World Mental Health Day, Something to Write Home About

October 10 is World Mental Health Day. This is a day to acknowledge and raise awareness of mental health issues both in the community and around the world.
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When I was in my late twenties, I was at a family dinner with my kids. I was helping my cousin to wash up after dinner, and we were talking about depression. She told me about her experience of seasonal affective disorder (SAD), something of which I hadn’t heard. I was intrigued but also a little disturbed. The feelings she described were feelings I’d had for years—except during the summer months and not the winter.
That was a revelatory moment for me. I was able to understand my experience of feeling apathetic, sorrowful, and generally flat during the summers. I had been experiencing depression for years and hadn’t known it. Maybe I did understand but lacked the means of doing anything about it, or even the wish to.
I thought about it hard after that evening. I came to the conclusion that the accident that had taken my sight in 1974 was a kind of psychological vortex on my mental landscape that intensified during the summer. Summers didn’t become immediately easier, but I learned, with each successive year, new ways to manage myself from the beginning of May until the end of August.
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For this year’s World Mental Health Day, I encourage you to acknowledge and even commit to exploring issues of mental health in your life. Most everyone has experience of such issues, and the intention to explore them—with family, friends, or a professional—only results in a healthier mind and body and a more wholesome life.

Here are some links to places where I’ve written about mental health issues on OfOtherWorlds: from fiction and Mental health, to PTSD, to memoir.
Finally, here’s a piece I wrote several years ago as a way to try and describe my state of mind during bouts of depression. The piece is called, “Depression in 4D.” Enjoy!

Depression in 4D

Traversing myself is perilous. I walk the lines of well-worn neuropathways, carved through my psyche like lightning strikes through a forest. I step carefully, aware my foot might not remain secure—one misstep and I’m sliding sideways into another reality.
Slipping—falling. I’m dropping into a hole in a lunar landscape—not visible in this airless, barren world. Now trapped—in a foxhole blasted into this moonscape, where I turn and turn, unable to escape, while words I cannot utter drop singly from my mouth to congeal in the asteroidal dust at my feet. I will drown here, in this sinkhole of words and memories.
Time doesn’t pass. It remains fixed, fixed in the past. It’s a shard, an icicle of experience, reaching down and down, suspended from the air on an invisible hook with me frozen at its heart. I am both past and present—observing and suspended. For a heartbeat I hang—or is it a year and a day.
The world swims into focus with a silent roar, and I am confronted with the painful clarity of a grass blade, a single dagger of green that pierces my sight. It rises like a beanstalk, as I shrink to watch it speared the sky. And I am in an alien world, at the roots of a vegetable monstrosity, the danger for me lying in the carapaced and many-legged creatures I can hear crawling beneath this canopy, stalking with armoured relentlessness through the brome. One move, one step could take me away, but my feet remain fixed. Perhaps I could escape by climbing this beanstalk, but I know what waits for me in the misty heights is a giant who wants to spread my jellied flesh over toast and grind my crackling bones into bread.

Walking the River Valley

I live in a divided city—the North Saskatchewan River cuts Edmonton in half from the southwest to the northeast. It’s a physical divide, but even more it’s a psychological one. I grew up on the north side of town, but I’ve spent most of my adult life living on the south side.

It’s hard sometimes not to think of the river as a barrier. And the most dramatic view of the North Saskatchewan is from the top of the High Level Bridge. But if you get down inside the valley, then you begin to understand it as a living, moving body of water over and around which the city gathers.

In the company of Hobbits

I first encountered J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit when I was eleven. It was the fall of 1974. I was in the hospital, and two women from the schoolboard brought me an open-reel tape recorder, which was the size of a small toaster-oven. It was barely six weeks since I had lost my sight in a car accident that summer.
I hadn’t been much of a reader before I lost my sight, but I became one afterwards. And reading The Hobbit was like nothing I’d ever experienced. Perhaps my brain was simply starved for stimulus in that hospital room, but I found myself fully entering bilbo’s world. I could see the Misty Mountains marching across the horizon, and I was haunted by the figure of Gollum, lurking beneath those mountains, down there in the dark, hissing and muttering as he worried over his Precious. A year later, I got hold of Lord of the Rings, and the world of Middle-Earth opened up for me in new and astonishing ways.
I’ve read the books now more times than I can remember. I’ve watched and rewatched the films—both The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings. I’ve visited Middle-Earth—at least Peter Jackson’s Middle-Earth—and I’ve knocked on a hobbit door. I’ve stood beneath a tree in Rivendell, and I’ve even met a hobbit.

