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Internet: I talk a lot about Him (and those of you know know me know I ain’t talkin’ bout Jesus) and yesterday I (re)blogged about the night we met. I also wasn’t feeling well yesterday. Still not feeling 100% today. So many feelings, eh?

Joe a rather awesome guy who just happened to live in another city when we met. He hated to talk on the phone, but he talked to me on the phone almost every day for nine months. He’s a rather awesome guy who I’d only see when I went to Toronto or when he came to Ottawa. Which meant if we were lucky, we’d see each other twice a month for a weekend.

This photo was taken by Joe just after noon, three days before my 28th birthday. It was taken on one of the first extended visits we’d had with each other.

I wasn’t feeling the greatest, but I was feeling well enough to make it to the top of the Cup & Saucer, a lovely hiking trail on Manitoulin Island. One of the main reasons that I was feeling up to it was that I wasn’t carrying around 50lbs that was there the year before. Which is why you get to see a full body shot.

We were visiting his family camp as I was on my week long birthday celebration holiday. We spent Labour Day at camp, went back to Toronto and dealt with me exhausting myself while I was still a bit under the weather. But it was a great week. Suffice it to say, I’ve been a bit busy. Life changing busy.

I started this blog (I know, you’ve heard this before) in April 2005 as a way for me to document my adventures in the “real world”. It wasn’t long before I began working for the federal public service.

And here we are, over five years later. Since I’ve just recently re-launched the blog, the stories aren’t all here yet. But I’ve got five years of posts waiting to be edited and re-shared with you all.

Don’t worry if it’s kind of a blur to you. It’s kind of a blur to me as well. During that time I had one major nervous breakdown and a couple of smaller ones. But everything before January 1, 2010? That was Chapter 1.

Chapter 2 promises to be more interesting. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and boy do I have stories to tell.

So what’s was so special about January 1, 2010? Other than it was over six months ago and I’ve still not blogged about it?

On New Year’s Eve Joe came to Ottawa and whisked me (and my kittens) away on his black steed (okay it was a black hatchback) to Toronto. We arrived at 11:30 pm. Enough time to go to Jug Town for a bottle of orange pop and a box of kitty litter. We toasted the new year and promptly fell into bed. Well, onto the futon mattress on the floor. I had hired movers, so my stuff arrived the following Tuesday. It’s still kind of not unpacked. So no photos have been taken. But Joe, the kittens, and I are very happy in our well located, reasonably priced Toronto apartment. Even if it is a mess.

I’d had enough with the job I was in. I felt like I’d become wallpaper and couldn’t get ahead. Or a break. When I made the decision to move, I was coming up on the end of an acting assignment and there was really no hope for anything after that. Management had done what they could, but it really looked as though I was going back to being a junior analyst after I’d spent a year and a half as a “full” program (and even Senior) officer. With the long distance relationship I was using my already too expensive apartment like a hotel. I was able to walk to and from work, but I was so exhausted/depressed/disheartened that the five blocks seemed like an eternity.

It was a good choice. In late January I learned that I’d failed the competition I’d been in for my branch. I’m rather fond of the saying “if you don’t have anything nice to say…” so I’ll leave it at that. But had I been in Ottawa for that and had Joe and I been apart when I got that email, I probably still would be bawling on the floor. My experiences in the public service had very much been of the “If anything bad can happen, it will happen” variety. It probably isn’t that way for everyone. But it was my reality. Well, at least until last January.

For six month’s I’ve woke up on Monday mornings (okay, afternoons) and didn’t feel a ball of dread in my stomach. Even though I’ve taken off the golden handcuffs (for at least six more months) and given up all the security and benefits that go along with them, I feel more free than I’ve ever felt. I’ve gone through bits of my belongings and my blog and started sharing things or throwing them out. I’m glad that I can say that a chapter of my life has come and gone.

Now, on to Chapter 2.

I’ve been feeling bad about not posting much. Especially since I have a bunch of older content that I’ve been waiting like crazy to share with you all. So I made a promise to myself that I’d sit down and schedule some posts sometime this weekend, as well as write a new one on my thoughts on Mental Health Camp Toronto, an event that happened yesterday that I wasn’t able to attend in person but watched from afar on Twitter. I also plan on doing laundry, taking measurements so I can build my new bed, taking measurements for my bathroom for the lighting installation I’m doing and reorganizing the kitchen. You can bet your booties that I’m going to be blogging about all of these things, but I can’t make any promises about when any of them will get done.

Especially since my eyes are bothering me and I don’t know why.

So here is another older post. I did a search in posts for “dumped” and realized that this would make a great addition to the “On being dumped” series I did. So over the next few days you can hear my story. And today (since re-organizing the kitchen is on the list of things to do) you can hear about how I cleaned my microwave (and the way I’ve cleaned it ever since).

Originally posted: October 28, 2008

I’ve not been posting much.  But I’ve been thinking about posting a lot, which I think should count for something.

I’ve been thinking a lot about why I blog.  Lots of people thinking blogging is crazy.  Lots of people think that the internet is a scary place where I shouldn’t put personal information.  Goodness knows, someone might read this in 20 years when I’m Prime Minister and learn about all the crazy things I’ve done.  Like: clean my microwave.

I’m too lazy to look up any previous posts I’ve made on the matter, but one of my “things” is the fact that I’m ashamed of a dirty house.  There are probably many reasons for this, but the most important reason is that when my house is messy, I am sad.  Not because my house is messy, but because the cleanliness of my house is a barometer for my mental health, and dirty means down in the dumps.

Which is why cleaning the microwave warrants a blog post.

My microwave has been dirty for longer than I care to admit.  It has smelled like microwave popcorn (sometimes I wonder if I should have just spent money on an air popper, instead of a beautiful LG microwave popcorn machine) and had a little chunk of paper towel stuck to its turney-table-thingy for what seems like forever.  But today after heating up my pizza I decided that I was going to use a bit of cleaning knowledge that I’d learned from goodness knows where, and clean it.

So I put a bowl full of water in it, and turned it on for five minutes.  I then forgot about it for 20 (I was eating pizza!), but then remembered it again.  I turned it on for another five minutes, this time remembering to go and rescue it after it beeped.

Inside, everything was steamy and lovely.  And with the assistance of no cleaning product whatsoever, I was able to wipe the inside free of all of the dirt with a paper towel.  And it looked gorgeous.  And I felt better.

I’m having a particularly hard time at the moment.  Money is always a bit of an issue, more so around the time when I have to pay rent and student loans.  You would think perhaps I’d change the dates so I didn’t have to pay both at the same time, but that hasn’t as of yet happened.  Even though my iPhone brings me immense joy, I worry that I shouldn’t have bought it and instead have paid down the credit card to ensure that I’d have enough room to book a plane ticket home for the holidays.  I have to remind myself that the iPhone was purchased with “me” money, and I have to stop spending that on rent or I’m going to go even more bonkers than I already am.  And I truly love my iPhone.

It’s also hard because we’re transitioning to the season and the time when I was rather unceremoniously dumped.  I’ve not talked about this much, and I’m not sure how much I’m going to talk about it other than to say that though I’d not hoped for a parade, the decency of a goodbye might have at least respected the fact that the relationship had lasted almost seven years.  Smells bring back a lot of memories, and right now the cool crisp smell of winter coming reminds me terribly of the weeks I spent curled in a ball wishing for any life but the one I was living.

This will only be magnified by the anniversary date and magnified again by the holiday season.  The hardest part is that my love of snow and Christmas and all things magical and wintry has been tainted by the fact that it’s associated with a time in my life I’ve been doing my best to forget.

It’s times like today (even when the first glorious snowflakes are floating down to earth) that I have to celebrate the small victories, no matter how trivial they might seem.

I cleaned my microwave.

