On Anxiety-Being and Me

This is me-at this moment writing on anxiety

Being away I realized there are things at home I thought I needed and things I wanted; confusing the two at times.  I need love.  I want love.  I have love. What I had thought to be at most two and a half days here may end up being three and a half days.  I have grown here in ways that I may not even realize but still I falter.  My eyes glazed over from hiding my tears on the westbound subway.  My eyes directed at the floor of the subway train; the floor cleaner than I had ever imagined.  So many people sitting on the red velour seats or standing; resting their hands on the shine chrome metal poles.  People standing as I sit; head down-close enough that they brush up against me.  My whole body feels like a giant heart beat.  I feel as though my body is trembling; much like delicate branches on a willow tree.  I look up and hear my subway stop called.  “Next stop St.George Station. St George Station”  I hold my bag close to me and quickly exit the subway car and onto the concrete platform and up the marble steps onto Spadina Street.

“You go ahead. I am going to sit up by Casa Loma” I manage to say

As he headed to school, I quickly walked up Spadina and took the Baldwin steps up to Casa Loma; threw my bag to the ground; tucked my knees up to my chest and cried; letting it all out.

I leaned my back against a tree barren of any leaf buds.  A tree likely older than Casa Loma itself.  I sat there thinking I just wanted to be home; when what I really want is to be better.  To be able to not walk with my head down. Rather; to hold my head high and say “you are not a bad person. Not everything is your fault and not everything in the world is in your control.

It is 8 am the second day here. The wind is blowing towards me from the lake.  Even with my sweater on I am chilly.  I have forty five minutes until my day here starts.  I look down the steps and see bustling Toronto, the CN Tower and so many office and condo towers. Huge cranes creating even more buildings.  I see the subway station I arrived here on and as I take the scenery all in; all I wish for is to be better.

I walk to get a coffee from the campus Tim Hortons; Adam Lambert blasting in my ears “For your entertainment”.  I wait at the traffic lights at Davenport and the street the college is on.  I am in my own world now; waiting for the walk signal, bouncing my feet in rhythm to the music.  I get a coffee and leave.  I need one good pen.  Half of what I write here is in orange ink and the other is in teal blue; some so very faint.  I hope I remember all I wrote.  All that I felt and feel at this moment.  I am waiting in the hallway now; feeling like I am waiting to be called into the principals office.  I used the bathroom and looked into the mirroe  to see if I saw was what others may see.  My eyes were still glassed over but there were no visible tears.  This time. There have been times my tears have escaped at the most inopportune times. Interviews. Riding public transit.  There is more to all this than what I write or may say.  Maybe if I told someone I would get all well.  Perhaps though; they would judge me more or think less of me.  We all hold something back.  I am a good person; or so I keep telling myself. It is the believing it that is difficult.  I have done good things.  I don’t have to advertise them all.

So; I put everyone above me; yet I feel lower than anyone else.  My body is still shaking and I feel like I may throw up.  I try to find out why I am like this.  I read what I write; but still I am none the wiser.  My eyes feel cold. My vision blurs; starting from the peripheral and then closing all around me. On the cusp of tears.  This is written for me; yet I choose to share what I write.  Parts of it. God knows there is stigma attached to mental illness.  I write for me and maybe you; hoping you get just a small grasp of what I and so many others contend with.  No ! I am not always “feeling blue” or “glum”. No I cannot “just smile”. It is like a lion waiting on its prey.  At first it is lying in wait-then pounces.  Pity me ? No ! Just try to understand me and others.  Let me cry-let others cry if the need be.  Try to educate yourself and others about mental illness. Do not label us as “crazy” or “psycho” Accept us. I function in so many aspects of life. Not all; yet I am still me. The me you should know. The me I live with.

The sun is trying to break on through the clouds.  What an analogy for life !  The CN Tower rises above all else around it.  The sun has finally broken through the gray feathers of cloud.  It warms my hands and as odd as it sounds, my heart.  A half empty cup of coffee; no longer hot sits on the step below me.  Maybe it is half full.  Funny or not how things get me to re-think some of my perceptions.  A flock of pigeons struts on the sidewalk below me; much like the Butabi brothers in “Night at the Roxbury”; then again I think the pigeons did it first.  Maybe they want the crumbs of my stale chocolate Danish.  I dump the crumbs from the tan paper bag beside me; wondering if they will be brave enough to take a spot beside me on the seventh step from the sidewalk.