When I now teach The Hobbit in my children’s literature classes, I’m able to talk endlessly about Tolkien, about the writing of the books, and about Tolkien’s life in Oxford and his friendship with C. S. Lewis and the other Inklings. We talk about Bilbo as a burglar and all the creatures he encounters on his adventure—the trolls, the elves, Gollum, Beorn, the Wood Elves, the Lake men, and Smaug. We look at the structure of the book, and we explore the dragon sickness and what it means for the characters.
Visiting Oxford with my daughter in 2015 and seeing where Tolkien and Lewis lived and worked was for me a kind of literary hero worship in which I don’t often indulge. My daughter and I found Tolkien’s house on Northmore Road; we then parked and visited the Kilns, where Lewis lived with his brother Warnie and Mrs. Moore. We took a walk in the small park attached to the Kilns, and as we circled the pond, I thought a little longingly and a little sadly about these writers who have shaped my life so fully. They are landmarks on the map of my reading life; they have helped form my friendships, and they’ve influenced both my writing and my reading. And each time I return to The Hobbit, part of me is swept back once again to when I first read the book and felt the wonder and poignancy of discovering that country for the first time.

From the Blog Archive, A Ghost Walk

Ghost tours are always fun. And now that it’s October, you can find a number of ghost tours happening around town.
In 2016, I was part of the Ghost Walk at the University of Alberta campus. The best thing about such tours is the stories you will hear from your guide. You can read more about that walk here.
And if you want ghost stories with a local flavour, check out Barbara Smith’s books, ghost Stories of Alberta and More ghosts Stories of Alberta. Happy October!

New Fiction, This Time a Folktale

I have a story out this month. This one is a fairy tale, “The Bronze Egg.” I’ve written fractured fairy tales, and what I call apocalyptic fairy tales. But this one is an honest to goodness folktale—published this month in a collection of original fairy tales called Fantasia Fairy Tales. You can find the eBook here.

When my kids were small, we told stories at bedtime. I tried getting print-braille books for us to read from the CNIB library, which I did, but they came so infrequently that I needed to find another way to satisfy my children’s appetite for stories. I found an old anthology of stories from my first children’s literature course. I then found books of fairy tales and retold them to my kids. When I ran out of stories I had learned, I made them up; and when I was too tired to make them up, I cobbled them together out of anything and everything I’d ever read.
My interest in fairy tales has never waned. They appear in my courses, and I talk about them with students. I continue to write them, and I love to read them.
They are, even now, a guide to living—at least metaphorically:

1. Don’t wander off the path.
2. Avoid strangers who might want to eat or enslave you.
3. Be weary of seemingly helpless old people who want to lock you in a cage or a cupboard.
4. Beware of those close to you who suffer excessive jealousy.
5. and always—always always—be kind to animals.

Oceans on My Mind

I’m thinking about oceans this week. I’ve been lucky enough to have visited many bodies of water, and I always have a particular feeling near the water, as though my cells are responding to the pull of the tide and the rotation of the moon.

I’ve clambered with my youngest daughter over the rocks of a fallen tower on a beach near St. Andrews, Scotland. Before us, the North Sea pounds and foams, and on the far edge of the horizon, my daughter points to the coast of Norway. I think about Norway, long ago, about the Vikings who came across that sea in their long boats to terrorize Britain and Europe.
I’ve visited Cape Spear, Newfoundland, the farthest eastern point of North America, and stood and listened to the relentless pounding of the surf. John Cabot visited here as well—sailing from Bristol in 1497. They say he circled the island and may have made landfall on southern Labrador.
I’ve driven with my eldest daughter along the southeast coast of Australia, where the Tasman Sea becomes the Southern Ocean. We stop the car and climb down to the beach, and I stand and imagine the expanse of water that lies between me and the southern icecap.
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My parents took us as a family to visit the west coast when we were kids. This was one of the biggest trips we did in those days—camping all the way, save for one night in a motel because of pouring rain. We made it out to Vancouver Island and up to Rathtrevor Beach. Because the bay was shallow, I learned about the tide, and watched with fascination as the water washed nearer and nearer in the afternoon. I would come down to the beach in the morning, stopping to look at the flotsam left by the withdrawing tide—driftwood, trailing seaweed, and broken shells. To my eight-year-old eye, the beach simply looked uncovered, as though someone had just drawn back the water like a blanket.
But it was at Long Beach in Pacific Rim National Park, where the Pacific Ocean runs smack into the island, that I had my first sight of the real ocean. At first I thought it terrifying and chaotic. It was vast and moving and overwhelmed my child’s brain. But as I got used to the beach in all its parts, I began to accept it, if not understand it. We played along the beach, gathering debris to build sandcastles near the water. we would suddenly abandon that work to run into the shocking water, where we felt the huge draw and wash of the waves. Hot sun, wind, and saltwater—it all gathers into that first memory of the ocean, which I find again every time I visit the water.