northern

Happy Birthday to Me

Today I turn 37. I'm really starting to feel old.

I feel like I'm running out of time.

I haven't accomplished anything. Not even close.

Twenty years ago I had everything planned.

By my early twenties, I'd have my degree in political science.

During my twenties I'd get married to someone wonderful and have a couple kids.

I'd get my law degree and then pursue a career in constitutional law. Arcane, but fascinating to me.

I'd continue my involvement in politics.

By my thirties I'd be elected to either Parliament or the provincial Legislature.

By now, I'd be in cabinet. By now I'd be on the radar as a potential Prime Minister or Premier.

At the time, it didn't seem silly.

At the age of just fifteen, I was campaign manager for a candidate for the Legislature in a Toronto-area riding. Yeah, I needed my mom to drive me to to the office. But people relied on me, people looked to me for answers, for solutions. No, it wasn't a major campaign. It was for the Liberals, but in a riding with an immensely popular Tory MPP. So the candidate was more of a sacrificial lamb, someone for the diehard Liberals to vote for, with no realistic chance of winning. But it was still a serious campaign. Lots of money, lots of volunteers. And I helped run it.

When I was nineteen, I ran for Public School Trustee in the former City of North York (now part of Toronto). I must have already developed an affinity for political underdogs, because this time, I was the candidate with no real chance. The incumbent Trustee was well-known, and didn't have any real knocks against her. And let's face it, elections for school trustees aren't usually a hotbed of interest and activity. You have a budget that accounts for a huge chunk of the property taxes, but no one really cares. Especially since they're all interested in the higher profile races for mayor and council, and the fact that there was a federal election at the same time that year. Nonetheless, I was determined to either win or at least run a damn good campaign. I had a series of flyers distributed door-to-door throughout the ward, I had lawn signs all over the ward. It's the one time in my life that my dad actually supported something I did. He gave money to my campaign. He got other people to give money to my campaign. He got me an auditor for the books. Of course I realized that it was because for once, there was something about me he could brag about. He could point out the signs with my name on them throughout the area. He could show off my flyers. He could point out the tiny headshot in the newspapers. Nonetheless, it was appreciated because I had a professional campaign.

But candidates don't win because they have flyers or cool lawn signs (they were cool - black with white lettering - very different). They win by going out and knocking on doors. So despite my shyness, I did just that. I had experience from doing it in various ridings, in various elections, for various candidates, so I was pretty damn good at it. Several hours a day going door-to-door saying hi, getting my name out there, shaking hands.

I went to a few town hall meetings, the all-candidate meetings. The first one, I had a speech prepared. It was a great speech too. However, I was so fricking nervous, holding the sheets of paper, getting the words out. I figured I might have gotten a few sympathy votes. The next time, no speech. I just spoke. It went very well. Afterwards, I got a lot of voters telling me how much they enjoyed what I said, how much they agreed with what I said. Sadly, I also got a lot feedback that said I was too young, or that it wouldn't be right to elect someone as school trustee while they were still in school.

Election night, I didn't have any realistic hopes that I would win. Of course there was always that off-chance that somehow someway a miracle would occur. It didn't. I did get about 20% of the vote. Afterwards, looking at the poll-by-poll breakdown of the votes, I could see that I did quite well in the areas that I had gone campaigning in. So that felt good.

I would also be very active within the Liberal party, provincially and federally. I would hold a few internal party offices. Ran for a provincial office. Gave a great speech to a ballroom full of people one time. Continued working on elections for other candidates.

Meanwhile, I also had a girlfriend. And a job. I had a very busy schedule, and I thrived off of it. I put a lot of energy into a lot of things, and I seemed to build on that energy.

Mind you, not everything went well, I would drop out of Grade 13 (remember when Ontario had a fifth year of high school?) three times before giving up. I just wasn't interested. In Grade 12, my final mark for English for the term work was 3%. Yes, that's three percent. My final exam was somewhere around 80%, which was pretty good considering I hadn't done any of the work that whole year. I was skipping school for weeks at a time. Sometimes I'd stay home "sick", most days I'd head to school and either never arrive or leave part way through the day. I'd sit and read the newspapers for hours, then maybe see a movie, or just walk for ages. My teachers actually seemed to feel bad failing me, a few even saying as much in my report cards. Strangely though, the school never really bothered to look into my problems. After all, I wasn't a problem. I was a nice, well mannered, well behaved, intelligent young man.

So already there was this odd thing happening to me - I was being outgoing in some aspects of life, and becoming more and more withdrawn in other aspects. I suppose the fact that I found school gawdawful boring and politics fascinating may have had something to do with it.

