Stigma Fighters Canada

Where does it really begin? That’s the million-dollar question. I’m pretty sure the doctors and therapists consider the beginning as the date of diagnosis – which was September 2005. But then some doctors reflect back to my teen years (when I had a rather manic episode) as the origin of the illness. But then again, still, there was that 1997 depression after my baby died inside me (what they call a missed abortion). And then, finally, there is the beginning that really changed my life. That began in the Spring of 2004, a year and a half before diagnosis – a year and half before meds.

The two years between 2004 and 2006 were blissful and exciting – for me anyway – but certainly not for those around me. I was manic for two years. True to the textbook. My children were young: 5 and 10, so they went to bed early. Once I had them in bed and tucked I proceeded to get ready to go out. Fix my hair, freshen my make-up, maybe change my clothes. I bid my husband good-bye and went off to meet one of my two best friends at the time (that’s a story in itself). I remember a wild trip to New York City where I proceeded to buy $600 in books, struggled to get them into my suitcase, and underwent a personal body inspection by security trying to get back into Canada. There was so much erratic behaviour and so many spending sprees.

My one friend, I’ll call her Susan, and I were writing a book together. It was a non-fiction textbook and was later published and is still used in colleges across Canada. Most nights I would meet Susan – we worked hard on the book. However, as my mania grew so too did my inability to predictably work on it. Sometimes the mania caused me to be incredibly creative and driven, but other times my mind raced from one thought to another so quickly I could not focus. Then the down days started. I was rapid-cycling, actually ultra-rapid-cycling (cycling from day to day). On the down days there was nothing I could do to work on the book. Some days I didn’t even get dressed or leave the house.

I started to miss days at work. It was a fabulous job, and I loved it. It was the perfect job for someone who was manic. It was full of responsibility and authority and I ate it up. The work itself was fast-paced and high volume. And I had all the energy I needed to keep up. I was completely on my game and the office ran like a charm. Then, again, came the down days. I couldn’t focus at work. All I could think about was doom and gloom. I was exhausted. I closed the door to my office and avoided contact with everyone. I barely managed to complete the key tasks of my job. I couldn’t think clearly and it was a challenge to make decisions. Concentrating was impossible. And I just felt so sad. The worst came when I actually started crying at my desk. My assistant, obviously aware of my state of mind, went and got my supervisor. Lucky for me, my supervisor was a caring and compassionate woman, eager to help however she could. She talked me out of my tears and sent me home. That was not the last time that happened. The cycling from mania to depression continued. Somehow I managed to do the bare bones of my job.

On my “good” days, as I would call them, but really they were just pure mania, I was on top of the world and could do no wrong. I was always busy and full of energy. Because of the mania my mind would race and often be confused. My judgment was definitely impaired. My evenings with Susan began to get shorter as my ability to function decreased. After brief sessions with Susan, I would skip out and meet up with another friend, I’ll call Lori. Lori and I would hang out at the local coffee shop – sitting in our car, drinking tea, listening to music and smoking up. We talked and laughed for hours. Sometimes we would take the car out for joy rides. I would drive fast and recklessly – but it was fun to both of us because of the state we were in. Lori was a lot of fun and she fed into my mania. She encouraged me to come out at night and drive around. I was an easy target. As time progressed, I spent less and less time working with Susan and more and more time hanging out with Lori.

Susan became concerned with me and had started doing some research on the computer about me. She was typing in words like “mood,” “up,” “down,” etc. And what she often saw was something called Manic Depression, today referred to as Bipolar Disorder. The next time I saw Susan she brought this up to me. I read the material she had researched and had to agree that it sounded like me. To cut to the chase, Susan and I were seated in my doctor’s office where I was referred to a psychiatrist. My first psychiatrist. I’ve lost count of how many I’ve had. This was in September of 2005 and the psychiatrist diagnosed me with Bipolar Disorder, started me on a medication regime, and wrote me off work.

It became time to write the edits for the book – I couldn’t handle that. I was either too high or too low. There was no in between. I was ill. Susan did the edits without me and the book eventually proceeded to publication. I continued to party with Lori. The meds took the edge off but didn’t really fix anything. I ended up back at work – on again, off again. And the med changes and adjustments were frequent. I could hardly keep up with them. I was preoccupied with sexuality. I flirted with everyone – especially those that flirted back. My looks changed. My clothes changed. I changed.

