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Michael Catney

The "beast" has controlled my life for most of the last 10 years. Sure, there were times of clarity, where I could function normally—hold a job, date, enjoy friends, feel as if I was a contributing member of society and not just a shadow walking among the living. But then this beast would inevitably rear its ugly head again, and I would vanish from the face of the earth—retreating to my rooms, the one in my home and the one in my head.

I'd lose touch with many things normally taken for granted. It's as if I couldn't hear the music or see the colours around me, and the words that I read and write would have no meaning; they didn't bring to my mind the visions they should. I didn't laugh at what others thought was humorous. A cloud of sadness and despair hung over me, and like a tornado to a trailer park, it would consume me.

Those of us with this illness are considered by others to be clients, patients, victims and survivors. But I truly believe that many of these people are some of the greatest actors alive, me included. The ones who didn't successfully take their own lives are courageous heroes, for they must venture out every day, trying to 'act' normal amongst the rest of society.

For many years I not only functioned, but also excelled at anything I put my mind to. From high school track star to my years in the military where I led and was responsible for the daily routines and lives of 38 other soldiers—not once did anyone detect the emptiness and despair that I carried in my heart and my mind.

To the beast, age, gender and colour are of no concern. It will take anyone. Even when I was a young teenager, the beast had started its process of engulfing my soul and mind. I was truly alone, unable to tell anyone what I was feeling or the sad thoughts that bombarded my mind. Back then, people just assumed that I was shy or a loner. But all I really wanted and needed was one person to put a hand on my shoulder and ask me, "What's wrong?" I know I would have blurted it all out, even with the paranoid thoughts I had: if I tell, I won't be able to stop, and then they'll cart me off to some asylum to live the rest of my life in a white padded room.

I'm a 'survivor' of child abuse. Over the past two years, I have done intense work with an abuse therapist. My therapist compared what I went through from ages six to 16 to the experience of American prisoners in the Vietnam War. Like me, they endured many forms of abuse: mental, bodily, emotional, physiological, and sexual—the 'complete package.' With the help of many in the mental health services, however, I have been able to put my past in perspective and have dealt with all that pain and shame in a positive manner.

If you believe, truly believe in yourself, and if you hold on and admit your illness not only to yourself, but to professionals that deal with mental illness, you can and will be able to tame and even control that beast. As you progress through the dark tunnel called therapy, the beast inside will tell you that it won't help. But I'm here to tell you that you can come out the other side to a bright and different existence.

Through the journey of therapy and medications, you will gain knowledge and a better understanding of the signs that the beast is trying to get control of you. With this knowledge, you will control the beast. You will again feel and act just like you did when your own beast was in hibernation. You'll be able to lock that beast in a cage. Then, one day when you're mentally and emotionally strong, you might be able to slay your beast, so it will never make another appearance in your life.

You may read this and think that you can't, but I'm living proof that you can. If I can go through it all and be able to laugh and live again, so can you.

Michael lives in White Rock, BC. Mike developed depression and post-traumatic stress disorder after many years posted overseas as a peacekeeper in the Canadian army. In addition to assorted ventures and volunteer positions, he is writing his autobiography.