I found something that I had started writing over four years ago, that I thought better belonged here, rather than hiding in my Dropbox.

The month of May is known as mental health awareness month, but I think that we should be discussing mental illness year-round. I have struggled with depression for the majority of my adult life, and I take a large amount of medication to try to help me combat the depression. These medications have side effects, not all of which am I aware. Through it all, I keep trying to follow the Cub motto and do my best.

Since I left Agassiz in 1998, my employment situation, for the most part, has not been enjoyable. I have had two of the companies I worked for close down, which left me out of work for a while. I have had bosses that:

  • Threatened to commit suicide at least once a week, sometimes suggesting it should be a group suicide of the staff.
  • Would scream obscenities at the staff.
  • Threw a microwave oven across the room, which flew past employees, because he was angry.
  • Nobody respected, and whose instructions were ignored, which caused massive disrespect amongst all of the staff.
  • When I was returning to work after my doctor put me on LTD for severe migraines, the boss thought it was a great idea to have me test all of the audio equipment.
  • Was unconcerned about staff safety when there were bears wandering the property.
  • Fired me (not officially) for not being a millennial

In the past 20 years, I have had one job that I truly enjoyed, but I kept working and stuffing down my emotions because that was what my family needed. Through sicknesses, deaths, depression, financial struggles, and everything else that comes with a marriage, I stayed strong, and I kept stuffing down my emotions, because that was what was needed of me. All the while, my depression deepened, and my stress levels rose. On the outside, people saw me as happy, but on the inside, I felt like I was dying. Nobody around me noticed my struggles, and I became very good at hiding my pain. When I did try to talk to people, I would typically get platitudes, and often simple derision. I allowed the negativity I was receiving to worsen my depression. It is the classic trap of the depressed, to allow other people to make you feel worse. You feel powerless to fight back.

After my last work contract ended, almost two years ago now, I became very depressed. As the months passed, and I could not find work, my depression grew. My medication levels were raised over recommended maximums, as my doctors struggled to combat my negative emotions. At this point, I had been trying for many years to get my partner to notice me and my struggles, but she had her attention elsewhere, and I felt alone, trapped in misery of my own creation. As the year progressed, I realized what I needed to do. My partner and I had been fighting constantly for years. Everything that either of us could find to criticize, we seized upon, and I realized that my children’s’ emotional health was suffering as a result. I made a difficult decision, which surprisingly gave me some comfort. It was time to end the marriage. I needed to accept responsibility for the mistakes that I had made, and try to end things gracefully. Shortly before Christmas, I went to speak with a lawyer to try and determine my options. Her biggest piece of advice was to wait until the new year, so I did not ruin my kids’ Christmas. I heeded her advice.

In January, as I was getting ready to head back to the lawyer, the idea of me going to school presented itself. It made logical sense for me to be living downtown while I was in school, as the commute on transit would have been exhausting. Because while I could take the train in the morning, in the evenings when I would be returning, the train would not be running, and I would be using transit. When I was in school for 12 – 14 hour days, another 3 – 4 hours of commute each day, would not leave any time for me to do homework, or to get enough sleep to be able to function well the following day. With FaceTime every night, I could still say goodnight to my children each night, and I would be able to walk to and from school each day.

At the beginning of February, I began my first course. It was a 10 week bootcamp teaching web development. 10 weeks, 6 days per week, 12 hour days. It was exhausting, and I would be headed home to my partner and the kids every Saturday night, and back to the condo Sunday night. I tried my best to stay positive. It was very challenging, but I made it through. Of the 10 people that started the course with me, only 7 people made it to the end. While I was at school, I discovered things about myself and about my partner, that made me question the truth about our relationship, and I made suggestions to her about how I thought our relationship would need to evolve, if we were to have any hope of the relationship working.