One by one; in quick succession they flock beside me fighting for the last crumb.  They stay; waiting for more but I have no more to give. I have no more to give.  I am almost tempted to go buy another just for them but I think maybe what I thought to be a gift to the pigeons was anything but.  Maybe my “kindness” is causing harm.  Seeing I have nothing left to give; they leave. 

Clouds move in again.  The warmth has changed again to a cool breeze.  The sun takes refuge behind the clouds.  I know the sun will return and “it” will too.  This thing called “it”.  A feeling. The feeling much like a cool breeze or cloud taking over the sun.  The “it” so many have and the “it” others, perhaps know or seemingly care nothing about. “It” is my “soul tsunami”

I could very well be a poster boy for mental illness.  At face value I may appear to be a well adjusted and focused guy who “just loves to smile”.  A clown?  Painted on smile?  A veil of laughter shading tears both shed and un-shed.  I’ll say Hello, ask how you feel and perhaps even give you a hug but how do I feel?  I never know.  How I could feel could change as quickly as the sun is overtaken by the clouds.

I have an anthem I listen to. I listen to it everyday; several times a day.  It too makes me cry; but cry different tears.  It is a song called “We are not Broken” and sung by Jake Walden. A man who really understands what “it” is. With Jakes permission I am adding the lyrics to the end of this.

Gone to lunch with the dental student.  Why did I say yes to being the students “exam subject”?  Life is mysterious.  Maybe I will learn more about myself and “it” by being here in Toronto where I walk faster than normal. Not normal; usual!  What is normal ?! Where the subway is cleaner than I had thought.  Maybe I will learn more about me and maybe I will still wonder why and what triggered it.  There are days when I can talk to new people I meet; yet there are days I do not want to talk to people I already know.  There are days on end that I could stay inside my room wishing there were no windows.  Sometimes I feel like the whole world is watching me “waiting for me to screw up”; yet there are days when I think the world does not notice me.  They only notice “it”.  Can they see “it”? Even I do not know when it will rear its ugly head.  Some say they see it my eyes.  They see my eyes “glass over and am ready to cry. What’s wrong?  “  It doesn’t help because “what” is “it” and “what” and “it” I do not know.

I want to come back here on my own accord. I want to come back with my partner.  I want to take the subway back to Spadina; walk up Bloor, turn right at Honest Ed’s and perhaps; yet again get lost in the vast expanse of floor space.  I want to go back and see if “it” will find me; take the wind from my sails and falter; but I will get back up again !!  Hoping I win the battle with an “it” I cannot see or define; other than being “IT”. I want to go home. At earliest it will be tomorrow night but I may have to wait until Thursday.  I have a wedding to go to Friday.  Even though it is family ; I am nervous and afraid “it” will come out and I will flee the wedding.  Even family cannot understand and some do not want anything to do with “it”

Last night I sat in the backyard of the condo; just looking up into the night sky counting stars; yet losing track of both time and the stars. In solitude.

After the subway ride back being swarmed by a classroom full of kids out on some school excursion; I needed my personal refuge.  I ate some corned beef and beans and tried some pepperocini peppers.  Much like an olive taste but surprisingly I liked it better.  I went back and sat outside until my eyes grew heavy; nodding off at times.  I slept but even in sleep; “it” was there.

I woke up at 6:30 or so, grabbed a coffee from Timmy’s and went back to the condo.  I could not get in.  I had no security card to access the building.  I waited until a tenant went in and disappeared around the corner.  I threw my satchel ; preventing the door from completely closing.  I feel guilty about this but I had to get in to get my suitcase. I am going home today ! I am glad about that but I wonder if “it” will be there waiting for me.  Maybe “it” follows me.  Maybe I just have to stay one step ahead of “it”.

I am in the northbound subway to St George station, riding solo amongst other shoulder to shoulder passengers.  It is sweltering hot in here or maybe it is just my anxieties.  It smells like a department store cosmetics counter, or maybe a bordello; not that I have been or had an inclination to go to one.  Colognes mixed with ladies perfumes. Aromas of coffee,cheese bagel and onion from the guy literally breathing down my neck behind me. Dog breathe ! An elderly man holds a miniature poodle with miniature bows in the ears. The dog ! Not the man wears the bows.  Conversations are a cacophony of noise. Much like a bee droning.  Maybe I could bottle it all up and call it Parfum de TTC

I am at St George Station now.  I step out onto the platform looking for the next subway.  I would rather just guess which one is mine than ask anyone for directions, but this is Toronto. I do not want to be stuck underground so I ask a few people but they do not seem to understand English. I begin to think that maybe they just do not understand me. 