Eventually though, I would burn out in politics. I wasn't even 25 and I was burnt-out. But it was more than that. Everything began to seem 'off'. No matter what happened, no matter what I did, it wasn't good enough to me. I would slowly start dropping things. I dropped politics. I had been a Vice President of a major medical charity. (Weird thing, I showed up at their annual meeting, talked with a bunch of people, expressed my opinions, and the next thing I knew they were nominating me for Vice President). But that faded away. I was the President of my local property owners' association, which was funny since I was living with my parents still - they were the property owners (Weird thing, I showed up a meeting of the association and the next thing I knew, they decided I should be President). That faded away too.

Things I had been passionate about, just seemed to fall away from me. I was single, and made no effort to change that either. In fact, I got a point where I basically didn't care about anything.

The only thing that was worth much to me was my social life. I actually had one. We'd go to goth clubs. Anyone remember places in Toronto like Death in the Underground or Sanctuary Vampire Sex Bar? Anyways, I was having a blast socially. Especially because I was hanging out with people having fun, not just hanging out with people I was campaigning with.

I did make one final stab at going to university (after a couple false starts). I went to York University as a mature student. I started in the summer, taking two courses, back-to-back, each for just five weeks or so, three hours a day. It was thrilling. The first course was an Intro Biology - all about genetics and reproduction. Absolute heaven. I attended every single class, read the textbook, took notes. I finally found school interesting. I got an A in the course. My first course in university, as a high school drop-out, and I got an A.

That's when things came crashing down.

The thrill lasted for a day or two. Then I was overwhelmed with depression. It was unmistakeable. I had no energy, I felt like crap emotionally. People describe depression with terms like "a black cloud". It's not like that. It's like a black cloud has not simply enveloped you, but has also drilled into your head the idea that you are literally utterly worthless, useless, meaningless. That if you were to die today, it's not that no one would notice, it's that the world would actually be a much better place without you. It's the knowledge that everything you've ever done is meaningless, that everything you think is thoughtless, and that anything you try to do is useless. It's the strong-as-steel conviction that you are less than trivial, that you are a waste of space, and nothing will ever change that.

Yes, it would appear that having finally experienced real success and happiness in school made me feel like dying.

I would be immediately started on medication. It quickly helped, at least a bit. I continued in school. Showed up at a meeting of an association for students with disabilities. Got a girlfriend and a job there. (It's very weird to me that I seem to be offered jobs or positions just by showing up and expressing myself. It's nice but makes me uncomfortable at the same time).

I continued in school until the following summer, when I dropped out. I also broke up with my girlfriend.

Life was becoming very confusing.

I ended up going on disability due to my severe depression. But I knew there was something more. I couldn't face it. Couldn't acknowledge it.

For a few years I had been fairly proud of myself because I was finally standing up for myself. I had spent my life as a doormat for other people. You could walk all over me and I'd grin like an idiot and say thank you. I was finally becoming more assertive. My psychiatrist agreed that this was a positive step, real growth.

I was living on my own. In public housing. In Regent Park. For people in Toronto, that says volumes. For people outside of Toronto, it means having to walk through crowds of drug dealers and crack whores just to go to the grocery store.

My mom, who had always been there for me, had moved up north to take advantage of cheaper housing and a lower cost of living. My brother hadn't spoken to me in years. My sister didn't even want to drive near my neighbourhood. My dad was a jackass to say the least.

I was living on my own in every respect. I had lost friends due to my depression. One friend was driving me crazy with his "cheer up" and "what do you have to be depressed about" stuff. And other friends I basically cut out of my life. I was too tired to do anything. I would alternate between sleeping for 18 hours and being wide awake for 24. I wasn't eating much. I stopped leaving my apartment unless I really had to.

I began to crack.

I could hear people outside my window. I couldn't hear what they were saying. And I lived on the sixth floor.

When I would leave my apartment, I would mutter nonsense under my breath. I'm not even sure it was loud enough for other people to hear. But it kept them from hearing my thoughts. When you see people out on the street, yelling at nothing, I think that's what they're doing, trying to calm their own mind.

I only told minor things to my shrink. Afterall, it's one to be depressed. That's an acceptable illness. It's another thing to be paranoid and hear things. That's just crazy.

It all came to a head in September 1996. Believe it or not, despite how incredibly long-winded I am, I won't go into details. Suffice to say, shit happened and I assaulted someone. I was certain they were going to kill me, and I had to stop them.

I was arrested and charged. I had to get my sister to post bond for me.

Within a few days, I moved to Elliot Lake, where my mom had moved to earlier. I needed help, and I needed quiet. I needed to get the hell out of the big city. I needed to get away from crowds.

