A Soundtrack... for a Book?
Posted by Heather Hutchison on 12 January 2022
After all the unknowns of publishing a book, in some ways, writing
and recording music feels like stepping back into an old, comfortable
pair of shoes. Just putting on the headphones and hearing the familiar
technical lingo takes me back to the first time I ever walked into a
studio at fifteen years old. From that first day, the studio came to
represent home to me—a safe place in a world that felt anything but
safe. And yet, a lot has changed, too.
The truth is, I’ve had a
complicated relationship with music for the past number of years. Much
of the industry has changed, even in the relatively short time since I
started, and as I tried to adapt to the ever-changing landscape, I grew
bitter and resentful of the choices I felt I was being forced to make.
Because of the shifts in the way people consumed music, I felt myself
growing distant from my idealistic view of what I thought it was to be a
musician. I played music I didn’t really care about to audiences who
didn’t really care about it either, and the whole charade felt soul
crushing.
As I went through the motions onstage, I would think of
concerts in the early days, of people coming up after a show to tell me
how one of my songs had helped get them through a hard time. At fifteen
years old, that gave me the greatest sense of purpose I had ever known,
and I thought music would always be that way. But eventually, the human
connection I had always sought through music seemed to fade, and
therefore, so did my purpose for being a musician. So I stopped
performing. Continuing, I thought, would be unfair to my audience, to
myself, and perhaps most importantly, disingenuous to the very essence
of what I believed music should be. I played my last live show in 2019,
which is also when my mental health began to take a sharp decline. In
the months that followed, I stopped playing even for myself. I went from
being frustrated to apathetic about music, and by that point,
starvation and overmedication made my hands too shaky to play anyway.
Then COVID came, and live music stopped. I took it as a sign. I was done
with music.
Fast forward a couple years, some hard times, a
hospitalization that ended up being one of the most profound experiences
of my life, and writing a book about what I lived during that time.
Then, by chance, I reconnected with an old musician friend who was also
trying to find his way after his own setbacks. Maybe, we thought, it
would help both of us to play a bit of music again. We made plans to get
together and record, but only covers, I told him. “I don’t write music
anymore.” I should have known better.
It was only a matter of time until I translated the experiences I wrote about in Holding On by Letting Go into music, perhaps on some level I always knew I would. How could I
turn my back on the one thing that I have always carried with me? When
life got too heavy, there was always the piano. When emotions were too
big and too complicated, writing music helped to make sense of them. As I
began to write again, I realized, maybe I could still find a way to
help people through music. Writing songs would help me bring the message
of the book to a wider audience; a 3 minute song is a much smaller
commitment than sitting down to read a book, and though a song of course
has fewer words, through instrumentation, there are layers of emotion I
can evoke that I can’t with words alone. Music is universal, and music
heals. I have always known that.
Weeks away from the release of
my first original music in a long, long time, I feel lots of things. I’m
nervous, because it has been so long since I’ve released any of my own
songs, and as much as I made this music as part of my own healing
journey, I hope that it’ll resonate with people. But I’m also at peace,
because as I try to focus on living my life on my own terms now, I have
done the same with music. We made no compromises in recording to stay
within the bounds of one genre or to appeal to a specific demographic. I
sang what felt right, what was raw and real. Above all, I feel
gratitude. Gratitude for a friend who drove across the country twice,
because he had such strong faith in this project. For my partner, who
held down the fort without complaint so I could focus on recording. And I
am grateful to whatever fates that came together in the most unlikely
of ways to make this EP possible, so I could once again find the magic
and healing that comes from making music that feels right.
Holding On by Letting Go
How Commemorating Our Pain Can Help to Release It
Posted by Heather Hutchison on 3 September 2021
The tattoo artist walked out the door of the shop to where I stood
on the sidewalk, anxiously waiting with a group of friends. He held out
a sketchpad for their inspection. On the pad was a drawing of a
semicolon, partly made up of a music note. “It’s perfect!” they said in
unison. I would have to trust them. After all, we were here together
because they had each decided to get the same tattoo in solidarity.
A
semicolon is a common symbol of mental health awareness, particularly
around suicide, because a semicolon is used when an author could have
ended their sentence, but chose not to. Incorporating a music note into
the design was a personal touch, a symbol of the refuge I have always
found in music.
