A Precursor To An Upcoming Post About Volunteering with Mental Health Patients

Mental health has always been an interest of mine. I find it fascinating and I love learning about the different ways people think, feel, and function in the world as a whole.

You’d be surprised by how many people are affected by some sort of mental health disorder – in fact, 1 in 4 people have been diagnosed with a mental illness. Severity varies, but it’s so common in today’s society and it shouldn’t be a taboo subject. I’d like to write more posts on mental health and the different degrees of it, because it affects everyone differently.

However, I thought I would take another approach on mental health – one that I use to address just about everything: humour.

Seriously, if you can’t laugh about things, your life will be very sad. Being able to laugh about things not only makes it easier for people to talk about, but also gets rid of the “hush-hush” mentality that so many of us employ when addressing the issue of mental health.

I’ve started volunteering at the local mental health centre in a town near mine, and they talk a lot about the stigma that follows mental illness and it’s perception in society. It’s true, everything thinks of mentally ill people as being crazy or nuts, but I think it’s because they don’t understand. And who can, really? What we have to understand is that people with mental health issues are still people, and they still have the same feelings and thoughts as everyone else. You don’t call someone with cancer a “cancerous person” (or maybe you do, but that’s your deal); why would you call someone with schizophrenia a “schizophrenic person”? It’s not an identity.

So laugh about it, if it’s easier to deal with it that way. Make jokes, but do it with the knowledge that it is serious, that there’s so much to learn about it, and that more people than you realize suffer from it.

Now that I’ve expressed the fact that I get the importance of creating mental health awareness and that people who suffer are wrongly represented in society, please stay tuned for a soon to come post detailing my experiences of my first day of volunteer orientation.

The Art of Meditation

S and I have become addicted to hot yoga. Sure, part of it might be the knowledge that it burns almost 1000 calories per 90 minute session (!!) but it also makes our skin feel amazing and we feel super cleansed.

I even feel like eating salad afterwards.

I know, right?

We went to another class on Monday night, S wanting to work off a McChicken sandwich and me wanting to work off a large amount of chocolate consumed earlier in the day (some of which may have been eaten before lunch. Don’t judge me).

I don’t know if the heat was on higher than usual or we were just in a spot that got very poor circulation, but it was bloody hot in that room. The thing is, when I’m working out with a lot of people around, I tend to push myself a little more so I don’t feel quite so inadequate.

Newsflash? You can’t do that in hot yoga. Seriously, your body, like, won’t let you. My heart started pounding, my head was spinning, and holding my arms in the air felt like the hardest exercise in the world. If you push past your limit, you will die.

So while everyone is holding Warrior 3 for hours on end, I curl down into Child’s Pose to catch my breath. Also, I can’t see everyone else so I forget that there are much fitter people all around me.

Well I mean, really. Watching the little blonde Gumby-like freak ahead of me curl her body into ridiculous poses while I couldn’t even touch my foot with my legs straight just makes me feel really bad about myself, and that’s not what yoga is about, okay?!

Ahem.

So, it was hot. The studio just got new windows installed that open (novelty!) but they obviously don’t open them very much because that would defeat the purpose of hot yoga. Maybe they think people won’t sweat as much? Which, unless you’re me, is probably true.

The windows were open the tiniest little crack. I, in my desperation for air that wasn’t thick with the sweat of 29 other people and cranked to a toasty 100 degree Fahrenheit, crouched toward the window in the hope of catching a tiny breeze.

Ah, bliss! I found that if I knelt in front of the window, tilted my head to the side at about a 90 degree angle, and pressed my nose directly against the little window so that my nostrils were placed quite prominently on the window’s edge (think Miss Piggy), I could breathe cold air. And that’s what I did.

Please keep in mind that the windows face a very busy street. And they don’t have curtains on them.

Whatever. It helped. So suck it.

Finally, the end of class was upon us. Since meditation is an integral part of the yoga practice, we ended the class with a collective “om” that would release any tension that built up as a result of some of the more difficult moves.

Or something.

All I know is that I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs to last even halfway through the “om” and, even if I could, it wouldn’t have happened because S couldn’t hold the laughter in any longer.

And, by extension, that means I couldn’t, either.

It started with hearing S snicker. As soon as I heard her, I lost control of my own laughter and started to shake uncontrollably as I prayed to Buddha (what? It’s yoga, it’s like his thing) that I wouldn’t snort. I kind of hope it looked like I was crying, what with being so emotional as I became in tune with my body.

S tried to cover her hysterics by pretending to sneeze into her towel. She’s actually that awesome.

Everyone meditates differently. We just happen to do it by laughing ourselves into hysterics.

