This So-Called Life: My Struggles With Mental Health
IMPORTANT UPDATE
In the summer of 2016, a year and a half after writing this article, I was formally diagnosed by a mental health specialist with experience in the field as a “gifted” adult with an IQ in the 99th percentile. I was also diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder and Bipolar Disorder.
(This article provides a good overview of the challenges for gifted adults in the workplace, most of which I have experienced first hand.)
Much of what is written below should be considered in light of that diagnosis.
I am not deleting the article below or the associated CODA because I believe that it has value for anyone who has challenges with depression, anxiety, lack of self-esteem, etc. That being said, I expect that cognitive therapy adapted to giftedness will enable me to achieve new heights and that the difficulties described will become a thing of the past. Reading it now, I can say that the clues to giftedness — the character traits and the setbacks — are all there.
See this article for the latest:
It’s November 2014. I’m 44 years old. I’m wearing a pink bunny rabbit suit. I’m standing on a road bike. Ready to race a former professional hockey player up a hill. I’m wearing a knapsack with 20 lbs of quinoa and steel on my back. My wife is beside me, as always, ready to cheer me on.
How did I get here ? Do I even want to be here ?
It depends on the day you ask me.
Where should I start ?
For some of us there are no answers other than to make life as bearable as possible for as long as possible until that no longer works. For those of us where the medication and therapy have done all they can, and who cannot believe in any higher powers and struggle to find meaning in life it’s anyone’s guess when our coping mechanisms will stop working.
I chose not to have children and live alone for this reason. It’s tough enough for me to bear but it would be worse to add the feeling of letting others down by not being able to lift myself up. And, yes, only those who’ve walked in these shoes can ever truly understand these feelings. And that’s a good thing. I don’t wish these feelings on anyone. — User “ Zencat” on the Ars Technica forums, October 2014
I knew when I broke down crying at my office desk in 2000 following yet another panic attack that it was time to seek professional help. That was the first time I would describe myself as a broken man. I was 30 at the time.
I would go on to get professional help, swallowing whatever pride I had left to make that first phone call to a therapist. My self-confidence in pieces, the hardest exercise for me to complete was one where I had to lay a cord on the floor around me, indicating the space to which I felt I was entitled. Inevitably, the space I ‘drew’ was not very big. (It would eventually get bigger over time.) The activity provoked feelings of claustrophobia in me.
It is late December 2014. I am 44 now and broken again. I am broke too, making a grand total of $3 in the month. A panhandler who was lousy at panhandling could make that much in 15 minutes or less.
If I had to describe myself in one word … well, I couldn’t. Here are some one-word descriptions that come to mind: Floundering. Drowning. Freefalling. Surviving. No, I am definitely not surviving. That would be a significant improvement on the present.
I spent Christmas Eve of 2014—just a few weeks ago—telling my wife, as she lay in bed beside me, that I wished I had the courage to put an end to my life. It was not the first time I had openly discussed my desire to kill myself. Just the timing and context were different.
“I spent Christmas Eve of 2014
telling my wife that I wished
I had the courage to put an end to my life.”
Fast forward to late January 2015 and things don’t look or feel so bad.
For now.
I am actively deploying mechanisms to stay above the fray, to filter out needed distractions, including many where I would usually invest myself too emotionally.
Today is essentially Mental Health Awareness Day in Canada, also known as Bell Let’s Talk.
And I have mental health issues.
That I want to talk about.
They started early for me. Being born a good month ahead of schedule probably didn’t help the development of my young brain.
I ground down my teeth from stress as a young child and needed caps on most of my molars as a result. I wet the bed for many years after most kids my age would have moved on from such an unpleasant way of being woken. I went to see a psychologist during that time as well. Though my mom does not remember why, I can still clearly see the hallway of the building in southwest Calgary where we waited. I must have been 8 or 9 years old.
I was also incredibly hyperactive as a child, constantly talking, constantly fidgeting. Unable to stay still. Bouncing off the walls is how I recall it. Today we call it Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder or ADHD. (I was formally diagnosed with Adult ADHD in my early 30s.) As I have aged, the attention deficit has remained, waxing and waning based on fatigue. As for the hyperactivity, you should ask my wife, who likes to wake up on her own speed. Yep, it’s still there too.
“As an adult, in addition to ADHD,
I have dealt with severe depression, anxiety, and panic attacks that left me crying.
When I get too tired, I experience mild dyslexia and become even more hyperactive.”
In grade and high school, I would consistently rank in the middle of my class or much worse, despite being described as being one of the brightest by my peers and my teachers. I consistently received grades of C or D, so a grade of B for me was like an A+ for most others. Only as I got older and understood the nature of ADHD did I fully appreciate why I was having so many issues academically.
During in-class exams, particularly with open-ended questions, I would go off on horrible tangents by the 2nd or 3rd paragraph, and then scramble with the use of arrows drawn on the page, and re-writing entire sections, to provide some semblance of flow and logic. (Thanks to great memory I would usually ace the multiple choice sections.) And so I would usually end up with an overall grade of C even when I knew the overall material well. This continued through grade school and well into university.
However, it was only while studying towards my MBA, after being out of college for seven years, that I managed to finally understand what was going on.
When I had take-home exams, I would inevitably get at least a full letter grade better or more.
Why? Because I had the opportunity, without pressure of the clock, to put down and rearrange my thoughts. This was made easier by the use of a word processor in place of my atrocious handwriting.
“I somehow ended up with remarkable memory,
notwithstanding my brain’s daily acrobatics.
A talent for languages as well.
Is this the silver lining people talk about ?
What if I want(ed) less ?”
However the damage was done. A lifetime of under-performing in school, and failing out of my first two college degree programs, completely wrecked my self-confidence, not to mention my reputation. Friends and acquaintances began to look at me differently and I felt it. I began to wonder if I even belonged in college.
It was as I hurtled towards that second ejection from college that I fell into severe depression for the first, but definitely not the last, time. (I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder during the same testing that led to the Adult ADHD diagnosis.) I failed out of college, I was kicked off the student council executive for dropping the ball on some projects, and everything pretty much fell apart from there. Only my girlfriend, the woman who would one day become my wife, stayed with me.
“There is a pattern going on here,
one that I have continued all of my life:
Fall down. Pick myself up.
Dust myself off. Start over.
However, I just don’t know how long I can keep doing it.”
However, it was during my third attempt to secure an undergraduate degree that something clicked. I was working more than part-time while studying full time. How did I manage, with all of this mumbo jumbo in my head ? Not sure, to be honest. My theory is that I had so little free time that I had no choice but to focus and this need to focus allowed me to somehow override my usual impulses or dispositions.
Author’s note: If you have made it this far, congratulations. As for me, I am working incredibly hard to stay focused on the here and now. If you could see me writing this, you would be blown away as I scroll up and down the page, adding, moving, removing, rephrasing words, sentences and paragraphs. I want to finish this while it is still the Bell Let’s Talk day.
However my professional life has been a mess, marked by average stints of 18 months or less. My CV is not for the faint of heart. (And so I find myself retooling myself at great mental expense to pursue a career of consulting.)
I am impatient, I can become quite angry and I tend to see things much more black and white than others do. (The way things have gone to date with my brain, maybe there is some autism spectrum action going on as well.) I have dropped the ball in some cases, due to attention deficit, and in others I have blown my top and relations have never recovered. In recent times, I have informed my managers of my challenges, but that has not seemed to help in any way.
When I have had occasion to make presentations to the managers of my managers, I have tended to become anxious, to panic and then seize up. The dyslexia kicks in and I get dizzy and I come away having looked like a fool and having lost whatever argument I was trying to make or approval I was trying to secure. My perceived workplace effectiveness suffers accordingly. (In recent years, I have shown a bias for written communications where possible or canned presentations, in place of improvised or ad hoc discussions where I inevitably fail.)