“Who wants to go first?” the artist asked. My
friends all pointed to me, the only one among us who didn’t yet have a
tattoo. I took a deep breath, walked through the door and sat shakily on
the bench as the artist placed the stencil and checked for correct
alignment. This was my last chance to get up, run out the door and say
it had been a mistake, or that I just wasn’t ready. Did I really want a
permanent reminder on my skin of what I’ve been through? My anxious
thoughts raced, but in my heart of hearts, I’d never been more sure of
anything. This tattoo would be the next, crucial step in my recovery.
As
the needle made its first mark, I held tight to my friend’s hand and my
eyes welled with tears, but not because of the pain or the fear of
regret. As that first line of ink was etched onto my skin, I felt the
most overwhelming sense of peace. Sitting in the tattoo chair, a chapter
closed. It was time to let go.
Creating such a permanent,
constant reminder of that part of my life while simultaneously releasing
that pain would seem counterintuitive, but as the tattoo artist placed a
bandage over my fresh tattoo, a weight was lifted from my shoulders.
Being visually impaired, I would never be able to see the tattoo
clearly, but I knew that whenever I looked at the outline of it, I
wouldn’t automatically think of a girl in a hospital bed, broken by
life’s circumstances. I wouldn’t think of those last, terrible days
before I was admitted to inpatient psychiatric care. That symbol on my
skin wouldn’t fuel a constant need to beat myself up over the loved ones
I hurt, or the friends I lost because of my illness.
Weeks
later, the tattoo has healed, and so, in a way, have I. When I trace
this beautiful piece of art that is now a part of me, I am anything but
sad. Instead of the dark days of acute mental illness, I think of the
beauty of friendship, the incredible humans who stood by me in
solidarity that day, the symbol of hope and healing each of us will now
carry forever. I think of a girl who has fought her way back to life, a
girl who is so much stronger than she could have imagined. I think of a
girl who is slowly learning to love and forgive herself.
This
simple tattoo carries so much meaning that it has inspired me to begin
writing and recording music again, something I thought I would likely
never return to. It is a constant reminder of the power of music to heal
this broken world, and of how music has saved me. I’m now in a place to
understand that it will continue to do so, if I’m willing to open my
heart to it once more.
I wear this symbol of my past proudly. I
will not be ashamed of who I am or what I have lived. My hope is that
maybe, one day someone will see it and understand, and that it will give
them a tiny ray of hope. That they will feel a little less alone with
their pain. That they know they can come to me and allow me to be a safe
place for them, because I too know what it is to stand at the edge of
that cliff.
What do you think? Have you found a way to commemorate a painful event in your past? Was it helpful?
Heather Hutchison
Misadventures in Blindness: The Red Rocket
Posted by Heather Hutchison on 8 July 2021
The last few entries have been a little heavy, so I thought I’d
lighten things up and talk about awkwardly hilarious misadventures in
blindness, or more specifically, one awkwardly hilarious misadventure in
blindness.
I’ve had my fair share of them: when someone walks
away mid conversation and I’m left talking to thin air for several
moments before I realize they’re gone, the times I’ve absentmindedly
opened a can of beer at 9:00 AM thinking it was a soft drink, which
would be a great excuse for day drinking if beer wasn’t my least
favourite adult beverage. But, some of the most awkward blind moments
I’ve ever had are to do with driving.
You see, I really like to
drive. Unfathomably, the rest of the world is less enthusiastic about me
being behind the wheel. Yes, I have been stopped and asked if I had a
driver’s license. Yes, it was awkward. But that’s not the story I want
to share today.
A few years ago, I decided that my enthusiasm for
driving would be better tolerated if I wasn’t driving an actual road
worthy vehicle, and thus began the search for a more unconventional set
of wheels. I found it on Craigslist—an old go-cart at a great price that
just needed a little TLC. What could go wrong?
When we got it
home, I was excited to discover that this wasn’t one of the go-carts
they rent to novices wanting to try go carting for the first time. No,
this go-cart had once been used in actual go-cart races. Jordan easily
got it running again, I shined it all up and gave it a new coat of red
paint, which earned it the name of The Red Rocket. Then, it was time to
give er a rip.
