my life turned out to be a lot more fragile then I knew. Basically, when I realized I was gay, I became very scared. Scared that people finding out that I was different would lead me to being judged and ostracized. As a consequence, I systematically destroyed my own life without even realizing I was doing it.

In my head, the easiest way to proceed was to push people away and to keep myself very tightly in check to make sure no clues about what I was were ever given. At first, my behaviour probably wasn’t too different from before. But with time, consistently telling myself I wasn’t allowed to be myself lead to me becoming very uncomfortable in my own skin. From there it was just a short hop and skip to hating myself on a very deep level. I remember looking in the mirror and wishing I didn’t exist multiple times a day. My self-esteem became non-existent and at some point, I checked out from everything around me because what did it really matter at that point? My friend group dwindled and I stopped really caring if the friends who stuck with me actually liked me. I didn’t really try at anything apart from video games. I still participated in my activities and did well enough in school to avoid arousing suspicion from my parents and teachers, but there was never any real effort there. I did just well enough at everything to avoid inadvertently giving off a cry for help, but felt completely empty inside in doing so.

At my worst, I was completely and utterly apathetic. I did things to try to appear normal but I didn’t care about any of it. All I still liked was my dog, but that was about it. I spent way too much time playing video games, not because they were enjoyable at that point but because I could at least pretend I wasn’t trapped in my life however briefly the sentiment lasted. I wanted to escape. I never thought seriously about hurting myself or doing anything more drastic, but I fantasized constantly about dropping everything and disappearing, rationalizing it in the thought that not only no one would care, but that people would be better off without me.

Things went on like that for quite a while. Looking back, I wish I’d done a worse job at pretending everything was fine, but I was surprisingly good at living a lie. I ended up spending most of my time in high school depressed without much reprieve. I never got help because I never reached out and as a result I stayed in the same place. It’s hard to pin point where I did start to come out of it, but I think it coincided with being sent on a backpacking trip with Outward Bound at my Dad’s suggestion. I could talk about that extensively, but in short a lot of things about the experience made me realize that I was actually a somewhat capable person who might not be a smoldering pile of human garbage after all. Improvement happened slowly from there as the boost in self confidence and self esteem got me to the point that I started letting people in again, at least a bit. I rediscovered some things I actually cared about. For the first time in years I became passionate about certain things like my friends and biology and snowboarding and music.

The improvement was very gradual but at least got me out of my darkest place. It took me several years after that to fully accept my sexuality as my self confidence steadily improved. Slowly I realized that my inability to accept the ways in which I was “different” and move on with my life was very strongly tied to my feelings of isolation and powerlessness. While coming out wasn’t at all an enjoyable process and didn’t solve everything by any means, it at least put me in control of my life. I was finally being the person I wanted to be without letting my sexuality control my identity, happiness and concept of self worth.
​
Despite coming to a point where I’m very comfortable with my sexuality, I have had recurrent periods of depression every so often. Although, none have approached the severity of the first. As time goes on I’ve become better at recognizing what triggers me, which has lead to me being a lot less hard on myself when I do have down periods. I’ve also become much more comfortable talking about it, which is very effective for me personally to avoid it. I’ve tried to develop healthy coping mechanisms like working out, writing or just listening to music in a blanket burrito when I’m having a particularly bad time.  They aren’t perfect and they don’t prevent it, but I can at least keep the monsters in my head at bay most of the time.
Looking back, I wish I’d had someone to talk to. It’s tough because my go to coping mechanism of pushing people away made it doubtful that anyone who tried would have been successful, but I wish I hadn’t dealt with it all alone. No one needs to carry their burden alone and there are so many people out there who are willing to help if you ask. There are lots of people, both youth and adults, going through the same struggle for the same reasons – an overwhelming fear of being judged, ostracized or hated for being the person they are which makes it easier to deny than accept. Western society has come a long way in terms of it’s treatment of the LGBTQ+ community, but there is still an unfortunate predisposition for people from this demographic to suffer from mental illness.

