So, after only four full days online, I am already feeling the overwhelming support for this little project - thank you all so much for your support! Putting this together has been a little bit daunting, and more than a little bit scary, but seeing the positive reaction has been well worth it. I have received many personal messages from people who have gone through similar and yet different experiences with mental illness in their own lives, and it's been extremely moving to hear their stories. I have to admit that I didn't (and still don't exactly) know where this is going to go, and how far I can take it, but just getting the issue talked about is the main thing - now the challenge will be to keep the momentum going! I'm very pleased to report that $750 has already been raised through the CMHA donation page, and Taking Off The Taboo's first fundraiser, a holiday wine and cheese event, has now been planned for early December! Stay tuned for some tips on how to hold your own simple holiday fundraising event, for this or any other charity of your choice! Also, if there are any questions, comments, suggestions or anything else you'd like to share, I've set up an e-mail address for that purpose: [email protected] - please feel free to voice your opinions!
This issue is obviously very personal to me, but I don't want to make this only about my mother, or my singular cause - obviously the underlying idea here is that mental health issues effect everyone, and my story is not much different than so many others out there. However, I have to concede that embarking on this journey has been about so much more than learning about mental illnesses for me. It has also been about learning about my mother, and the amazing life that she led. In the past few weeks my godmother has put me in touch with some people who knew my mother in her youth. In talking to her and my father and others, I am starting to piece together a picture of a remarkable woman - it is amazing how much she accomplished despite having, at times, such a tragic life. The fond memories people have of her is a testament to the person that she was. I know that there is regret on the part of many for not recognizing her cries for help earlier, and for not understanding her illness better - especially in the 1980s, the topic was just not discussed in most circles. I myself am ashamed in many ways of my own aversion to learning about her and her condition - I feel sad that though she's been gone 23 years, I am only just getting to know her now. But I aim to change that. Although it may be a bit self-indulgent (but really, aren't all blogs?), seeing that her death has inspired the creation of this endeavor, I'd like to share a bit about what I learn along the way, both about mental health, and also about my mother. I hope that perhaps it will bring to light some factors that came in to play with her decline. Again, I in no way mean to discount the countless other stories and experiences, or imply that her situation is unique, but it is the experience I can write most personally about, and come closest to giving an accurate account of. And so I begin, at well, the beginning, and a bit about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
With Remembrance Day just this past Sunday, the topic of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) among veterans was featured fairly prominently in the news. The concept is not a new one; the term "shell shock" was often applied to despondent soldiers returning from World War I who had suffered from or witnessed horrific trauma. Often it was seen as a weakness of character, and something to be ashamed of. In fact, in WWI the British Army only paid pensions to those soldiers whose shell shock was proven attributable to explosive exposure; that is, it had a physical cause, not a mental one. Today we call it by a different name, and the concept has branched out beyond traumas associated specifically with war. As defined by the CMHA, PTSD is an anxiety disorder characterized by reliving a psychologically traumatic situation, long after any physical danger involved has passed, through flashbacks and nightmares. It often occurs after seeing or experiencing a traumatic event that involved the threat of injury or death. As serious as this sounds, some people continue dismiss the idea; wondering why people can't just suck it up and carry on, and just "get over it", particularly when the disorder occurs in people who haven't been involved in combat. The reality is that most of us can simply not even begin to fathom what it would be like to live through a truly traumatic experience (especially without support), and have no idea what it would do to our mental state if we did.
I am no expert in this subject, and the purpose of this blog is not to go into the medical or psychological diagnoses of PTSD, but I'd like to highlight some of my mother's own experiences as a young child, that more than likely contributed to her fragile mental health. A bit of family history yes, but I think an interesting story, nonetheless...
Born in 1941 in Riga, Latvia, Daina Mercs was the second daughter of Lilija and Hugo Mercs, a sister to Brigita. My grandfather was a very talented artist, sculptor, and woodworker, and my grandmother a university professor. At that time, Latvia was under Nazi rule, having just undergone a two year period of civil unrest against Soviet occupation - rigged elections, mass deportations and executions of so called "traitors", who were in fact Latvian nationalists who had seen their homeland taken out from under them. The Latvian people initially saw the Nazis as their liberators, but of course there was no plan to return autonomy to Latvia, and the punishments for rebellion against this new regime of terror came just as swiftly and brutally as the Soviets' before. By 1944, the tide of the war had started to turn, and Latvia once again came under Soviet rule. Many Latvians (my grandfather and his family included) decided to flee to Germany, fearing persecution from the Soviets - curiously that seemed a better option, despite the losing battle that was occurring there.