I went back to Toronto a few times for court dates, and to see my psychiatrist. He started me on heavy-duty anti-psychotics. After the assault, I knew I had to tell everything. I knew I never wanted that to happen again.

In the close to ten years that I've been on anti-psychotics, my symptoms have been well controlled. I still hear things, but I can quickly dismiss them, and I know they're not real. Someday I'll describe the hallucinations and delusions in more detail, but not now. I actually tried to write some for this journal awhile ago, but it became upsetting, and frankly, it would probably disturb most people. Suffice to say, I would not wish schizophrenia on my worst enemy.

Once I moved here, I spent some time sleeping. I spent time relaxing. And yes, I spent time hiding from the world.

But I still had the internet. My connection to the world outside my apartment. I actually made a friend shortly after moving here, someone I met online. I would join a drop-in centre in town, more offically known as a psycho-social rehabilitation program.

Then I went to jail. I was convicted of assault causing bodily harm, and sentenced to one year.

I served six months and was paroled.

The parole board received letters of recommendation from a couple of the guards. Yes, highly unusual.

While I was "away" I was appointed to the board of the non-profit agency that runs the drop-in centre (geesh - this time I didn't even have to show up to a meeting and they appoint me to the board anyway).

When I was released, I was feeling pretty good actually. I got that horrible experience behind me, and found some energy. I would end up on the board of the local community legal clinic and be appointed by city council as a Trustee of the public library.

I was once again active. Not active socially, but active in the community.

The friend I made shortly after moving here would die after a horrible illness.

I would reconcile with my dad, and a year later he would die from brain cancer.

I dropped some of my involvement in community groups.

I have found that I walk a very fine line between my urge to contribute to society and my tendency to feel stress.

Stress is very bad for me. My depression has always been poorly handled by medication. I should say, not well-handled. I've never been suicidal. I guess it's just never been my 'thing'. I like to joke that I'm just too lazy to get up the energy to kill myself. Okay, so it's not that funny a joke. The anti-depressants have kept me out of the deepest of depressions, most of the time. But I am always very depressed.

I don't work because I know I can't make that kind of commitment. I know I can't handle that kind of responsibility. It would be so stressful, I would surely crack.

After a rest from some of my activities, I got active again. I would chair a committee that advises mental health programs in my area. That led me to a couple committees running mental health services across a few districts and running a psychiatric hospital.

That led me to sitting on a Human Services and Justice Coordination Committee that handles the intersection of the mental health, addictions, and developmental sectors with the justice and corrections sectors. In other words, when people with a mental illness, addiction, or developmental disability get in trouble with the law. One local committee covers a couple districts, and I'm also on the committee that covers all of northeastern Ontario. It's nice sitting at the same table as cops, judges, jail superintendants, psychiatrists, psychologists, and so on. And feeling like I'm making a difference.

Although I've spent many years online, and it's been a lifesaver of sorts, a connection to other people, I've never really been particularily socialable online. I've met people online. I met my best friend online many years ago. But I haven't actively socialized.

Until a few months ago when I joined a porn site that turned out to be so much more than pictures of naked women.

When I say I have few friends, it's because I set a very high bar for friendship. I have to be able to connect on many different levels with a person in order for me to truly feel that they're a friend. When I say I have no social life, it's not that I don't do anything. It's that I don't do anything with other people simply for the joy of doing it. Different people have different definitions of words like 'friends' or 'social life'. Mine are quite strict. I know a lot of people. I know a lot of people who would probably speak highly of me. But that doesn't make them friends. I do a lot of things in the community, but that doesn't mean I have a social life. Someone here recently implied that friends you make online aren't real friends. I think I know what they meant. But I think it's quite possible to make real friends online. Of course, at some point, you break that computer barrier and talk on the phone, and if possible, meet. There's already one person here who has become a real friend to me. There are a couple more where the potential is there. I don't think that everyone on my friends list is an actual friend. And I don't take everything here all too seriously. But sometimes I do, and some people I do. Just like the real world.

As I get older, and realize how little I've managed to achieve in life, at least compared to what I had hoped, I find that this site has actually helped me. Yes, it makes me feel kind of old when I look at the ages of most of the people here, but it's also breathed new life into me. I'm making, by some definition or another, friends. And I'm finding that's carrying over into the rest of my life. I'm slowly but surely starting to regain some of the confidence I used to have, some of the social skills I used to have. I don't know how far along I'll get. I don't know if I'll manage to get that wife and kids. But for the first time in a long time, I'm feeling positive about things.

If you survived reading all of this, I thank you, and hope I haven't made you worry about talking to me. Even if you skimmed this, I thank you. If you gave up near the beginning, and skipped to this final paragraph - blah! to you.