Due to the nature of the problem this is unlikely to ever be a completely solvable issue, but it is one which we can continue to improve upon. I think the best thing we can do for LGBTQ+ people who are still struggling with this is recognizing and acknowledging as a society that what you identify as in terms of sexuality, gender or whatever else is irrelevant to your value as a human being. Having a sexual or gender identity which falls outside the cultural norm doesn’t define a person, in the same way that mental illness doesn’t. I’m a strong believer that simply talking about it is the greatest way to combat stigma and as weird as it feels to talk about my experience, maybe it will be relatable to someone. So, here’s hoping someone who needs to hear it does.

I have days where I don’t get out of bed, I eat a couple chocolate bars and some chips and watch mind numbing television until I’m ready to go back to sleep. I don’t want to deal with the world, and on those days I don’t believe I can handle it. Sometimes it takes two days and the feel of fuzzy teeth to kick me into gear. It’s something I manage with routine and planning but every so often I falter. I wasn’t going to let post-election day be one of those days. I wasn’t going to let someone like Donald Trump stop me from having a day that was worthwhile.
 
The reason this result has hit me so hard is varied. The impact this election will have on minorities and the LGBT community in America is demoralizing and frightening. The fact that the “majority” of one of the most powerful countries in the world chose a lunatic to govern them is disturbing. I can however pinpoint the reason why this outcome is so personally disheartening. I have been sexually assaulted, like so many of Trumps victims. A world where Donald Trump is the most powerful person in the world is not a world I want to step out into. And yet I must. I must step out into that world every day and so must every other woman if they want to continue to BE. To exist.
 
This is something to work through, to endure and overcome, the alternative is despair. One of my favourite cartoons has a quote that helps me to look towards tomorrow with optimism. “…You must never give into despair. Allow yourself to slip down that road and you surrender to your lowest instincts. In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself. That is the meaning of inner strength.”- Uncle Iroh, The Last Airbender. So let us all cultivate hope and spread it throughout the world with the intention of bettering it.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been an anxious person. Even as a kid, I had crippling anxiety when it came to talking to people, speaking in class, or having any sort of attention on me. Nobody ever picked up on it, and it went hidden. By the age of sixteen, I had moved across three countries, in two very different parts of the world. But it was this last migration that changed a lot of things for me. Was it because I was an emotional teenager this time? Maybe. At seventeen, I was diagnosed with depression. I had been dealing with it for about a year before I sat there at the doctor’s and heard her tell me I needed therapy and medication because what I was going through was an actual mental illness and not a phase that was going to pass without intervention. This part of my life isn’t something I will go into details about, mostly because it is emotionally exhausting and quite possibly one of the most difficult things for me to open up about. For the sake of simplicity and my own sanity, I will leave it at this: I went through therapy, and with the help of family and friends, I got better.
 
Fast forward five years, I’m no longer depressed. It’s been a year since I’ve been on any medication - something which I am very proud of - or needed any other interventions. I’m doing great in every aspect except for the fact that my lingering anxiety seems to be worsening each day. I don’t want to admit to myself it is happening, because that would mean seeking help, and I was strong now. I didn’t need help. Or so I thought. Over the course of the next few months, my anxiety progresses to the point where it keeps me up at night. Once again, I find myself in a place where I can’t sleep at night, I can’t focus on school or work, and worry about everything, all the time. When I try to study, my brain shuts down. I’m reading words but nothing makes sense. i’m in a constant state of panic. Yet, I refused to get help because I felt like I was managing, barely. Pretty soon the panic attacks start, something I hadn’t experienced in nearly two years. The first one was during a lecture in War Mem. I was surrounded by five hundred people, and though it was a goo idea to check the notifications on my phone. Spoiler alert: It is never a good idea to check your phone during class. One notification liked me to an article that triggered me, very badly. Suddenly, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I made a run for the bathrooms just in time to throw up. I spend the rest of the class sitting outside in the cold with a tear streaked face, head spinning, trying to breathe. I still think I can handle it. I grab my bags and go on to my next class. And the next one. And so on. I had been so worried about relapsing into depression, I hadn’t realized how bad anxiety could be.
 