In my defense — if one is to be accorded and you the reader shall be the judge — I would point out that I have never sought, asked for, or received the easy way out. I have never stayed in my comfort zone, personally or professionally, in spite of my battles with mental illness. In hindsight, a comfort zone or two might not have been such a bad thing for me.
In my most formative years, I often changed schools or programs long after friendships were made, so I know what it is like to sit alone in a crowded lunchroom or stand off to the side during a dance or cocktail. And to ponder my own existence, my own self-worth while doing so. My conclusions were usually negative.
I moved away at the age of 18 to Quebec City to live, work, and study in a different language, French. The first time I was kicked out of college, the divorce of my parents had exploded my world and school and homework were the last things on my mind.
The second time I was kicked out of college, it was because I failed the same calculus course three times. For most people, calculus is tough enough in one’s mother tongue, let alone in a second language. My problem was that I could not formulate my questions in French in a way that would enable me to be helped. And so I failed out of college again. I picked myself up. Dusted myself off and started over again. It took me 7 years of studying to complete a 4-year degree.
As an adult, I have never lived in an area where I had incumbent friendships or was part of the linguistic majority. With one exception, I have never worked in the same industry sub-sector more than once. So I have never had the ability to leverage a professional network for a soft landing or a fast start. I have always had to start everything over from scratch.
“I have never taken the easy road.
I have never followed the path most taken.
Yes, I have been faithful to me, to my values,
but the results are not what I would hope for.
In fact, I would not wish them on anyone.”
With one exception, I have never lived, worked and played in my native tongue, English, as an adult. And during that one time I functioned only in English, I could not stop thinking in French, which severely impacted my ability to communicate with my colleagues in English.
And so when I look back at what I have accomplished in spite of the hardship, I do feel some pride. But then I get an email from the professional social network, LinkedIn, announcing someone’s promotion or job anniversary, and the house of cards blows in again.
“My self-confidence is a very fragile construct.
What passes for bragging to some—various
accomplishments in running or cycling—is
in many ways my own amazement at that which
has eluded me in so many other spheres of life.”
I have been taking medication for over a decade now. An anti-depressant, it helps to even out the highs and the lows. I am no longer as hyperactive, or in an attention deficit, or as troubled by severe mood swings as I was. But yet I still experience all three. The anti-depressant just changes the range and use of adjectives to describe my state. I haven’t changed the dose in a decade, but I have thought about no longer taking one at all, an idea that I quickly banish from my thoughts. Things are tough enough as they are.
Somehow I managed to still earn 3 university degrees, including 2 graduate degrees that I completed while working full time. Regarding the latter two, I think the same phenomenon was at play as during my later undergrad studies—the lack of free time forced me to focus. I still managed to get married, to buy a house on spec, and to try to start a family during that first graduate degree.
In addition to French, which I studied from the age of 6 onwards, I have studied 3 more languages — Japanese, German and Spanish — and have taught myself to reasonably understand written Portuguese, Italian, and even Latin on most forms of public signage (including statues). I taught myself to read Cyrillic script and signs and menus during a week-long trip to Russia and Ukraine in 2013.
I also have managed to keep a pretty good talent for remembering things. I captained my MBA team to its first ever win in a televised trivia show based on content from The Economist magazine. I am also particularly evil at the Trivial Pursuit board game.
Nowadays when my wife asks me a question, I ask her if she wants the short answer or the “Ken” answer. The “Ken” answer invariably provides context to the context to the context of the answer. By the end of the second level of context, I have usually forgotten the question. I like it when my wife wants the short answer.
Fast forward to the last few years.
On any given day, my brain is a mess. And it is exhausted. Everything is a challenge.
I struggle to stay on an even keel. Like Goldilocks and the Three Bears: not too low, not too high, just right. I struggle to stay focused to overcome the attention deficit impulses. I struggle to keep my head above the metaphoric water.