We put the go-cart in the back of the truck and
drove out to a subdivision that was under development, I fired up the
Red Rocket and off I went. It was soon apparent that there was a problem
we hadn’t considered. The engine was loud. I had the equivalent of a
gas powered lawnmower right behind my head. There was absolutely no way I
would hear the directions of “right,” ‘left,” and ‘Stop! Holy shit, for
the love of God stop!’ that Jordan was calling out from even a few feet
away. Undeterred, I hoped for the best. I bought this thing and God
dammit I was going to drive it!
A second problem also became
immediately apparent. This thing was really, really fast. As soon as I
even touched the gas, it was lurching forward like a racehorse out the
gate. There was absolutely no way to drive slowly. Still undeterred,
albeit with a bit more trepidation, I drove onwards. As I drove, I
picked up speed. I couldn’t hear Jordan, and I started to wonder where I
was. I tried to ease up on the gas. I couldn’t. I tried to press the
brake, but the gas pedal was stuck. If Jordan tells this story, he
claims it was user error. I maintain that it was the gas pedal’s fault.
At any rate, the gas pedal was pressed to the floor, and I couldn’t hit
the brake pedal. I turned in my seat to try and grab the emergency
shutoff on the motor, but in another oversight, I had forgotten to check
exactly where that was. I grasped at thin air. I knew that somewhere
around here there was a steep ditch, and a dense forest just beyond.
As
I drove (read: careened wildly through God knows where), the Red Rocket
flew over bumps and down small hills, becoming airborne at times. There
is no suspension in a go-cart. I was being battered and bruised. If I
survived this, I knew I wouldn’t be able to sit for weeks. The machine
under me seemed to have come alive, a wild animal trying its best to
buck me off of it. I knew the ditch and trees must be coming up at any
second, so I cranked the steering wheel to the right, executing a series
of epic donuts that would have made any sixteen-year-old boy jealous.
By some miracle, it was during one of said donuts that Jordan was able
to fling himself onto the go-cart and grab the emergency shutoff. The
Red Rocket came to an immediate, shuttering halt in a choking cloud of
dust. After the din of the engine, the silence that followed was
absolute. And then I began to laugh, hysterically. “Please tell me you
got that on video!” Sadly, fearing for my life, he did not.
After
that mishap, even Jordan, who has ridden motorcycles forever, was wary
of driving it. The fun was over before it had ever really started. After
ensuring that the gas and brake pedals were in good working order, we
listed the Red Rocket on Craigslist. The man who came to buy it asked if
he could take it for a ride before purchasing. “It’s really fast…”
Jordan warned. The guy shrugged in a ‘yeah right’ sort of way and
climbed in. After flying around the quiet cup de sac where we lived in a
slightly out of control manner, he came to an abrupt stop in front of
our house. As he climbed out of the Red Rocket, his face was pale and he
appeared to be shaking a little.
“You weren’t kidding!” he exclaimed. “That thing is way too fast!”
Dude, you have no idea. I thought.
Never
fear, that experience has not ended my driving career. I now have an
electric go-cart. Next time, I’ll actually be able to hear the panicked
screams before I crash it.
You can read more of my misadventures in blindness in my Memoir, Holding On by Letting Go, available as a paperback, ebook and audiobook wherever books are sold.
Why 'Self-Care' isn't Enough
Posted by Heather Hutchison on 11 June 2021
“Practice self-care every day!” “You are not alone!” “There is no better medication than being out in nature!”
We’ve
all read these sentiments. Social media is full of them. There is, of
course, validity and importance to the practice of self care, whatever
that means to each individual. I think the term ‘self-care’ has a much
broader definition than how it is frequently used on social media. But
in some instances, is this messaging doing more harm than good? Do we
sometimes use talking about self-care as a shield to avoid digging
deeper?
Self-care is an invaluable tool to have in our arsenal at
the beginning of a downward spiral, if we can define what self-care
means to us, and if we are experienced enough to know the signs that we
are spiralling. For self-care to be effective in the context of dealing
with our mental health, it requires that we interrupt our negative
thought patterns and go for a walk, have a bubble bath, etc, before we
are mired in them. But in an imperfect world, it doesn’t always work
that way. Being able to do this takes a great deal of practice and
repetition.