One night, I lay awake as usual, my thoughts spiralling out of control, and something different happens. My chest hurts. It was the strangest sensation and I’m not sure how to describe it apart from the fact that there seemed to be physical pain emanating from my chest. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My mind began racing - I didn’t know what was happening to me, and I found myself crying, confused and terrified. The pain in my chest didn’t seem to be subsiding and I was beginning to get light headed, probably because I was hyperventilating. My heart was racing, and it seemed like I was running out of air. That night, I was more scared than I have been in a long time. When I eventually calmed down, I realized that was the breaking point for me, and I needed to get help.
 
Having a conversation with my doctor, talking about the symptoms I had been experiencing for the last few months, really put things in perspective. I should have asked for help earlier. Why do we wait until the condition is physical to put importance to it? She told me I had generalized anxiety disorder, and it likely went undiagnosed because of the depression I had experienced previously. At that point in my life, the depression was so overwhelming, the symptoms of anxiety were probably overshadowed, or assumed to be caused by the depression itself. The medication I was taking probably also kept the anxiety away, until I had stopped taking it.
 
A few weeks later, I was sitting across from a new therapist, this time, talking about how to deal with my anxiety. During this process, I also realized I struggled with another condition - trichotillomania, and it had gone undiagnosed for the last eight years. While it was validating to realize what I experienced was a condition other people struggled with too, I was left upset. Something else to add to the list of things wrong with me. This is where my counsellor really stepped in and helped me. Through our conversations, I came to recognize that acknowledging my problems doesn’t suddenly make them real - they’ve been real all along. Acknowledgement means, I can allow myself to get help, and get better. Part of this process was also taking medication, which is something I really struggled with. To me, taking meds was like admitting defeat. It meant that I wasn’t strong enough on my own. It meant admitting that I had a problem, and being reminded of it every single day. I had worked so hard to get off the meds and get back to being myself the last time, I couldn’t help but be disappointed in myself. Even now, I can’t say I am comfortable with it, but I’m working on it. I’m learning to recognize that medication is a means to an end, and if it helps me get to a better place, it’s probably not the worst thing in the world.
 
I’ve finally got the anxiety under control. It’s a struggle, but I’ve got healthy ways of coping. I write. I draw. I allow myself to put my fears and worries down on paper and I turn them into art. I still have bad days, when I feel like everything is out of control. There are still nights I can’t fall asleep because my anxiety keeps me up, but these don’t happen very often. The anxiety is here where I like it or not. I don’t know if this will be a life-long struggle, and I’m learning to be okay with that.

The avoidance part is maladaptive, although you can see how these behaviours have positive aspects as well, such as living a healthy lifestyle or learning a new skill. Being busy can lead us to new experiences and take us out of our comfort zones, consequently helping us to realize the abilities we have and learning that our anxiety will not stop us.

On the other hand, busyness is a close friend with burnout. Like I said, busyness can be great, but without proper self- care, being busy can take a toll on our physical and mental health.

One week last summer I flew across the country, went to a concert, hiked almost 20km, had BBQs and dinners with friends and family, and spent 4 days at the Calgary Stampede. I was having a ton of fun, but it was one of those weeks where I just felt like I would never catch up. Each night, I worried about not being able to keep up with my friends and family the next day due to exhaustion. I thought maybe I could just say no to everything, and they would understand. But each morning I woke up, and succeeded in participating and enjoying the day ahead. Learning when to say no is extremely important- you have to do what is right for you when it is right for you. However, relearning how to say yes after you’ve gotten good at saying no can be equally as important. Avoidance of activities and triggers has the potential to lead to agoraphobia. It is important to be the boss of your anxiety and not to let your anxiety be the boss of you. Here are a few things that work for me.
 
When to say no: when you know you do not want to do something, or you are genuinely not feeling well enough to do it. Never feel pressured by others to do something you don’t want to do. Your life is yours, and no one else’s. You will feel incredibly empowered when you learn this two letter word that puts you in control of yourself. When you are genuinely not feeling well and need time for yourself, don’t hesitate to take the time you need to recover so you can take on the world later. When saying no, be honest with yourself and make sure it is really your desire to say no, rather than anxiety telling you to avoid something.