“You want the Northbound ‘mon. DuPont is the stop after Spadina.  Always an adventure in Toronto ‘mon.  Enjoy your visit “ a man said in a thick Jamaicaan accent before he quickly stepped onto the Southbound train.

I am back where I was yesterday; sitting yet again on the seventh step from the edge of the sidewalk of George Brown College.  I shake my pen because the ink is fading. “No ink in your pen” I hear.  A pen landed beside me.  I looked to the top of the stairs and said Thank You to a guy sitting on a bench.  The pigeons are not around.  It is overcast and the breeze has returned but somehow “it” is not around. For now.  My coffee sits on the step above me; now cold but I continue to sip on it.  Sometimes when “it” isn’t around I look for “it”; not wanting to find “it” but wondering what makes “it” come.  “it” has no face.  I know “it” is anxiety and depression.  I know “it” is difficult to understand and “it” can sneak up.  “It” is dark,lurking and looking.  Some people do not believe “it” exists; nor do they want to know anything about “it”.  “it” is as diverse as the people it preys on; sucking life out of them.  People have told me; “Joe. You just don’t like people…You are socially inept…You are afraid of your own shadow…That’s life ! Suck it up buttercup…You are hyper-sensitive…” among other statements directed at me.  I love people. Please don’t get me wrong.  I do not always agree with the morals or lack of morals of some people. When I see a person I see the world in them and when I think of the world; I see them in the world. It makes sense to me. Try to digest that. I think if I see bad in a person then there is bad in the world. I have no control of the world. I tend to over analyze and over think; or maybe others don’t analyze or think. I care too much ? or maybe others do not care enough. I read what I write and tend to re-think even that.

There are times when I can ask for directions or just make small talk but there are times I will not. Maybe “it” is my shadow.  Maybe then I am afraid of my own shadow. The shadow that comes to steal the mischievous glint in my eye and the smile on my face.  So too, the love and soul in my heart.

The sun is warming up. It is almost 10:40 am and I have been here since 9 am.  My coffee is empty and my Tim’s Card is at zero.  I stand and stretch my legs.  “Nice bum- where you from ?!” I hear.  I see someone quickly look away.  I am off the market but smile to myself thinking “too funny”

Other than wait on appointments I haven’t done much here but yet I have done a lot. Thinking.  Writing. Writing a lot more than I thought I would.  Darn ! I have used a lot of pens through the years writing all this gibberish down.  It would be so much easier to do it on a laptop.  Still; I like the feel of the pen in my fingers seeing my thoughts have some permanence.  It would be so much easier not to have to go through what now stands at fourteen pages, double sided and single spaced and wait on a library computer to save it all.  I think my writing is okay.  I think I convey my thoughts and what I sense.  Maybe my grammar is a bit askew; but then again so am I.  “it” comes to me quickly.  Starting off as a light heart beat but soon beating loudly; coursing through my body.  My feet feel as though they are not touching the sidewalk below me.  My neck stiffens and a headache and topsy turvy stomach almost always follow.  If “it” finds me when I am walking, I will often sit down as though I am going to pass out.  Whispers seem like screaming.  If I am on a bus and “it” appears I will get off the bus and continue to walk to my destination; sometimes miles away.

I will most likely read all this back; think of editing some out; but hopefully not.  Do not pity ! Try to understand.  Do not knock me down.  Try to build me up. Not just me but others . Some do not always get through it.  Some sadly take their own lives before “it” takes away everything. I have not reached that point.  Hopefully with others and my own inner voice I won’t.  I have admitted in past writings some of the things I have done to myself.  To not write about them; it would be like it wasn’t a part of “it”.  I had to let it out and write about “it”. I was a self-injurer.  I cut to “alleviate” ther pain of “it” hoping it would go away and never visit me again.

Almost done here.  Back on the Greyhound to Cambridge. “It” doesn’t need a bus ticket to ride. Hopefully it misses the bus .  Hopefully. I hope.

Waiting in the hallway with my back against a wall of industrial gray lockers; feeling as though I am going to pass out.  My head feels light-unattached from my body.  Pins and needles. Cold. I feel cold even though I have my Spring jacket on. There is a bench here.  A brown wooden bench. Gum under it. I see it from here,crouching.  There are other people waiting.  There is room for one more on the bench but I crouch here; my back against the lockers.  Myeyes are fuzzy.  Losing focus. Why ? Oh how often I ask why and no answer awaits. Only “it”

The bench is now empty and I take a seat. “It” is still there with me.  “Find a new place !”  I think; thinking of “it” but I don’t want it to control anyone else. I would sooner bear that weight.

