I was laying in bed when I first realized what was happening. The thoughts in my head bounced around at high speed. It felt like they were bouncing off the walls of my skull, landing on a trampoline, and soaring up again. I couldn’t hush them. Couldn’t calm them down. “This is it.” I thought, and laid there— knowing sleep would be elusive for the next little while.
The buzzing wouldn’t stop. It had started a few nights before, but it was all I could hear. I knew better than to ask anyone if they could hear it too. It was relentless. Like the heat bugs in Muskoka I would hear every summer as a child. Except it didn’t mean it was warm outside and there would be days of swimming in the lake. It meant that I would hear it over everything else. When people talked. When driving. When listening to music. And all night long.
It came to a head on Saturday morning. Calvin and I were arguing about something. I looked at him— knowing he couldn’t hear it either. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. It was so loud. My skin itched. I wanted to tear it off. Nothing he was saying was reaching me. I told him we couldn’t do this. He shouldn’t be married to me. I got up, got in the car, and drove. Beside me the phone went off over and over. I thought of Red. At the end of Maddox Cove Road, I turned around and went back.
“All I can hear is buzzing.” I told him. “It won’t stop.”
A look of understanding dawned on him.
I was at a work event. There were so many people in the room. I’m still nervous about Covid. I didn’t want them to know. My head was so loud. I knew I couldn’t drink. All I wanted was a drink. How could they not see what was happening in my brain? I played the games. Talked to the people. Went to the bathroom over and over to make sure I looked normal.
I left afterword— relieved no-one had noticed my agitation.
Drove to the Duke. My friends were sitting there. Some non regulars were there. They looked happy. My head was so loud. I could barely hear people. Wait. Someone was talking to me.
“Are you still demonstrating every week?” Their voice came through to me.
I stared at them. I shifted my head forward. Calvin kept trying to talk to me. He sounded far away. It was important to appear normal. I asked people what made them smile. That works sometimes.Drags me to their reality.
They asked me what made me smile. I started to laugh hysterically. The laugh that Bethany, Anna, and Ashley would have heard years ago. Before I knew how it would make people think of me. The laugh I work hard to hide. The laugh and behaviour that pushed them away before plummeting into darkness and pushing them away for months on end. Some of the first casualties of my brain.Part of the reason I keep almost everyone at arm’s length now.
Calvin took my arm. “I’m taking you home.”
“I let it out.” I told my therapist.
My cat is sick. It’s so loud. But my cat is sick. He needs to go to the vet right away. I have an appointment with the Minister of Health too. For over two years, I’ve thought about an opportunity like this. but my head is loud. My cat is sick. But you can’t reschedule with the Minister of Health. You can’t do that. It’s something you don’t do.
The entire time I can’t think straight. My cat is sick. My head is loud. I feel outside of my body. I know this is going poorly. This is why they don’t talk to people in the throngs of lived experience isn’t it? They likely won’t take me seriously. The tears are coming. Can the people on the line hear?
They say goodbye. I sob. It’s so loud. I need my cat to be okay. Two and a half years led to that. I have no idea if they will ever give me a second chance at hearing me out about long term mental healthcare.
The psychiatrist is asking me how I am. They mention my advocacy. I get angry. I start spitting out words as the tears start to fall. My voice is shaking. It’s so loud. It will not stop.”I’m so scared.” I tell her. “I’m so scared. It’s so loud.” I rage against lithium. Oddly enough, she seems to be the more understanding about my hatred of the magic drug.
“I can’t tell people, but it’s getting harder to hide. People won’t take me seriously anymore. What if work doesn’t think I can do my job? What if I ruin everything?”
My therapist looks back at me through the screen.
“Isn’t this what you’re fighting for?” he replies “A conversation about what really happens? Isn’t this the type of thing you‘re trying to shed light on? What if someone looks at you and thinks they have to hold it together because you do?”
I stare at him. It’s so loud. If they knew, people wouldn’t want to be here. If they knew, they might be scared of me. Tuck me into a box called Insane. No-one can know. I’ve lost too many people already.
All I want to do is dance. Want to blast the music and scream and dance. My brain is loud, but it wants to dance right now. I think about Pictou Wharf. I look over at Calvin. He’s buried in a game. I know I’ve put him through enough already.
I’m furious and agitated. I don’t know what to do. It feels like if I don’t do something now I’ll need to lock myself in my room again. It hits me what I can do. Two minutes later, I get in the car and drive to Canadian Tire and spend $350 on something I’ve wanted for a year. Fun. That’s how you do it. I drive home through the noise.
I’m huddled in bed. Calvin is upstairs gaming. My fingers are tapping on the mattress. Sometimes I kick my legs up and down trying to contain myself. He’s going to be coming in later. I need to hide this from him. He can’t know about how loud it is. He can’t know I can’t stop. He’s already told me he misses me, I don’t want to make it worse. I internally laugh. The last thing I want is to be in bed. My body wants to move. I want to speak. The words are bouncing on 10x speed. I wonder if anyone noticed today how concentrated I was on speaking slowly and quietly.
Over the last little while I have worked, gone to events, spoken on TV, hung out with friends, and demonstrated weekly. This is what it’s been like in moments of looking healthy. I beg of you not to judge me. Beg of you to not think I can’t do my job or speak about mental health. Speaking up about things like this makes me scared of losing everything I work so hard for. This is hard enough to share— I’m not sure people will ever want to know the rest.