When to say yes: learning when to say yes may have to happen once you learn to say no. I got so good at saying no that I missed out on a lot of things I wanted to do- just because I felt a little anxious. If you want to do something, but you feel that anxiety is holding you back, do it! Again, it is important to distinguish between saying no because YOU want to, and saying no because anxiety wants you to. 

That week last summer, my brother wanted me to go to a concert with him and his friends. I contemplated and debated over and over until about an hour before, I just got dressed and left the house. I was anxious to go, but it was something I knew I would be sad to miss, so I dragged myself out of the house and had a great time. I was anxious here and there during the concert, but I was happy I took the leap and challenged myself to face some of my consistent triggers (crowds and alcohol). Saying yes can also be extremely empowering. 

One of the greatest lessons I have learned is that I can be happy and anxious at the same time. This took me years to figure out, having always framed anxiety negatively. When I realized anxiety could exist at the same time as positive emotions, I gained an acceptance of anxiety I never thought I would reach. It is okay to be anxious in moments when you are “supposed to be” happy. Anxiety, however, doesn’t need to be the dominant emotion in any given situation. When you feel anxious at an event, why is it that looking back you remember only the anxiety, and not the good feelings that likely also occurred? Instead of focusing on the negative, look back and say “I was anxious but…” and think or write about all of the positives about the experience. 

Even if the only positive you can think of is that you challenged yourself, you are on your way to positively framing experiences you may have appraised negatively in the past. This will not only help you to see the positives in your life, but will also help you to say yes to the things you really don’t want to miss out on by removing the fear that anxiety will ruin the whole event. If you remove the fear, you leave room for love and joy, and who doesn’t want a whole lot more of that?

By Alyssa Logan

Fall has always been one of my favourite seasons. The cool weather, the beautiful colours on the trees, and the falling leaves. But it also signals the beginning of my SAD (seasonal affective disorder) symptoms. I notice it’s first effects as I take my dog for a walk and realize it’s almost dark at 7pm. I see the leaves falling off of trees and know that soon it will be dreary, dark, and grey for the next six or so months. 

Mittens and hats, while warm and cosy, tell me that it will soon snow and become icy, my willingness to go outside and get fresh air will be gone. ​​I never thought I would be sad at Christmas, through my birthday, and the month long holiday’s between semesters. But that’s what SAD does to you. While others are out enjoying hot chocolates, skating and Christmas, I feel like I’m frozen in time.
 
With SAD comes this constant feeling of heaviness. I just want to spend my days alternating between sleeping, lying in bed watching Netflix, or sleeping. But anyone who suffers from depression knows that those things, while helpful in short doses, can be hugely detrimental if you do it for say, the months of November through to April. During these months I don’t really want to do anything, even things like reading or playing with my puppy. Everything feels sad and miserable, I can’t concentrate, I’m tearful all the time, and I feel utterly useless.
 
I am very moody during the winter, but worse, I am very, very shady. I am stuck in bed, ashamed of the fact that I make promises to friends I can’t keep; I start projects that I don’t finish; I make plans just to cancel them with friends that can’t handle my moods. I’m constantly saying

“I’m so sorry, I’m just too busy tonight. I have a lot to do.”

But in reality, that “something” is usually stuffing my face full of my favourite comfort foods (i.e mac and cheese, chips, bread), curling up in bed and staring at the wall, or crying.
 
Winter is a black hole, and this is how I deal with it.
 
When I’m faced with this spiral of stress, faced with guilt and helplessness, I begin to distance myself, miss classes/work/appointments and sleep all the time. My friends start to worry, or get fed up with my newly abrasive personality. And it happens every. single. fall. I wish for the days of sun, warm air, and sandals because I know that speciality teas, cute scarves and beautiful fall air just aren’t going to cut it this season. Instead, I spend my days hidden away, questioning what I am doing with every aspect of my life.