My mother, then just 2 years old, and her family fled Latvia with not much more than a suitcase, to Germany in 1944, where my grandfather had an artist friend who had agreed to help him out and give him work. The landed initially in Berlin, but left shortly after for Dresden, which seemed safer at the time, when the capital city was being constantly bombarded by Allied troops. Tragically, they were in Dresden during the final months of the War, and suffered through the bitter air attacks in February of 1945. The horror of this time as a young child must have been unspeakable. Among the ruins of Dresden, the family found a child's abandoned wagon, put their meager possessions in it, and started literally heading for the hills. As they made their way to the Alps, attempting to seek refuge in Switzerland, my mother became very ill, near death from starvation, and my grandfather was getting bread to feed his family by any means he could. My aunt recalls that in this time, though my grandfather was starving as well, he sacrificed every morsel for his young daughters, an image that remains burned on her memory to this day, almost 70 years later.
In the nick of time they were rescued by the Red Cross, and my mother in particular was saved by a young soldier who had illegally procured some penicillin (not readily available for anyone outside the military) for her. They were then taken to a Displaced Persons camp, where according to an old friend of hers, my mother would later recall that "women in DP camps might sell themselves for a few cigarettes", and "that she wondered how her own mother had survived.". This same friend also wrote me "I remember her admonishing me to eat the complete apple, with core and everything because you didn’t know where your next food was coming from." I remember a particular time when I was maybe 6 or 7 and drew the ire of my grandmother for similar reasons. My good friend Meghan and I had taken it upon ourselves to take all of the vegetables in our fridge, the bouillon cubes out of the cupboard, and throw them into the kiddie pool I had in the backyard, add some water from the garden hose, and make soup. To us at the time, it was harmless, childish thing to do, but my grandmother was so livid, and so offended to her core that we had wasted this food, that she made us eat the soup we'd made, raw potatoes and all. Of course not the whole pool's worth, but enough to prove a point, and, not surprisingly, we never did it again! I will never forget that, and looking back now, can understand what a horrible shame it must have been for her given her experiences.
Naturally I don't suppose to say that all of my mother's mental health issues stemmed from her childhood hardships, but it would be ignorant to assume that they played no role at all in the development of her being. Her story is not unique - so many people experience trauma in their childhoods. and often later. Some are able to cope better than others, either with or without treatment. Those that are able cope effectively may have less genetic or neurological predisposition to the illness, and almost always have better support networks to rely on for assistance. What is important I think to note here is our own attitudes towards Post Traumatic Stress perhaps need to be more sympathetic; that we can not be so self-righteous to assume that we know what someone has gone through, much less judge how they have reacted to unseen and unknown trauma. As the old saying goes, before you judge a person, walk a mile in their shoes. In the mean time, let's just count ourselves lucky that we will probably never have to.
This issue is obviously very personal to me, but I don't want to make this only about my mother, or my singular cause - obviously the underlying idea here is that mental health issues effect everyone, and my story is not much different than so many others out there. However, I have to concede that embarking on this journey has been about so much more than learning about mental illnesses for me. It has also been about learning about my mother, and the amazing life that she led. In the past few weeks my godmother has put me in touch with some people who knew my mother in her youth. In talking to her and my father and others, I am starting to piece together a picture of a remarkable woman - it is amazing how much she accomplished despite having, at times, such a tragic life. The fond memories people have of her is a testament to the person that she was. I know that there is regret on the part of many for not recognizing her cries for help earlier, and for not understanding her illness better - especially in the 1980s, the topic was just not discussed in most circles. I myself am ashamed in many ways of my own aversion to learning about her and her condition - I feel sad that though she's been gone 23 years, I am only just getting to know her now. But I aim to change that. Although it may be a bit self-indulgent (but really, aren't all blogs?), seeing that her death has inspired the creation of this endeavor, I'd like to share a bit about what I learn along the way, both about mental health, and also about my mother. I hope that perhaps it will bring to light some factors that came in to play with her decline. Again, I in no way mean to discount the countless other stories and experiences, or imply that her situation is unique, but it is the experience I can write most personally about, and come closest to giving an accurate account of. And so I begin, at well, the beginning, and a bit about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
With Remembrance Day just this past Sunday, the topic of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) among veterans was featured fairly prominently in the news. The concept is not a new one; the term "shell shock" was often applied to despondent soldiers returning from World War I who had suffered from or witnessed horrific trauma. Often it was seen as a weakness of character, and something to be ashamed of. In fact, in WWI the British Army only paid pensions to those soldiers whose shell shock was proven attributable to explosive exposure; that is, it had a physical cause, not a mental one. Today we call it by a different name, and the concept has branched out beyond traumas associated specifically with war. As defined by the CMHA, PTSD is an anxiety disorder characterized by reliving a psychologically traumatic situation, long after any physical danger involved has passed, through flashbacks and nightmares. It often occurs after seeing or experiencing a traumatic event that involved the threat of injury or death. As serious as this sounds, some people continue dismiss the idea; wondering why people can't just suck it up and carry on, and just "get over it", particularly when the disorder occurs in people who haven't been involved in combat. The reality is that most of us can simply not even begin to fathom what it would be like to live through a truly traumatic experience (especially without support), and have no idea what it would do to our mental state if we did.