May 1st, I started my second course. This was the big one. 12 months of 12 hour days, 5 days a week. It was the course I had dreamed about taking. It was the course that would teach me the skills that I have always wanted. My partner and I had been talking about me taking this course for the entirety of our marriage. I started the course excited to finally be attending. The program is divided into six eight week terms. The first term was tough. The hours were growing longer, and the deadlines we were being given seemed inadequate. I was putting in more than 12 hour days, and dealing with several stereotypical millennial classmates. There were a couple of great classmates, that I got along with quite well, but the stress levels were very high. I found myself getting extremely stressed during the week of class, and then I would come home to my partner and children, and the stress in the house was also super high. I found myself some weekends, just hiding in bed, unable to function because my stress levels were unmanageable, and I could not find a way to release my stress. Combine that with my depression, and you get a very toxic combination. My temper was getting shorter, and my kids were sometimes wondering why I even came home on the weekend, when all I would do is hide in bed. I was not dealing with my own issues, and this is my fault. I own that.

By this time, my partner and I had started seeing a marriage councillor. I started therapy hopeful that she could help us, but not very optimistic at the chances of success. My partner openly acknowledged that she had not noticed any problems in the relationship, until I was leaving for school. In my mind I was angry that she had not noticed me desperately trying for many years prior to that. So with my stress levels rising at school, at home, and at therapy, I found myself unsure where my true place lay. My mind started crumbling. As term two was coming to an end, towards the end of August, my mind finally broke. I suffered a nervous breakdown, also known as an emotional breakdown. I literally lay in bed for three days crying. I only got up to go to the bathroom.

After three days, I finally crawled out of the bedroom in my condo, to take stock of my life. I knew that there was no way for me to continue school in my current mental state, but after all of the sacrifices that my family had made to allow me to be there, how could I even think about quitting? My partner had told me several times per week, for 7 months, that our family’s entire future rested upon my being successful at school. If I quit school, I destroyed my family, but if I did not quit school, I doomed myself. In desperation, I attempted suicide. In one night, I took a week’s worth of insulin, and went to bed, hoping to never wake up. (I would learn later, that overdosing on insulin will not kill you, it will more likely just cause permanent physical damage and disabilities, but I did not know that at the time.) I awoke the next morning feeling very dizzy and disoriented. It took a while for me to figure out what was happening. I was still alive, and my blood sugar was dangerously low. I made the decision that quitting school, and facing the consequences would be better than being dead. I sent the emails to the school, letting them know that I was withdrawing from the program. I then let my partner know what I had decided, and tried to explain why this was happening.

After her first, very understandable, negative reaction, I tried to explain my mental state, my breakdown, and my attempted suicide. Her reaction was still extremely negative. I did not detect any understanding or compassion coming from her. This went on for several more days, as I packed my apartment getting ready to move out. Every time that I would speak with her, I would hear what a failure and a letdown I was to her. I moved back to the house, and tried to let my mind heal. I asked her to give me one week free of her complaints of my failure, she agreed, but was unable to follow through. I found myself attempting suicide again. Same method and same result. Talking with my sister helped, and my sister, knowing the marital problems I was having, told me that what I needed to do, was move out of the shared bedroom, and into a different room. It was clear to both her and me that the marriage was over, and could not be recovered. Wanting to try and keep what peace in the house I could, I told my sister that I could not do that to my family. Because I had told her what I had done, she told me that suicide by insulin overdose does not work. Her doctor had told her, when she had mused to her doctor about the same method. My sister, looking out for the welfare of her baby brother, did not accept my refusal to move rooms, and quietly started making the arrangements for a team of friends to come in and help make it happen, over my objections.

A week after she had first suggested it, she told me that it was happening, less than 24 hours before it was going to happen. By this point, I agreed that it had to happen. Since insulin was not going to work, I was trying to determine whether jumping out my second story window, onto the cement patio below would do the trick, or whether I would only sustain injuries. So, when my sister told me it was going to happen, I decided, for my health and sanity, that I would let her do what was necessary. I also decided that it would be easier to get forgiveness than permission, and that I was no longer worried about getting forgiveness, so I chose not to inform my partner that it was happening. It was known she was going to be out all day, which is why my sister had chosen that date. My sister arrived, and we sat the kids down, and explained to them that daddy was sick, and he needs his own room to get better. So we moved all of the 2 year old’s stuff out of her room, and moved me into that room. We then moved the 2 year old into the room out of which I had just moved. And I prepared to face the consequences of my actions.