And you know what? A laughing fit with a close friend is better meditation and relaxation than any yoga practice.

Hugs and kisses,

Bella

(Oh, yeah, the hugs and kisses? It’s kind of this new thing I’m trying, you know, as a sign off. Jury’s still out.)

For the Love of the Game

(Disclaimer: I have no idea who this pitcher is. I just searched Blue Jays Baseball and that's what came up. My apologies to you sports fanatics).

M has played baseball for as long as I can remember. I pretty much grew up around ball diamonds in the summer and hockey arenas in the winter.

I did my own activities, but his always took more time and I wasn’t old enough to stay home alone. So I tagged along with my parents as we took in game after game after game. There were perks, though, like the away game trips to different cities and to Europe. They were pretty awesome.

As soon as I was old enough to stay home by myself, I took full advantage of it (unless, of course, I was in the throes of young love with one of his teammates, which was more often than not. And by being in the throes of young love, I mean I admired the boy in question from afar while he had no idea what my name was).

(Actually, I think I stayed in love with one of them for about three summers. Of course, there was always another one of the many boys who I also lusted after – usually if he so much as looked my way – but there was one in particular that I thought was amazing. That being said, I think I developed a crush on every boy that M played hockey and/or baseball with. Naturally, I thought they were all in love with me, too).

Anyway, M’s last game of the season was last night, and my parents, R, my Grandpa (Grandma was trying her luck at her favourite sport – gambling), and K were all planning on attending to cheer him on. I figured I could make an appearance and act as the supportive sister, so I joined in the fun.

I realized the two reasons why I never liked going to the games in the first place. 1) It’s boring. Seriously. It may be fun to play, but not so much to watch. 2) Watching M play makes me really nervous. It always has. I hate if he doesn’t do well and my stomach is in knots every time he throws a pitch, even if he’s having a really ‘on’ game, which is more often than not. He’s a great ball player. Maybe it’s a protective sibling thing.

I was more interested in arguing with R (he eventually told me to stop talking to him) and giggling with K about the catcher’s nicely fitted pants (they were wonderful) and the bent over stretches executed by the players right in front of us as they readied themselves to hit the ball.

However, one thing I never really got a taste of in all my spectator experience is the conversation topics that the players discuss on the bench. I was sitting right beside the dugout (not a strategic placing, trust me. I looked like a bum and they all have girlfriends) and was privy to the delightful discussions of these mid 20 year old men.

Definitely not what I was expecting.

Please enjoy the snippets of chatter that I eavesdropped from the dugout:

“I had eggs, bacon, hash browns, and a cup of tea, and my bill was $22!”
“A cup of tea?” (My thoughts exactly)
“Yeah, I drink tea, fuck you.”

“I don’t bake, but she’s really good at baking. She doesn’t eat cake but she bakes cake and it’s really good. I don’t use recipes, though, so I can’t bake. I just cook. Like, I couldn’t use a recipe.” (Thanks, Captain Obvious. I think we got it. Also, to whoever “she” is, I would like to ask the following: Who the hell doesn’t eat the cake you bake? You’re skinny, aren’t you? Bitch)

“You are no longer a convenient store. I am a convenient store.” (Don’t ask me)

Good to know they were paying attention to the game.

The World of Hot Yoga...Is Sweaty

My awesome friend, S, and I decided to branch out on our exercise experiences by partaking in a hot yoga class on Saturday morning.

(Haha, I never realized that I use the first initials of my friends like Gossip Girl does on, um, Gossip Girl. S, E, J, L – it’s like how Serena and Blair call each other by their initials and how Gossip Girl totally uses initials to maintain some anonymity but everyone KNOWS who they actually are and – ahem…)

By walking into the building of the hot yoga experience, we inadvertently walked into the world where people think they are awesome all of the time and believe that everyone in a 20 feet radius wants to hear their stupid stories about how fantastic they are. Um, advice? Maybe you don’t want to yell about your awesomeness, as there will always, more often than not, be someone around that WILL judge you. S and I were those people. Just saying.

We sign up, though after being told that we should have registered online. Woopsy. Our bad. When the instructor then told another girl that there may not be room, S and I made sure to make it known that we would gladly give up our spots for an already registered person.

Haha, please. We definitely looked the other way and acted as though the room wasn’t small enough that we could hear the conversation clearly.

What? We really wanted to try hot yoga.

As we entered the holy temple (seriously, it wouldn’t surprise me if some people regarded the room as such), there was barely room for our mats amongst the people chilling out in Savasana (or something).

We giggled our way into setting up our towels, mats, and water, and then promptly settled in to make fun of all the people that were stretching their limbs and waving their hands in time to the haunting music playing on the loudspeakers.