Let’s say I was inappropriate at work. My behaviour was off the wall, and eventually came back to bite me. I escaped with emotional bruises and ended up on long-term disability. That was a gift because I was headed toward losing my job. And that would have had a huge financial impact on my family. I remain on disability today.

Then an awful thing happened – what ended up being a huge trigger. Susan e-mailed me that I hadn’t pulled my weight with the book – but worst of all, that she couldn’t be my friend any more. Susan and I had been friends for 17 years. We were best friends. The kind of friends who sat beside each other on a bed and independently worked away, yet were together. We walked into each other’s houses without knocking, and we spoke several times a day on the phone. Susan was a huge part of my life. She left. I crashed. Huge. My lifestyle changed drastically. I went to bed and stayed there for two years. It was the deepest depression I’ve ever had.

By now, my children were 8 and 13 – a little more self-sufficient. My husband had to pick up the pieces of managing the house and caring for the kids. They would bring me food to my bed. The kids would sit and read with me. The bathroom is an ensuite so I didn’t have to leave my room for that. I only had to leave to go to the kitchen, and that wasn’t very often. Somewhere along the way I lost Lori too. I don’t remember what happened there, (memory is a huge issue) other than she couldn’t handle my illness. I was also devastated about that. I lost most of my friends. It was a sad time. I slept about 18 hours a day. When I was awake, all I did was listen to music. It seemed to numb the pain.

After one psychiatrist closed her practice, and we were travelling three hours to another, my husband finally found me a new psychiatrist – actually the head of psychiatry at our local hospital. Quite the coup. He was a life-saver. He convinced me to stop self-medicating. He started me on a new med cocktail and saw me weekly. Not only did he prescribe medication to me but he counseled me as well. He was a real gem. He tweaked the meds up and down, adding new ones from time to time, until eventually – about five years later – we had fallen upon a cocktail that actually worked.

I was dressing, bathing, eating, and getting out of my room. Then I actually started leaving the house. Over the next year my confidence grew, I lost weight and started writing again. I created a blog where I write about bipolar disorder. I have written my first fiction novella and hope to have it published. My psychiatrist has moved away, but he left me in the hands of another, one who seems equally thorough and qualified. I know how fortunate I am for that. I also know how lucky I am to have such a supportive family. It’s been a lot of hard work. I’m left with some cognitive impairments, anxiety, and I still have some pretty dark days, but I think I’ve made it through to the other side. I’m starting to see a better life ahead. A better life with Bipolar Disorder.

In October of 2004, I was the first police officer on the scene of a fatal motor vehicle collision. Within the first few minutes of being at the scene, I quickly discovered that the seriously injured driver was a close friend. He died in my arms as I was performing CPR on him. I also had the responsibility of telling his wife, who was just about to give birth to their first child, that he had died and the circumstances. It was the worst night of my career.

In the days immediately following, I coped the way that many first responders cope with stress and trauma – with alcohol and a strong desire to bury the experience. I didn’t get any after-care at the time, didn’t explore the experience and the feelings it created, didn’t let anyone know what I was going through. I told myself it was part of the job, something that a cop should be able to deal with, and locked the demon away in a cage way in the back of my brain.

Basically, I did everything wrong.

Over the next few years, I buried myself in work, striving for promotions and accolades and seeking acceptance and redemption through success at work. At home, however, I systematically pushed away my family and friends, creating a bubble around myself, living with the fear, the guilt, the anger, and the despair. I cut myself off from the people who were in the best position to help me. At work I was cool, calm, put together. At home, I lost my temper, raised my voice, and was a less than ideal dad and husband.

I equate it to masks. At work, I had one mask on that hid everything nice and neat and gave everyone the impression that I was in control. At home, my real face came out, and it was an ugly, hurtful thing. It tears at my heart that my sons will have the memory of their dad during those years as being detached, angry, and isolated. They deserved better and I have done everything I can to explain to them what PTSD is and what it did to me, and to repair my relationship with them and my wife.

And on that topic….my wife would have had every reason and right to leave me several times. But she didn’t. She stuck with me, picked me up when I was down, kicked my ass when I needed it, and came through the hellish days with me. We’ve grown closer than we ever have been and our marriage has become stronger because of the tests we faced together.