Southbound on the subway. This subway smells new and not at all like Parfum de TTC.  I have sitting room and room for my suitcase.  I could get of St Patrick station and walk two blocks east but I suck at directions so I’ll find my way around Union Station and hopefully find out where I get the Greyhound out of here.  Not as easy as getting off at Union Station. Being a newby in Toronto I asked and received different directions.  Eventually I was at Bay and Dundas, just past City Hall.  An older construction worker walked me from City Hall . “a good person like you will be eaten up by Toronto-too big for you-too big” he said in a thick Portuguese accent.  He opened the door and walked me to the waiting area; tossed me a bag of cheese corn and headed back out and up Bay Street. Was it up or down Bay Street ? My directions suck.  The buildings of paned glass towered over me like monsters from some B grade movie; ready to eat me up and spit me up.  It is too fast paced for me.  For the three people I managed to ask for directions; so many others were too busy to answer me.

Twenty minutes to two and I am going home.  Maybe if I get on the bus quickly enough, “it” will remain here to be eaten up by the city of towers.

Fresh smelling bus upholstery. Leg room and I can rest my head.  We are off !  Heading down the highway.  I smile but feel a single tear in the corner of my left eye as I look once again at the city of glass paned towers.  With my right eye, I looked out the window of the bus and saw people below me waiting to get on the bus.  They looked smaller than myself.  I didn’t feel so small for once.  People are walking past the empty seat beside me.  They see the empty seat; yet they walk to the back of the bus.  Maybe; as well as seeing me, they see “it”.  Drove past the new Trump Hotel. Lots more glass but all I think is what an exhorbitant waste.  On University and Wellington, more glass buildings.  I see the CN Tower.  It stands above all others; yet when I think of it, it is like a needle in a haystack of metal and glass.  I wish “it” too, would get lost..yet it will be back-but for now I smile.  I look at the sun as the buildings of glass are all behind me now and set my journal into my satchel and rest my head; trying to clear my mind.

Joe Lethbridge written over 3 days while in Toronto in early April 2012

This morning

this morning as I stood outside my apartment it was quieter than usual; even for my street on a Sunday.  To the right of me I watched a robin perched in a shrub; looking at me;almost as though I was his audience.  To the left of me and above i seen the bright sliver of sun slowly overtaken by the wisps of grey-blue clouds.  |I could see no one else around, It was 8 am and not a soul to be seen.  I had no need for a jacket. I only wore a button up shirt and jeans of course.  The robin continued to look my way and sing.  The sun escaped the cover of cloud and the air around me warmed up.  Not a flake of snow on the ground.  Damp lawns; yet grass so green. My mind went to one thing. The robin and the sun allayed my fears.  Fears of homeless people falling asleep outdoors. Falling asleep in freezing temperatures; perhaps never to awaken.  The sun renews my hope; and teh robin?  Perhaps he sings a celebratory song of spring.  Hope is renewed.

I write about nothing

People have told me that even when I write about “nothing”; my words come to life and convey my feelings.  For the past month or so I have invested most of my time into making beaded jewellery.  A few pieces came to light from poems or lines from stories  that I have written.  Have I missed writing?  Definitely.  I didn’t think I had anything in me to write about; so my notebook stayed in my yellow nylon satchel; along with some of my beaded creations.  Tonight, my partner and I broke a wishbone from a chicken we had baked for Easter.  It is said that the one who breaks the biggest part of the wishbone can make a wish.  So I made a wish in silence.  I have made wishes on shooting stars seen while camping.  I have made wishes on the brightest star that I have seen in the night sky and on the first star I have seen but I have never wished on a wishbone.  My wish will remain just that. A wish.  A hope.  One of so many.  I have been denied ODSP yet again for my anxiety and depression but I am not sure if I can handle it all.

The “me” writing this is almost entirely different than the “me” you would meet face to face.  In person I am awkward, nervous and jittery and it would likely be you who carries on the bulk of the conversation. I am not a wordsy person. I can be socially clumsy.  The “me” here now; writing this is more at ease than the “me” you may see in a café, carrying my coffee with both hands; yet still managing to slop coffee from the cup onto the floor; thinking that everyone in the café is staring at me thinking “What a goof!”

Both “me” here and “me” not in front of my journals admit to having low self confidence.

Why do I write? Sometimes I have no idea.  Sometimes; even I will read it and wonder where it came from.

My wish? I cannot say. Let’s just say I cannot wish to be the “me” here rather than the “me” grabbing a coffee to go from the café.

Some people love me either or both ways.  All I know is that I love to write.

Now I have to figure out who “I” is

Joe Lethbridge April 12 2012