I am exposed to constant depressing reminders online, though not from the humble-bragging or the pictures of babies, trips, or toys on Facebook. No. For me, it is the promotions, the new jobs, and even worse, the job anniversaries, that I see on LinkedIn that do it to me.
A simple promotion—an act of confidence in the future if there ever was one—or anything beyond 5 years of working at a given employer, irrespective of job or title, is a reminder of opportunity lost, of who I could be, of what I could deliver if I wasn’t in a perpetual war with my brain. And if someone could see both what I could accomplish AND the circumstances—over and above the challenges all would face to address the task at hand—that I deal with to bring a project to completion. Instead my CV and my LinkedIn profile portray me as someone who is unstable or does not know what he wants. The past controls the present.
“If I could have one thing, anything,
right here, right now,
it would be the benefit of the doubt.
I have never known that. Never.”
Right now, the one thing that saves me from a career perspective—and probably keeps me alive—is having projects. Paid projects that keep me financially afloat when I can. Personal projects when I can’t.
Physical fitness saves me from thinking too much about the worst as well. I have applied myself to running in part to accomplish that which my professional life has denied me as well as the balms for my brain that come from physical activity.
After losing 30 lbs of weight that I put on after college and learning how to manage my asthma, I have run 18 marathons since September 2009, including 5 of the 6 World Marathon Majors, with only the London Marathon left to go. I had the opportunity to realize one dream when I toed the line of the Boston Marathon in 2011. On a cool and very windy day at the TCS New York City Marathon in November 2014, I set a new personal best of 3:13:18 and grabbed another Boston Qualifier in the process. My goal is to run 60 marathons—my original goal was 50—by the age of 60 and right now I am ahead of schedule.
I have also taken up cycling, riding close to 30,000km in 4 years and actively seeking out rides of 200km or more with lots of climbs. I have a reputation for enduring suffering on the bike for long hours, even in bad weather.
Why am I talking about this now ?
The death of Robin Williams in the summer of 2014 hit me pretty hard. The “Tears Of A Clown” song writ larger than life. I wanted to write this article back then. But for some reason I did not.
Like me, Robin Williams was also hugely into cycling and he knew first-hand the benefits of riding his bike in terms of providing the brain with the chemicals that help to keep away, or override, depressing thoughts. I wish he had gotten on his bike that fateful day instead.
Then I wanted to write this article on December 31st to cap off an annus horribilis of my own. But for some reason I did not.
But that is not why I am writing about this now. The truth is that I can’t and don’t want to carry it around inside me anymore. I feel trapped by my past failures—my demons—no matter what I do. I am scared of making the same mistakes again in my next job, if I ever find one. The desire to end the pain once and for all is strong.
Hopefully this will at least help those around me understand who I am, my motivations, and my reasoning. With luck, it will provide others with the missing context when they evaluate my actions and my beliefs. “What do you mean Ken is unemployed … again !?!”
“When I reread this article, I want to cry.
When I look at pictures of me as a young man,
with his whole life in front of him, I want to cry.
I prevent myself from crying because
I am not sure that I could ever stop.”
I also no longer believe that talking about my own mental health can hinder my ability to find gainful employment. For most employers and HR professionals, my CV is enough of a minefield and a turnoff as it is, so adding mental health issues over top of it will not change anything. In any event, I am resigned to doing my own thing from now until I retire, if ever. The project-oriented approach of consulting most likely suits my brain better.
Finally, it is the right thing to do. To help others who are going through—or who have gone through—something similar. To let them know that they are not alone. To do my part to remove or to reduce the stigma associated with mental health issues.
Thank you for reading and for letting me share a part of my story with you.
Author’s note: Ultimately, my thoughts became scattered towards the end but I ran out of the ability to move them around the page and fill in gaps. In many ways, this article is representative of me.
Dedicated to my wife, Marie-Claude. Thank you for everything that you have ever done for me. I hope to offer you as much love and understanding as you have offered me over these past 22 years and counting.
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