I want to scream, but I honestly don’t know if anything will come out. The energy it would take to form a word from the thoughts that are going on in my mind would just take way too much effort. Every little movement feels like my body weighs a thousand pounds heavier than it actually is.
 
The worst part isn’t that I am sad, stressed, fed up and angry, but because there is nothing I can do to fix it. I am a fixer. I spend hours talking to people who are struggling with their problems. I tell people everything is going to be okay. But in all honesty, I can’t tell myself these words. These problems cannot be fixed by me because I don’t really know what it is to begin with that is making me feel this way. I just know that there is a change that needs to happen in order for me to continue existing. Existing on these days is hard because I just want to fall back asleep and skip the entire day. I just want to tuck away all of the emptiness and lack of feelings I have for life, I just want to start fresh. I know that there is help, but as I see these feelings rising inside, I know that it will fade. The concept of therapy, medication, meditation, it all sounds too severe knowing that by April I’ll start to feel the warmth again.
 
I know that I will overcome these days. I know that I will survive, and that along with this survival will accompany learning about myself, about my strength and my power. So even though I know this struggle is hard, and it seems to be never ending, it always ends. These struggles come to a halt with the sun, with the spring. If they don’t, (and in the past they haven’t - this year I’ve been struggling consistently since January), I know I can get the help I need. That I am getting the help I need. I know that I am smart, and strong, and loved. I know that these gloomy days (internally and externally) will end. I know that I’ll survive this season, and you can too.

Our meeting was one of those moments of fantastical improbability that we often joked was one of the most absurd ‘how do you know each other?’ stories to be told. When I was a fresh, young first year in university having just settled back into my dorm room after a four hour trip back to school on a thanksgiving Monday, I remembered one of my favourite comedy troupes had dome a livestream the previous night that I had missed. She was in the live comment section trying to get us to join her latest project, a group chat for people who loved that comedy troupe. Ordinarily I would never have joined, but I was alone in my dorm on a holiday and I thought, “Why not?”

She was one of the first people I told when I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Still very unwell, experiencing a mixed episode which is essentially the worst of both mania and depression at the same time, she treated me like a normal person who wasn’t currently at war with their own mind. She treated me like a normal person, her bubbly, outgoing-self working wonders at distracting me from the chaos in my mind. She encouraged normal social interaction and we rapidly became study buddies over skype and Google hangouts. She eagerly told everyone who would listen how happy she was to have her Canadian friend, seeking the emigre life in Montreal far from her home state of Texas.

One night while I was helping her stay focused on her writing assignments, a task that had become a routine part of our friendship at that point, I came up with the term ‘Kat-sitting’ (inspired by my parents hiring someone to watch their cats while they were away) to describe supervising her essay writing to make sure she didn’t fall to the temptations of Facebook, YouTube, and Tumblr when she had a looming deadline. And she loved it, using that term from that day on for anyone who did the same thing for her.
The accident was sudden and I was immediately overwhelmed with a panicked sense of denial. ‘This can’t be real,’ I thought to myself, ‘Here is the post she made just seven minutes before it happened, she’s got to be back’. She was always such an avid social media user that the sudden radio silence that has followed has been deafening. There is a hole in my life where a person used to be and I couldn’t help but notice it was there, the thing that was missing. We will all leave that silent hole in the lives of those we love when it is our turn, big as the time left to know you are missing from our lives.

Losing a major support person can be a terrible blow to the ongoing maintenance of good mental health, and I am lucky to have had so many people looking out for me, some watching for warning signs of the return of depression while others were there to help me through, as happy days and sad days are a normal part of losing someone you love.

Thank you to my mother who held me while I cried my heart out, and our church sexton who held my hand when things were too much. To my dad who gave me a long hug and let me talk about my wonderful friend until everything had been said, to the boyfriend who drove out to sit on my porch with me at midnight while I tried to understand what happened and lamented all she and I would never do. And to the boss who understood that I was grieving and let me return full throttle to work in my own time, and that tears will come at inconvenient moments. Every piece of support helped me build myself back up after a devastating blow.

Kat, you never got to step foot on the soil of your beloved Canada, but we will always have that 1 nite 2 last 3ever.