I explained to my partner what had happened, and why. She was shocked and angry. She felt that she had been so supportive of my recovery. I told her then about my attempts at suicide, and my continued thoughts on that subject. She was shocked, as she had no idea, and she promised to try and give me space. Starting that very same night, she made certain to give me guilt because the 2 year old was having trouble going to sleep. That first night, I brought the 2 year old, and her mattress back into my room for the night, because I agreed that making the 2 year suffer was not what I had intended. The next night, we tried again, having the 2 year old in her mother’s bedroom. We kept trying for many days, with varied success, until I relented, and just moved my little one back into my room, her old room. So I wound up in the smallest bedroom in the house, sharing with a two year old, while my partner continued to sleep in the largest bedroom, by herself. It was my choice, and I was happy with my choice.

As the weeks passed, I made many attempts to try and discuss with my partner the situation. She kept saying that my living in the other bedroom was temporary, but I tried explaining that this was our new normal. Every day, she would make a point of reminding me that I had failed the family, and wasted all of our money. After a month, she finally agreed that separation and divorce was what was best for us. At this point, her complaints about me expanded to include how I had let her down specifically, and that she wanted to replace me with someone that could actually support her. Her accusations hurt, but I tried not to complain back at her. I often failed, and I would tell her all of the supposed slights that I felt. She would accuse me of acting like a victim, and walk away. The next step, I knew, would be to break the news to our children.

The children are smart. I knew that our secret would leak out to them at some point, and I wanted to just sit them down and tell them what was happening. The news would be devastating to them, but at least then they could start the healing process. My partner wanted to wait on telling the children until we could afford therapy for them. Neither of us had any idea when that might occur. One evening, while I was talking to my son, the topic strayed into a logical segue into the topic of his mother and my relationship. It had not been my intention to send the conversation there, but here we were. I could have changed the subject at that moment, but I decided that I did not want to wait anymore. So he and I discussed his mother and I separating, with the intention of divorce. He handled it amazingly well. Even saying that he was not surprised. He had seen this coming for a long time. I told him to make certain that he did not let it slip to his older sister, but I promised him that I would not make him keep that secret for long. As soon as my partner came home, I told her what I had done. She accused me of many things, and complained that she had wanted to be there when the kids were told. Her complaints were fair. I had taken an action regarding our kids, without her agreement. I had been making several decisions that affected the family without her agreement. It was my decision to leave school, my decision to move out of her room, my decision that we should separate, and now my decision that the kids be told.

That’s as far as I had gotten when I first started writing it. I re-read this now, and so many of those feelings come back to me, and some have never truly left me.

What ultimately broke me, was a two similar incidents that happened a day apart. My ex-wife and I were seeing a marriage counsellor, who had insisted that we needed to do the private, in addition to the couples therapy for her to be able to help us. Even during the therapy, I frequently felt that she was clearly siding with my wife, and was not remaining neutral. Since giving up on that therapist, I have learned that her entire technique is completely flawed. She would focus on everything that we had done wrong in the past, and not actually try to help us find common ground, or find ways to heal and strengthen our relationship. Towards the end of August, my marriage counsellor, during a private session, told me that I am an asshole. No suggestion of how to change, she just straight up told me that I am an asshole.

That was a Sunday. The following day, at school, I was called into the school counsellor’s office to be chewed out for mistreating the absolutely god-awful teacher they had given us. When I say god-awful, this is a professional programmer, teaching computer programmer, who taught us that there is no need to ever do any indenting when coding. That is a meaningless phrase to any non-programmers, but ask any programmer and you will be receive looks of absolute shock and horror at the idea of not indenting when coding. Not indenting when coding is akin to never using any punctuation when writing. So I am called into the school counsellor’s office, and during her chewing me out, she tells me that I am an asshole. Two different, unrelated, counsellors in two days both told me that I was an asshole. That was the moment that I broke. I left her office, went home, and stopped being able to function.