Tag: mental health

Halfway through 2025: Less reading, but hope for the future beyond the page

Somewhere in the city last night there must have been fireworks, officially that is, I’m sure illegal sparklers were also fired. It was Canada Day, after all. July 1. This same holiday back in 1987, marks the day I finally quit smoking for good. I’m quietly hoping that this year July 1 will be remembered as the day my son quit drinking. We’ve stood at this precipice so any times before, I’m almost afraid to believe it might be true. I’ve said it before, I know, but this time really feels different.

The last few months have been especially difficult. In May my son’s computer was hacked. We stood in horror and disbelief, watching as the hacker systematically and openly carved his way through programs while outside no less than five firetrucks descended on the building next door. The excitement at the neighbours’ subsided, but in our home the damage was done. A text to my daughter, whose boyfriend is a computer tech, provided guidance for the initial security steps, and by the weekend the virus was isolated, the hard drive wiped, and rebuilding was underway. But for my son, a tidal wave of anxiety had been unleashed. And it continued to build. His preferred remedy, as it has been for the past fifteen years, was to drink more than ever. He is thirty-five.

Over the years, I’ve learned the hard way that it does no good to confront him or to overreact. Begging, bribing, and passive aggressive accusations are counterproductive. Or worse. Now that his other parent has been diagnosed with high blood pressure, diabetes and, after repeated small strokes, early onset dementia (and this without a history of alcoholism), the medical risks of his addiction have taken on a new intensity. But the thought of facing panic attacks “alone” and the very real nightmare of withdrawal have long stood in the way of any true desire to quit. Each time I’ve suggested he seek support (something that he has tried over the years, of course) I see that the legacy of his abysmal experiences in the child and adolescent mental health system run deep. And I cannot blame him at all, I’m still angry about the way he was mistreated.

However, something changed in the past few days. Suddenly beer no longer tasted good. No longer provided relief. Made him feel ill. Frightened by the symptoms, he finally agreed to call the public health nurse and after assessing his condition she recommended  he go to the hospital emergency. So that’s where we were when fireworks rang out, and where we were until after three o’clock in the morning. At one point my son insisted we leave as no one had been called in to see a doctor since our arrival, but I insisted he inform the triage nurse and when she saw him he was experiencing serious symptoms of detox. She convinced him to take some medication to help him relax and before long his name was called.

I stayed in the waiting room, hoping to finish the book I was reading. I only had about 20 pages to go when we arrived (in fact, I tucked several books in my pack figuring I would be moving on to something else before the night was out). But then a couple arrived and the woman started listening to an evangelical sermon aloud, on her phone. Stressed and tired, I could not shut it out. I thought, God gave us headphones, surely you could use them. Fortunately, it was not too long before I could go back and join my son.

Now, the road he has ahead will not be easy. He has been drinking so heavily on a daily basis it is no less than a miracle that his blood work came back as good as it did. He has been prescribed medications to reduce cravings and protect against seizures, but he doesn’t seem keen on the side effects (which unfortunately are not unlike the withdrawal symptoms). For someone who has admittedly self-medicated for so long, my son is skeptical about anything that comes from the pharmacy. All I can do is support him with patience and love. This is the first time he has sought medical support, fully and openly admitting to his circumstances, and I am so proud. And cautiously optimistic.

The strain of living with an alcoholic takes a toll. Over the last month and a half I have been distracted, stressed, irritable. I could see that things were escalating, that my son was not coping, but I knew that he had to be ready to take things into his own hands. Meanwhile, I’ve struggled to focus on reading and writing, moving through words at a glacial pace, picking up and putting down book after book after only a few pages. Funny, but only the dream-filled madness of Zuzana Brabcová’s novel of detox, Ceilings has consistently cut through my own anxiety. If I can see my son safely through the next few days of early detox, maybe things will finally be back on track for me—and on to a new future for him.

Note: I debated whether I should write this or not, but decided I needed to put it out there.

Want to write? Start with reading.

It has taken me over a week to come down after volunteering with and attending events at our recent word festival. I entered into the week slightly down and was spiraling up within a few days. If it was a test of my ability to return to regular work, this is clear evidence that my mixed state is still far from stable. But I would not have missed it for the world.

It was an absolute thrill to mingle with people who are passionate about books and listen to Canadian and international authors talk about their craft. Whenever an author was asked about his or her influences, a love of the magic of books and literature shone through in their responses. If asked about advice for want-to-be writers, the common answer was read, read, read… read widely and drink deep from the wealth that books have to offer.

The stash of books I bought at the event, not including the titles I purchased or read in advance. Volunteering in the bookstore can be expensive!
The stash of books I bought at the event, not including the titles I purchased or read in advance. Volunteering in the bookstore can be expensive!

And so there was this man I crossed paths with at various venues throughout the festival. He told me he was a writer. Patting the breast pocket of his jacket he indicated that he felt he was getting ready to pull together his work. He had a gold pass so I saw him a number of times but always alone, ordering a coffee or buying a glass of wine at the bar. He would acknowledge me and we would exchange a few words on whatever interview or panel we was waiting for. But I never witnessed him engaged in animated discussion with fellow attendees.

The solitary man at a venue where excited discussions about books were regularly erupting between strangers is an anomaly.

On Saturday afternoon I encountered him in the lobby. He was carrying a copy of Sweetland by Michael Crummey. I got the impression he was done with the festival regardless of the major authors still to come. He said, “I have decided, this is the one that impresses me. Let’s see if he writes as well as he talks.” I responded that I had recently obtained a copy of his previous work Galore, the novel Crummey described as the one he feels he was born to write and that I wanted to read that first. He looked at me with surprise and said, “You mean you have heard of him?”

Suddenly it dawned on me that this man, the self-described writer, does not read at all. I suppose he thought he he would be able to absorb all the final inspiration and direction from this one book. If he did not know one of the best known Canadian contemporary authors and poets, even if he had never actually read one of his books, I could not help but wonder how he imagined himself ready to pull his accumulated scratchings into a final product.

With a full evening and day still ahead, he had selected his role model. I never saw him at the theatre again.

Even if it left me swinging up on my attempt to stablize this recovery from my recent manic episode, I was deeply inspired by the talks I attended, delighted by the company of fellow book lovers and especially grateful to a few authors who took a little extra time to encourage me as writer. I was regularly reminded that it is never too late to start.

And I am never lacking for books. In fact they seem to multiply in my life on their own as any truly avid reader knows.