I wish I was kidding. I’m not.

S made note of the creepy way all the people were laying so still, and then we shared in a moment of snickering.

I told her to “sshh” as she cleared her throat, and then burst into laughter at my charming wit.

We both had trouble swallowing our laughter as the instructor started the class and the breathing began. I could hear S’s exhalations tinged with the shaking laughter that only arises when you know you aren’t supposed to be finding anything amusing in the present situation.

As we were “losing ourselves” in our present minds, I instead looked over at S every five seconds to see if she was finding this as funny as I was. She was.

We both couldn’t contain ourselves as the room was filled with heavy breathing that sounded as though it belonged in an orgy. I could practically hear S thinking, “Who breathes like this? What losers!”

I was thinking the same thing.

Class began, and it wasn’t long before sweat was pouring off us in a way that I’m fairly certain neither of us has experienced before. Thank God all the fit people were sweating, too. I think I would have walked out if they were all fresh and dry as I was trying to do downward dog in a puddle of my own sweat.

I was blinded by my sweat more times that I could count. I couldn’t grip anything by the end, so when we were told to hold our knees to our chest, I was frantically trying to get a hold on my slippery leg (and failing miserably). As I glanced over to S, she looked at me with tears in her eyes.

Okay, it was sweat. But the tears would have made sense to me. I was feeling a certain amount of emotion, and it wasn’t because I was getting in tune with my body. It was hot in there, yo.

We managed to finish the class and, let me tell you, there was no laughter going on at the end. There were moments when I felt consciousness slipping away. Seriously, that exercise is frickin’ crazy, but it feels great, and it does wonders for your skin.

Oh, and the breathing we made fun at the beginning? I’m pretty sure we were the loudest ones practicing the extreme exhalation at the end as we tried to keep a hold on our consciousness. Guess those yogis know what they’re talking about…

Who knew?

Writer's Block - Otherwise Known As Being Completely Clueless

Ok, seriously? How do people come up with things to write about every single day?

M writes his own blog about sports, but I don’t read it because I don’t understand half the things he talks about (I also don’t care). We differ in the sports that we like (he prefers baseball over hockey, whereas I love hockey and loathe baseball). He might argue that I know very little about the Toronto Maple Leafs, my favourite team (I use that term loosely as I don’t even know the players). He would be correct.

However, having grown up in hockey arenas due to his former love of the sport (sure, now, when I would like to be surrounded by hockey playing men, he decides that he "doesn’t like it” - I think he was too concerned with his looks being compromised by playing a rough sport), I do know the rules and the fast paced excitement is enough to make me fall off the exercise bike in anticipation of a goal. True story.

However, I don’t know enough about the sport of Canadians to write posts about it, nor do I want to. Why would I want to write about stats of players? All I care about is whether or not they’re single and if they have all of their teeth – or at least really good dentures.

The other blogs I read are about amazing causes like finding a cure for Cystic Fibrosis (difficult to devote a blog to when I know very little about the disease), but I don’t suffer from a disease myself – besides craziness, but that doesn’t count. The others are about family life and kids (which I don’t have). I could write about politics, but I don’t really care or know about that, either.

Actually, perhaps the problem isn’t that I don’t have anything to write about, but is because I’m too clueless to know what’s going on in the world.

Interesting. Maybe I should try to broaden my horizons a bit. Come to think of it, I bet I would be able to handle myself in conversations that didn’t revolve around television, Hollywood, or 18th century literature if I knew about politics and world news.

(Oh, who am I kidding? I can’t talk about literature anymore. I spend my time reading chick lit and autobiographies by authors of said chick lit).

But the news is just so…boring. Granted, I do know about things that are happening, like the boatload of foreigners that were turned away by Australia and Thailand (I think?) but welcomed with open arms and wads of cash into Canada. (Stupidest move by our government EVER, if you ask me). I’m just not so in tune with the whole story so I don’t think I should be writing my opinion based on hearsay information and tidbits of information that I glimpse on thestar.com before clicking on my favourite section – the crossword puzzles.

I have, however, started watching the news in the morning. I figure that’s a start, right? I mean, it’s Breakfast Television and most of what’s on at the time I’m watching is traffic and weather, and my hair dryer usually drowns out most of the sound, but it’s an improvement on my usual choice of morning entertainment – listening to radio shows that detail the latest gossip in Hollywood.

(Umm, there’s a reason I’m so knowledgeable about Brangelina and Lindsay Lohan’s stints in jail).

So I think that’s my goal. To read the paper and watch informative news shows in order to become well-versed in the goings on of my country and the world around me.

With a little bit of gossip mixed in, of course.