For a while, I turned to alcohol on a daily basis to cope. It was so much easier than dealing with the blackness, and I finally got into a spiral that ended with a complete breakdown about 4 years ago. I was done physically, emotionally, spiritually, and mentally.

I finally admitted that I had a problem and began seeing an excellent psychologist who specialized in PTSD treatment for first responders / military. I let the walls fall down between myself and my friends and family, which let me start to make amends and rebuild relationships I had come close to destroying.

I fought the battle for workmen’s compensation and got it. I rebuilt my reputation at work and ‘came out of the closet’ about my PTSD.  I became a very vocal advocate at my workplace and began to help guide other officers through their own struggles with trauma and rebuilding.

Now, a few years later, I’m in a very good place. I’ve created Project Healthy Heroes, which has allowed me to start speaking about my experiences and training first responders and civilians about PTSD, resiliency, and getting through trauma with your mind and body intact; and to work with first responders to heal from their PTSD naturally through taking care of their bodies and letting the mind follow. I even made a video about my battle that went quasi-viral on FB!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KAl5PIDBdvQ&sns=em

What I want people to take away from my story is that there IS life after a PTSD diagnosis, if you’re willing to fight for it. You can continue to do the job you love, you can rebuild your ties to family and friends, and you can actually become a greater, better person through tapping into strength you never knew you had.

Earlier, I compared PTSD to a demon. Sometimes, the demons rattle the cage you lock them in and you can fight back and keep them locked away. Sometimes, though, they get out and tear through your brain and you do stupid, dangerous, self-destructive things to make them go back in their cage….or at least lay down for a bit.

You can beat the demons. You can fight them and keep them locked in the cage. Eventually, if you get strong enough, you can even kill them.

But you have to be willing to take them on. The day you can do that is the day your life starts to change and you begin a hero’s journey back to the person you used to be. It’s not an easy fight, but it is one that may save your life. I know my PTSD will always be part of me (but not define me!) and every day is a battle of one type or another for myself.

“You can’t patch a wounded soul with a Band-Aid.” – The Black Echo, Michael Connelly

Peace.

Brian Knowler is a 17 year member of the Ontario Provincial Police. During his time in policing, he has served in a wide variety of roles: media relations, school liaison, bike and all-terrain vehicle patrol, emergency management, recruiting, and incident command. He is a trained CISR team member and spent 5 years on the OPP Trauma Support Team before taking a leave in 2012.

Brian is also a fully licenced lawyer and a proud member of several professional law associations.

Recently, Brian took a step back in his policing duties to re-focus on his family and re-creating what PTSD has taken away from him. This has included a move, a change in responsibilities, and an emphasis on advocacy, writing, and reflecting on where his life and career has taken him.

He recently began to professionally speak and train about PTSD, resiliency, and post-traumatic growth.

Brian firmly believes that his family and natural healing methods have been the key to his recovery and success and that the journey through trauma can be one of rediscovery and rebuilding. PTSD needs to be dragged into the light, not hidden away in the shadows!

Follow Brian on Twitter and LinkedIn, and like the Healthy Heroes Project on Facebook.

I am honoured to have been recently asked by the international, non-profit organization Stigma Fighters to share my mental health story with them and their followers. The only requirement being that it be told in 1000 words or less…gulp…I’m always up for a challenge! I hope that by sharing my story with fellow mental illness sufferers and their families, I can inspire hope and courage, and fight the stigma of mental illness one word at a time.

My mental health symptoms started very young. I remember being in grade school telling my mom that I felt ‘weird’, and I would tear my room apart in anger and frustration when the only response I would get as to why I was having these feelings was, ‘it’s your hormones’. I felt lost and like an alien in my own body. Looking back now I can link these exact feelings to my adult depression and dissociation, but it took many long, painful, and very lonely years to even come close to understanding the emotions which made me feel like I didn’t belong on this planet.

I remember seeing doctors in my teen years, and they would prescribe an anti-depressant or two, but I never felt better, and I desperately craved intensive help. I knew in my heart that I wouldn’t find the answer to how to recover from my relentless sadness by reading a book, or seeing a doctor every once in a while. And because there seemed to be no further help available at that time, I carried on with life as a single mom and eventually a paramedic, wondering if my alien feelings were normal, and if they would ever go away.