I wouldn’t be a very good cat mom if I didn’t include these two little angels in a post about keeping my mental healthy. I can honestly say I don’t know what I’d do without them as they were there to comfort me on long nights and greet me when I came home after long days. Today is my second of two posts on mental health for Mental Health Week (CMHC still has a terrible website, oh my), and today I’m going to focus on learning to ask for help. Thanks everyone for not commenting on how in the last post I talked about it being “day two” of Mental Health Week when it was Wednesday. When I woke up this morning (thinking it was Thursday) I was all like “Wow, I might get three Mental Health Week blog posts in!” and now I’m all like “Well I guess I could blog Saturday or Sunday….” Moving along.

I’m fiercely independent.

I am the eldest of three children, so I’ve been leading the pack since that fateful day in April 1985. I like having my way. I like to use words like “fiercely independent” and “overachiever” and “strong leader”, but when I’m feeling dark I often tell myself that I’m arrogant and greedy and bossy. I have a hard time asking for help.

I used to think that being left by my ex was the reason I had a nervous breakdown. I used to be really mad at myself for that because I didn’t want to give him credit for anything. I still don’t, even if what he did had to be done, the way he did it caused so much hurt and pain for me and the people I care about that it’s unforgivable. It wasn’t the reason for my nervous breakdown, but it was the straw that broke the (fiercely independent) camel’s back. And forced me to get help.

Things had not been good for a long time. In preparing for this post with some self-reflection, I tried to pinpoint the moment where things started to go downhill fast. It’s with great pleasure that I figured it out and it feels like a great weight was lifted off my shoulders.

My nervous breakdown was triggered by the events of September 1, 2006 and September 10, 2006. What are these two days you might ask? September 1, 2006 is the day that I signed my letter of offer for an indeterminate (permanent) position within the Government of Canada. September 10, 2006 was my 25th birthday.

I’ll talk about my birthday first, because it’s quicker and sets the stage for the rest. I’m happy about birthdays. I did my thesis on how young people aren’t treated as equal stakeholders in society and I felt that the farther away I got from my early twenties, the closer I got to being taken seriously. I was a quarter of a century old! I had accomplished so much: Senate Page for two years, two internships in Parliament (one in Canada, one in the United Kingdom), a Bachelor of Arts degree, a Master’s degree, and an indeterminate job in the Canadian Public Service. I had done everything I’d planned to do save become Prime Minister. But that’s a story for another day. I came to the realization that I had completed my goals and there was nothing planned. Boy if I knew then what I knew now.

Signing my letter of offer was the beginning of the worst phases of my career to date, and I hope the last “worst” phase that I have. Most people would have been happy to slap on those golden handcuffs, but it turned out I was the opposite. Up until that point I had a great manager who had confidence in me and allowed me to do great work. I worked with and helped oversee a team that had our ups and downs, but I thoroughly enjoyed working with all of them. But when I signed that letter my position changed. I no longer went from being superstar organizer to bottom-of-the-dog-pile wonk. I was excited about being a policy wonk as I had two degrees in Political Science and a job in the Canadian Public Service as a policy wonk was a highly coveted prize. I was even lucky enough to be working in my academic area of expertise. I was full of hope and so ready to learn.

None of my managers had time for me anymore. I was no longer needed, so I sat in my cubicle and stared at my computer screen for weeks at a time. Sometimes I’d be given the work that no one else wanted to do, but my motivation to do it was at an all time low. So I’d do it. Well before the deadline. I’d put it in my manager’s inbox and it would sit there and rot until past the deadline. It would finally get read and it would be deemed terrible and not at all what was wanted, but by then it was too late to do revisions so a half-assed job would be done. This would be repeated and I’d soon get the reputation of being a slacker for having a lot of “late” things, even though I’d done them well before the deadline. So my new strategy would be to not do my work right away and then hand it in closer to the deadline so it seemed like I worked on it longer. Chances are it would be deemed unacceptable and no constructive reasons would be given and I began to think that I didn’t deserve my Master’s degree because I was obviously such a terrible writer and person that I didn’t deserve it. This got me the title of “procrastinator” as I would be seen “fooling around on the internet” (a.k.a reading blogs on Google Reader) instead of doing my work. A few months of this battered my poor overachieving soul pretty badly. And the worst feeling was that I had just signed up to do this job for the next 35 years of my life and I felt like all that I had done in the first 25 had been a waste.

