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There are days when stuff just doesn’t feel quite right inside my head and within my heart.
There’s no real warning. It just arrives and visits for the day, regardless of what I need to get done. On those days, I’m not myself. But I move forward as much as I can, because I’ve learned that most emotions pass in time.
We’re hosts, if you will, for a short while, to feelings like sadness, anger, fear, confusion, frustration and emptiness. And all we can do while they’re here is be gracious: talk to them; invite them in; ask why they’re here; and then, as if you would to any “guest” overstaying a welcome… don’t be shy to show them the Exit door.
A couple of weeks ago I was invited to a press conference about a new Canadian initiative called NOT MYSELF TODAY, which aims to get us talking openly and without shame about having bad days.
I’d like to say here and now that mental “health” and mental “illness” are under one umbrella, but that they are not the same discussion. What I’m sharing with you here is about gauging and sharing (and even regulating) our moods to live happier, more productive and less-stress filled lives.
Through Not Myself Today, you can take a pledge to pay more attention to your daily mental health status, while also learning how to keep a caring eye out for friends and family who might be struggling with their own thoughts and emotions as well.
This is an initiative I support, through and through.
The brain is a complex place – to not have a couple of wires short circuit every now and again would be, well, odd. The message, however, isn’t that we all have bad days and some of us struggle with being depressed – we know this. Instead, the message is about what we can do to keep our heads above water, open up to people who care and, above all, manifest the compassion and understanding in each other needed to help one another, genuinely and without judgement.
On Monday, April 30, from 6 a.m. to 6 p.m., you can sign your name and pledge to a huge wall at Yonge/Dundas Square. (more on the day of action here). I will be there at some point to sign my own name, plus take in the good energy that comes from people helping to lift the veil of silence on the subject of mental health. If you see me there, please do say hello – it always makes my day.
Follow @NMTCanada for updates on the initiative on Twitter.
-sandy.
I can’t help but notice that there’s something missing from Swiffer commercials: men. Now, I don’t know about you, but if I was a dude, I’d ask why.
Don’t men care about having clean home? (sure they do!) Don’t men do housework? (my guy does) And don’t couples/parents handle the household together in a “typical” or family, which is what these companies want us to think: that this product is part in parcel of the perfect family picture.
I’m confused. I just keep noticing over and over and over that men are missing from advertising for cleaning products, but Swiffer happens to be the worst of them, lately, I think.
Fail, Swiffer. Fail. You’re missing out on 49% of the consumer population! Get on it, Swiffer. Men want to clean, too.
-sandy.
One of my earliest memories with my grandmother revolves around Easter and Cadbury Creme Eggs. I know this small story won’t blow anyone away or draw any incredibly deep conclusions about the circle of life or anything, but I decided to share it anyway because in a city like Toronto, which is so densely populated with Portuguese immigrants, I can’t be the only one who has loved and lost a “vavo”. Of all the memories that have been flooding back these last three days since she passed, this one has come back to me over and over again. Thanks for reading.
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Every Easter my grandmother would have delicious creme-filled milk chocolate ovals ready for me when I came to visit. My mother must have been so young then, maybe 32. That just occurred to me as I wrote it.
I figured out how to crack the chocolate ovals with a spoon so that I could scoop out the insides and eat the creamy middle as if it were a sweet cup of pudding. I loved this ritual and it was something I only did at my grandma’s house, which was a small, cozy, but dark, basement apartment. She later moved to a gorgeous second-floor post-war apartment just off of Ossington and Dundas, which is where I spent a large part of my childhood visiting her. Good memories happened there.
My grandmother died on Easter Sunday this year. I’m not a religious person in the least, but even I can appreciate that she would have been happy to know that she left this world on a significant day to her faith.
Yesterday was her funeral. It was small and just the immediate family, but I couldn’t have hoped of a more perfect coincidence to end her 86 years on Earth. I only wish I could have heard more about the early part of her life before she left us. From what I do know though, she sounds like she was a strong young woman, one with an incredible will to survive.
I miss her so much already.
On the bright side, from now on Easter has new meaning for me. Along with chocolate creme eggs and Portuguese sweet bread, this time of year will forever be a space on the calendar for me to honor my grandmother.
and for that I am grateful
-sandy.
Ps: I should mention that I learned the most interesting fact about my grandmother last night, one that each of my aunts (I have three, plus one uncle) and even my mom failed to mention all the years of my life: my grandmother’s middle name was JESUS.
amen.
happiness.