I soon learned that by filling my time, I also filled my mind with thoughts other than my confusing mental health self-analysis. So over the years I’ve had various relationships (which always failed), went back to school and earned my degree, and became an advanced care paramedic. But if that weren’t enough, I also became a teacher for the paramedic college program and a peer educator. I was tired on a regular basis, and the feeling of exhaustion became my new normal. But no matter how hard I tried to keep busy, the roller-coaster of emotions and darkness I experienced would inevitably return, and I became quite hopeless that I would ever feel truly happy.

Then in May of 2012, I was a paramedic at a double-murder call at a hotel in my city. The details of the call are gruesome, and include satanic-cult rituals and the almost complete decapitation of two women by a man who also attempted to kill himself. That man, the murderer, was my patient. I did my best to block the call from my mind, but had endless difficulty coping with the fact that there was such evil in the world. I had lost all faith in humanity and began to drink alcohol quite heavily to numb the demons in my mind.

I carried on ‘existing’ for two more years until I had to go to trial as a main witness for the double-murder call. When I took the stand I did my best to not look at the man sitting behind a bullet-proof glass wall who had so often entered my dreams and turned them into nightmares. But at one point I had to make eye contact with him, and when I did, every painful, dark emotion I had stuffed away since May 2012 rushed back to me, and triggered the emergence of my post traumatic stress disorder.

The relentless pain of my PTSD and depression caused me to overdose twice, landed me in the mental health department of the hospital many times, and forced the Children’s Aid Society to restrict my contact with my son. I was completely broken! But luckily after I was hospitalized, I began daily classes in a partial hospitalization program and learned about so many amazing coping tools for my illnesses. I learned about things such as, cognitive behavioural therapy, meditation, positive self-talk, healthy boundaries, avoiding co-dependency, improving my spirituality and addiction education. It was the long-term education I had been craving for years! And as my journey progressed through this program, it was eventually appropriately renamed by a friend, ‘save my life school’.

Six weeks into school, and after a serious suicide attempt, I was finally accepted into the world renowned rehabilitation hospital Homewood, in Guelph, Ontario. During my stay there my personal relationship with the love of my life fell apart and I discovered that I was without a doubt an alcoholic. Through each excruciating day, I participated in intense group sessions for my PTSD, and went to 12-step meetings every day. I was very resistant to any help at first, as my hopelessness had hit an all time low, and I was physically and mentally exhausted. But after a near-tradgedy occurred at home with one of my children, I finally shook off my self-pity and dug in deep to heal my mind, heart and soul.

Once I truly decided to listen to the experts and follow their guidance, there was no turning back! I was on the road to recovery and it felt amazing! Slowly my family began to trust me again, and my relationship with my children became one filled with security and peace. I have been sober 10 months now and no longer have the obsession for alcohol. I have a sponsor and three 12-step home groups who support me and have taught me how important it is to my recovery to have a Higher Power in my life, and to rely on His guidance rather than my delusions.

Life is good! And I never thought that was possible! I finally look forward to waking up in the morning and living, not just existing. I have documented my recovery in a blog entitled: Paramedic Nat’s Mental Health Journey and have had the privilege of helping fight the stigma of mental illness all over the world with every post. I am not ashamed to speak about my experiences anymore, and can attest 100% to the healing power of talk. If you are suffering, you don’t have to do it alone. I know it may seem difficult, but recovery IS possible. But in order to GET help, you need to ASK for it.

Sending love to the souls we have lost to this fight, and to those who are battling everyday.

~Nat

Natalie Harris is a mom, an advanced care paramedic and teacher in Ontario, Canada. After being diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder from a double-murder call, where the murderer was her patient, she began a vicious life or death battle with overdoses, alcoholism and suicide attempts. Luckily she was able to recover after many hospitalizations, including a 7-week admission to the rehabilitation hospital, Homewood, in Guelph, Ontario. She shares candid and raw experiences about her mental health illnesses and recovery in her blog paramedicnatsmentalhealthjourney.wordpress.com and has had the privilege of supporting, and providing recovery resources to mental illness sufferers all over the world.

Natalie can be found on her blog, Facebook and Twitter