A few months of this was all it took for my unsupportive (freeloading, SOB of an) ex to jump ship. I had done a good job of alienating all of my support networks defending my relationship with him. For six  years I’d neglected relationships forged in high school and university trying to keep the relationship alive. I hadn’t become great friends with any of my Senate Page friends as I’d spent more time coddling a moody ex who didn’t want to go to Parliamentary receptions, rather than going out for drinks with a fantastic group of people. I cut my trip to London, England shorter than it needed to be because I was bleeding money because the ex couldn’t hold a job and I was paying rent in both Ottawa and England. I had lied to my family about my financial situation, my relationship, my happiness, my job. Everything. And it all came crashing down.

I was left alone in an apartment I couldn’t afford (even on my permanent salary, juniors make very little compared to the rest of public servants) in a city where I had no family or close friends. I broke.

I spent a week at home sick and then went in to work and told everyone I had the flu. I explained to my managers what happened and was given a cool reception when mental health issues were mentioned. I had enough leave to go home to Manitoba, so I did. I made a trip to the doctor for my physical before I hopped on the plane (as I was trying to maintain the illusion that I was okay and everything was normal) and received another blow. I was fifty pounds heavier than I thought I was. The doctor prescribed me Paxil and sent me on my way.

I went home and my family took care of me. Mom made sure I took my meds and Dad tried to be supportive but he was terribly mad at the ex for what he did. I don’t really remember much else other than I would hope that the phone would ring (as the ex had told me he “fucking loved me” in the note he left and promised to call me in a few days to talk about rent and bills) and that the nightmare would be over. The phone never rang. The vacation ended and I had to go back to Ottawa alone. My flight connected through Toronto and I was grounded due to mechanical failure. After a million cancellations and reschedulings, they finally sent us to a hotel where I was able to get three hours of sleep before I had to get the shuttle to be back at the airport. I had to carry my physical luggage all over hell and gone while my emotional luggage was crushing me.

Work made me numb. The situation wasn’t any better, I wasn’t being given any meaningful work and now I had the added stigma of people whispering about why I was gone. I decided to get help.

I called the clinic where they gave me the Paxil as they had a poster on the wall in the room where I waited about the fact that they offered counseling services. That were covered by my health plan. I chose the doctor that was easiest to get to (as my motivation to do anything was at an all time low) and for the weeks between mid-February and the following September I spent every Friday after work exploring myself in that office.

I started off talking about being abandoned, but it quickly turned to my unhappiness at work and my broken support network. My journey in that office deserves much more than a quick mention at the end of a long post, so we’ll save that story for another time as well.

But I was given the tools to cope better with the curve balls that life sends my way. I was able to see a psychiatrist (who told me the way I was left was “inhumane”, that made me feel better) who adjusted my medication and I’ve been more stable ever since. My meds make me feel “normal”, which I know is a funny thing to say. But for those of you who know me, I am a passionate and dramatic person: being able to control that passion and drama is a good thing. I was able to repair some of the broken bridges, especially with my family. I was more honest with myself and others about what made me feel happy or upset. I stopped pretending to be happy with things to make other people happy. I learned that I have favourite foods (chicken wings! sushi!) and that I’m allowed to disagree.

I learned to ask for help.

So what happened at work you say? What happened to my financial situation? My increased waistline? Oh the mystery and intrigue. If you’re half as exhausted from reading this as I am from writing this, I’m sure you’ll be okay with me saying that those stories can wait for another day. I’ve promised you a lot of stories, and I intend to deliver.

But for now: This is Mental Health Week and people you know suffer from mental health issues. They probably feel overwhelmed and alone. They probably don’t know how to ask for help. They probably think that asking for help makes them weak. They probably think they can figure it out all on their own. Please help them.