I am no expert in this subject, and the purpose of this blog is not to go into the medical or psychological diagnoses of PTSD, but I'd like to highlight some of my mother's own experiences as a young child, that more than likely contributed to her fragile mental health. A bit of family history yes, but I think an interesting story, nonetheless...
Born in 1941 in Riga, Latvia, Daina Mercs was the second daughter of Lilija and Hugo Mercs, a sister to Brigita. My grandfather was a very talented artist, sculptor, and woodworker, and my grandmother a university professor. At that time, Latvia was under Nazi rule, having just undergone a two year period of civil unrest against Soviet occupation - rigged elections, mass deportations and executions of so called "traitors", who were in fact Latvian nationalists who had seen their homeland taken out from under them. The Latvian people initially saw the Nazis as their liberators, but of course there was no plan to return autonomy to Latvia, and the punishments for rebellion against this new regime of terror came just as swiftly and brutally as the Soviets' before. By 1944, the tide of the war had started to turn, and Latvia once again came under Soviet rule. Many Latvians (my grandfather and his family included) decided to flee to Germany, fearing persecution from the Soviets - curiously that seemed a better option, despite the losing battle that was occurring there.
My mother, then just 2 years old, and her family fled Latvia with not much more than a suitcase, to Germany in 1944, where my grandfather had an artist friend who had agreed to help him out and give him work. The landed initially in Berlin, but left shortly after for Dresden, which seemed safer at the time, when the capital city was being constantly bombarded by Allied troops. Tragically, they were in Dresden during the final months of the War, and suffered through the bitter air attacks in February of 1945. The horror of this time as a young child must have been unspeakable. Among the ruins of Dresden, the family found a child's abandoned wagon, put their meager possessions in it, and started literally heading for the hills. As they made their way to the Alps, attempting to seek refuge in Switzerland, my mother became very ill, near death from starvation, and my grandfather was getting bread to feed his family by any means he could. My aunt recalls that in this time, though my grandfather was starving as well, he sacrificed every morsel for his young daughters, an image that remains burned on her memory to this day, almost 70 years later.
In the nick of time they were rescued by the Red Cross, and my mother in particular was saved by a young soldier who had illegally procured some penicillin (not readily available for anyone outside the military) for her. They were then taken to a Displaced Persons camp, where according to an old friend of hers, my mother would later recall that "women in DP camps might sell themselves for a few cigarettes", and "that she wondered how her own mother had survived.". This same friend also wrote me "I remember her admonishing me to eat the complete apple, with core and everything because you didn’t know where your next food was coming from." I remember a particular time when I was maybe 6 or 7 and drew the ire of my grandmother for similar reasons. My good friend Meghan and I had taken it upon ourselves to take all of the vegetables in our fridge, the bouillon cubes out of the cupboard, and throw them into the kiddie pool I had in the backyard, add some water from the garden hose, and make soup. To us at the time, it was harmless, childish thing to do, but my grandmother was so livid, and so offended to her core that we had wasted this food, that she made us eat the soup we'd made, raw potatoes and all. Of course not the whole pool's worth, but enough to prove a point, and, not surprisingly, we never did it again! I will never forget that, and looking back now, can understand what a horrible shame it must have been for her given her experiences.
Naturally I don't suppose to say that all of my mother's mental health issues stemmed from her childhood hardships, but it would be ignorant to assume that they played no role at all in the development of her being. Her story is not unique - so many people experience trauma in their childhoods. and often later. Some are able to cope better than others, either with or without treatment. Those that are able cope effectively may have less genetic or neurological predisposition to the illness, and almost always have better support networks to rely on for assistance. What is important I think to note here is our own attitudes towards Post Traumatic Stress perhaps need to be more sympathetic; that we can not be so self-righteous to assume that we know what someone has gone through, much less judge how they have reacted to unseen and unknown trauma. As the old saying goes, before you judge a person, walk a mile in their shoes. In the mean time, let's just count ourselves lucky that we will probably never have to.
Though it's by no means a complete authority on the subject, some interesting information on PTSD and the research being done surrounding it can be found on Wikipedia. If you're interested in learning more, please follow the link below: