It's not fair to Cologne, but this post is mostly about my depression, because that's what I spent most of my day realizing was going on.
I spent almost the entire day in bed. I was reading, but reading for longer than an hour is an at-risk behaviour for someone with depression. Since Berlin, I had been struggling to feel excited about doing anything. Seeing Jan reminded me that so far during the trip, I hadn't had any of my usual support people around, and that is one of the four critical things I need to keep from slipping into bad patterns. And before I get too far ahead of myself, I need to stop and explain part of a much longer journey that has not factored in to any of my previous travels.
When my sister died, I returned home from France and dealt with the things that bereaved people need to deal with like visitations and funerals, telling people that hadn't heard about it yet, and making sure my family didn't fall apart. I didn't have an opportunity to experience the reverse culture shock that is characteristic of long trips to countries with other customs and cultures, because the trip I had taken back to Canada was to a foreign reality with new understandings of the world and new challenges to face.
My grieving process was obviously difficult. What I didn't count on was that when I was having a good day I would be really annoyed by the expressed grief of my parents or sister. Or that the hardest things would be the most inconspicuous - meeting someone new and having to answer the question, "Do you have any siblings?" Realizing that one day I would have to say that she had died 10 years ago, instead of only two months ago. Andrea and I used to stay in bed all day together, just taking turns crying.
I took a course for a few months a month after it happened, and on the days I had to be at the University, I stayed overnight in my cousin's guestroom which was in the basement. I spent hours crying in the privacy of this space where I knew my grief wouldn't affect my family members trying to have a good day.
We did family counselling with a woman who wasn't helpful, but the distance from our home did lead to some honest discussions about what we were each dealing with, and the ways that we could help each other. When I started teachers college in the fall, I didn't tell any of my new friends about it. I was still worried that someone would say something careless, by accident, and that I would lose respect for them. I started seeing a grief counsellor near the University who explained to me that grief is a wave pool that comes on like tidal waves at first and you're sure you'll drown, but if you swim into it, accept it as normal and necessary and healthy even as it crushes you, then gradually the waves will become smaller and less frequent. This was comforting to me, and I have found it to be true. Eventually, this counsellor and I ended up having discussions about education and children, rather than grief, and she didn't think I needed anymore help, but I had a nagging feeling that there was still something that wasn't right.
Spending hours alone in my apartment, and not feeling like I could reach out to anyone was a problem. Binge watching television shows to escape from my reality was also a problem, but I survived, and the close friendships I forged with my fellow teacher candidates have been so important for helping me to succeed. I was hired as an occasional teacher in Hamilton, but I decided to find an apartment in St. Catharines instead because my sister would be starting her first year at Brock and I wanted to be there for her, as much as I was looking forward to having her near me for my own sake. I also wanted to stay in proximity to the friends that I had worked so hard to make. Starting over is scary, and having to tell my grief story and to share myself with new people was scarier.
When I was sad or sluggish, I thought it was only grief. I was given a long-term assignment at a school with a new principal and vice principal who were learning their roles, and no teachers in French Immersion on either side of my grade range. I met some amazing teachers in the English track who supported me and that I am so grateful for. It was one of the hardest years of my life. On my birthday in October, I broke down in the Walmart parking lot where I was buying Halloween candy for my students' party the next day. I was afraid to drive because of the intensity of sobbing. A friend told me he would come over to support me and every time something like this happened, it felt like I was being rescued from something. I was still alone more often than not, dealing with the stresses of teaching a challenging class, with very little support. I commuted 80 minutes a day, and spent my evenings preparing for the next one. It's normal for a new teacher to feel incompetent. An additional qualification course in Math that happened once a week in Thorold was a blessing. In February, a student with mental health concerns said that they wanted to die. I didn't go to school the next day. Instead, that evening, I went to a walk-in clinic and the doctor sent me to the hospital to talk to a psychiatrist in the Emergency Room. The next day, my mom came and cleaned my house while I wrote report card comments. I called the union to find out about counselling.
My therapist treated me for anxiety for 8 weeks, and I felt free of something. As if knowing that I had anxiety gave me permission to sometimes feel like I didn't have everything worked out. And it gave me permission to do things that would bring me joy even if it meant shirking some of my responsibilities, because my mental health was allowed to be a priority.
I decided to move to Hamilton during the following summer. I became vegetarian, and started running. I felt like I had sloughed off the coat of grief I'd been wrapping tightly around myself for two and a half years and was rediscovering the self I had loved so much before my sister had died. I had energy and was excited about things. I didn't always have to feel sad. But this happiness felt precarious, as it had always done, and the moment I started to feel as if I was coming down off of a high, I called my therapist and started seeing her about depression. I realized that I had experienced forms of depression during my undergraduate years, especially in first year when I remember sleeping for entire days and thinking that it was only because I was learning so much and my brain needed extra sleep. And summers as a teenager when I spent entire days reading, and never felt "motivated" to do anything. During the school years, and when I had a good balance of extra-curriculars, I was always happy and felt productive and motivated. If I had too many things to do, my anxiety eroded my mental health until I slipped into depression. If I had not enough things to do, I spent too much time doing "escape"/"at-risk" activities like reading or watching movies or napping.
My therapist taught me that I could maintain my mental health by ensuring that I included four types of activities in most of my days:
My therapist also taught me that motivation is a myth. If you wait to feel enough motivation to do something, you will never do it. It doesn't matter if you feel motivated. If it is something you should do, just do it.
The juxtaposition of nature and artwork was my pleasure activity for the day. I enjoyed soaking in the leaves on the trees, and considering what each sculpture might mean.
I spent almost the entire day in bed. I was reading, but reading for longer than an hour is an at-risk behaviour for someone with depression. Since Berlin, I had been struggling to feel excited about doing anything. Seeing Jan reminded me that so far during the trip, I hadn't had any of my usual support people around, and that is one of the four critical things I need to keep from slipping into bad patterns. And before I get too far ahead of myself, I need to stop and explain part of a much longer journey that has not factored in to any of my previous travels.
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When my sister died, I returned home from France and dealt with the things that bereaved people need to deal with like visitations and funerals, telling people that hadn't heard about it yet, and making sure my family didn't fall apart. I didn't have an opportunity to experience the reverse culture shock that is characteristic of long trips to countries with other customs and cultures, because the trip I had taken back to Canada was to a foreign reality with new understandings of the world and new challenges to face.
My grieving process was obviously difficult. What I didn't count on was that when I was having a good day I would be really annoyed by the expressed grief of my parents or sister. Or that the hardest things would be the most inconspicuous - meeting someone new and having to answer the question, "Do you have any siblings?" Realizing that one day I would have to say that she had died 10 years ago, instead of only two months ago. Andrea and I used to stay in bed all day together, just taking turns crying.
I took a course for a few months a month after it happened, and on the days I had to be at the University, I stayed overnight in my cousin's guestroom which was in the basement. I spent hours crying in the privacy of this space where I knew my grief wouldn't affect my family members trying to have a good day.
We did family counselling with a woman who wasn't helpful, but the distance from our home did lead to some honest discussions about what we were each dealing with, and the ways that we could help each other. When I started teachers college in the fall, I didn't tell any of my new friends about it. I was still worried that someone would say something careless, by accident, and that I would lose respect for them. I started seeing a grief counsellor near the University who explained to me that grief is a wave pool that comes on like tidal waves at first and you're sure you'll drown, but if you swim into it, accept it as normal and necessary and healthy even as it crushes you, then gradually the waves will become smaller and less frequent. This was comforting to me, and I have found it to be true. Eventually, this counsellor and I ended up having discussions about education and children, rather than grief, and she didn't think I needed anymore help, but I had a nagging feeling that there was still something that wasn't right.
Spending hours alone in my apartment, and not feeling like I could reach out to anyone was a problem. Binge watching television shows to escape from my reality was also a problem, but I survived, and the close friendships I forged with my fellow teacher candidates have been so important for helping me to succeed. I was hired as an occasional teacher in Hamilton, but I decided to find an apartment in St. Catharines instead because my sister would be starting her first year at Brock and I wanted to be there for her, as much as I was looking forward to having her near me for my own sake. I also wanted to stay in proximity to the friends that I had worked so hard to make. Starting over is scary, and having to tell my grief story and to share myself with new people was scarier.
When I was sad or sluggish, I thought it was only grief. I was given a long-term assignment at a school with a new principal and vice principal who were learning their roles, and no teachers in French Immersion on either side of my grade range. I met some amazing teachers in the English track who supported me and that I am so grateful for. It was one of the hardest years of my life. On my birthday in October, I broke down in the Walmart parking lot where I was buying Halloween candy for my students' party the next day. I was afraid to drive because of the intensity of sobbing. A friend told me he would come over to support me and every time something like this happened, it felt like I was being rescued from something. I was still alone more often than not, dealing with the stresses of teaching a challenging class, with very little support. I commuted 80 minutes a day, and spent my evenings preparing for the next one. It's normal for a new teacher to feel incompetent. An additional qualification course in Math that happened once a week in Thorold was a blessing. In February, a student with mental health concerns said that they wanted to die. I didn't go to school the next day. Instead, that evening, I went to a walk-in clinic and the doctor sent me to the hospital to talk to a psychiatrist in the Emergency Room. The next day, my mom came and cleaned my house while I wrote report card comments. I called the union to find out about counselling.
My therapist treated me for anxiety for 8 weeks, and I felt free of something. As if knowing that I had anxiety gave me permission to sometimes feel like I didn't have everything worked out. And it gave me permission to do things that would bring me joy even if it meant shirking some of my responsibilities, because my mental health was allowed to be a priority.
I decided to move to Hamilton during the following summer. I became vegetarian, and started running. I felt like I had sloughed off the coat of grief I'd been wrapping tightly around myself for two and a half years and was rediscovering the self I had loved so much before my sister had died. I had energy and was excited about things. I didn't always have to feel sad. But this happiness felt precarious, as it had always done, and the moment I started to feel as if I was coming down off of a high, I called my therapist and started seeing her about depression. I realized that I had experienced forms of depression during my undergraduate years, especially in first year when I remember sleeping for entire days and thinking that it was only because I was learning so much and my brain needed extra sleep. And summers as a teenager when I spent entire days reading, and never felt "motivated" to do anything. During the school years, and when I had a good balance of extra-curriculars, I was always happy and felt productive and motivated. If I had too many things to do, my anxiety eroded my mental health until I slipped into depression. If I had not enough things to do, I spent too much time doing "escape"/"at-risk" activities like reading or watching movies or napping.
My therapist taught me that I could maintain my mental health by ensuring that I included four types of activities in most of my days:
- Physical
- Pleasure (activities that bring joy; for me these include dancing, painting, singing, playing piano, watching live music or live theatre, walking in nature)
- Relaxation (mindful meditation, yoga, taking a bath, drinking a cup of coffee; this book was a great resource for finding relaxation activities for anyone, not just people avoiding emotional eating)
- Support (going for hot chocolate with a good friend, chatting on the phone with someone you trust, visiting your parents)
My therapist also taught me that motivation is a myth. If you wait to feel enough motivation to do something, you will never do it. It doesn't matter if you feel motivated. If it is something you should do, just do it.
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Throughout my trip thus far, I had been doing my best to be grateful for the opportunity I had to be in Europe. I was keeping my Instagram/Facebook posts upbeat. Even now that I've returned, I have trouble articulating that the trip was great, but that it was also really hard for me. I didn't have a routine. I was having trouble "just doing it", because being in a country where I don't speak the language was also really frustrating and hard at times. I didn't want to look for somewhere to eat because I didn't know if they would have a vegetarian option, and ordering was always a challenge. The metro was a frequent obstacle in Berlin.
The obstacle on my first full day in Cologne was that I needed to take a shower, and the showers were shared by all the dorm rooms. I would have to gather all of my belongings and take them to the shower room, meaning I had to walk in a public space with my hair probably sticking out at weird angles and looking super greasy. I needed to shower within a certain time frame to make it to the morning buffet in the hostel. It was too much, so I stayed in my bed. Maybe I looked at my phone, or decided to read one chapter. Meanwhile, my roommates all cleared out for the day, and I felt less pressure to make any decisions. Then the cleaning crew came in singing songs in German while I hid out behind my curtain like a rat, hoping they wouldn't open it to find me in there reading. They didn't, but they were there for such a long time, and I had no interest in emerging from my cocoon to their horrified expressions, so I kept reading. I finished the book.
I didn't have anything to escape into and it dawned on me that all this time I had needed to "just do it". That in Berlin, I had been slipping slowly into a depression, and that the long train rides spent reading had not helped. All the physical activity on regular days was not making up for entire days spent sitting on the train. I had no routine. I had no certainty about where or what I would eat. I crawled out of my bunk, and took a glorious shower. I had to make a difficult choice. There was a guided tour leaving in 15 minutes from Rudolfplatz (the hostel's metro stop), and it would last for a few hours, but I hadn't eaten anything all day and there was also a McDonald's in Rudolfplatz. I didn't have enough time to eat before the tour left. I chose my veggie burger at McDonald's. I had purchased a tourist pass for the metro the night before because I had had enough in Berlin, so after my stomach was satisfied, I went to the Dom.
I sat in the pews for a while and relaxed consciously.
I went to the tourist office to find a map of the city, and to inquire about a chocolate factory that Jan had told me about. Unfortunately, the chocolate factory would be closed too soon for me to be admitted. I had Googled the top attractions in Cologne and asked next about the Skulptur park. And with my map, I opted to walk there.
The park was on the banks of the Rhine River. I don't know how else to say this, so: Bodies of water are my favourite. I sat down on a bench next to an old man and drank it in.
Knowing that I was dealing with my depression, I had an opportunity to try to go out that night, but the hostel bar was open to the public and is known as a place that locals frequently hang out. The effort to put myself into the middle of another person's conversation had been used up on my first night in Munich, so I packed my things, anxious to get back to Paris the next day.
Dear Reader, if you made it to the end of this one, thank you. I promise the rest of the posts in this series will be much less introspective and gloomy. ;)
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