I recently read a popular self-help book in which the
writer, in the midst of a panic attack, holds a bottle of anti-anxiety
medication in her hand. Then, in a moment of self-discovery, she
abandons it for a walk in the woods. I cringed as I read that passage.
What message is that sending to people? As I read it, I thought of the
times I’d swallowed a pill instead of going for a walk, and instead of
feeling empowered by the story, I felt weak.
In the weeks before I
was hospitalized, I was completely unable to function. I was
dangerously thin, and heavily medicated. Because of starvation and the
combination of medications, I shook constantly. By my final days at
home, I could barely make it up and down the stairs in my house. I was
not communing with trees whilst going for long walks in nature. I had
also stopped taking care of my basic needs. I didn’t shower, partly
because I didn’t have the energy to do it, and partly because honestly, I
couldn’t even really remember how. Needless to say, I was not soaking
in long bubble baths, surrounded by candles. I was still breathing, but I
was no longer there. And then, through the fog, I’d check social media
and read all about practicing self-care. I’d ask myself why I couldn’t
find the strength to help myself, and it became just another failure on
my very long list of failures. If I had only been better at self-care, I
figured I wouldn’t have gotten to the place I was in. The posts from
others encouraging absolutely anyone who is struggling to reach out to
them is a nice sentiment, but, as with many others who struggle with
mental health challenges, instead of reaching out, I withdrew. I read
the posts by influencers proclaiming some variation of ”You are not
alone,” and instead of being comforted, I felt even more alone.
Is
there a more balanced approach we could take when talking about mental
health on social media and in pop culture? Are there more inclusive ways
that we can be supporting each other? Yes, we talk a lot about
self-care because it is important and effective, but it’s also a lot
more comfortable than talking about fighting through the darkness so we
can even reach the point where self-care is a possibility. What does
that darkness really look like? Instead of being something negative,
could sharing our own darkness actually be a light that guides someone
else through theirs? We hear so much messaging around ending the stigma,
but, in my opinion, if that is truly the goal, it involves having some
uncomfortable conversations.
When I was hospitalized for
psychiatric care, my loved ones searched for information on what that
meant for me, and save for a few clinically written documents and
articles about the Mental Health Act, they found very little about the
process or the experiences of others. Yet we are inundated with articles
on how to form healthier habits, articles which, in many cases, don’t
mention the journey of finally getting to the point of being able to
start working to form said healthy habits. Might that be because
self-care is an easier pill to swallow? Of course, recovery doesn’t
happen unless a person is willing to put in the work to help themselves.
But what happens in the acute situations before a person can reach the
point where that is possible? At the time, all the talk around self-care
only served to further isolate me, and I am quite confident there are
many people out there who have lived the same experience.
There
are no clear, easy answers about how to talk about mental health while
making everyone feel included and heard, no matter where they are on
their journey. But I think it’s important to try. This isn’t to say that
recovery and resilience shouldn’t be our focus, but neither should we
ignore the darkness. How can we bring those dark places into the light?
How can we help people to feel less isolated when they are not in a
place yet where they are capable of helping themselves? How can we know
the true power and meaning of recovery if we don’t see the hell that
comes before it?
Holding On by Letting Go
Looking Back and Moving Forward
Posted by Heather Hutchison on 4 June 2021
*** Holding On by Letting Go is now available in print and ebook wherever books are sold!***
Exactly
one year ago today, I lay in a hospital bed, scared, defeated and
utterly alone. I had reached absolute rock bottom, there was nowhere
left to fall. The intensity of that pain and grief is hard to put into
words. But that night, I bore silent witness to a series of events that
would change everything.
In a split second of clarity, I
understood that I had a choice to make. I could bide my time and wait
until I could die, or I could live. There in the darkness of that
hospital room, surrounded by signs of death and hopelessness, I made my
decision. I chose life.
I understood that I was being given
another chance. If I was going to take it and allow myself the gift of
life, I knew I could not continue living how I had been. I needed to do
something meaningful with that second chance.
And today, exactly one year later, I am releasing Holding On by Letting Go into the world, in hopes that it will reach someone who needs it.
It
has been a long, hard road from that night to where I am one year
later. Recovery is not linear. Sometimes I take one step forward and two
steps back. I have stumbled and fallen, there have been dark days. But
then there are moments where I sit on my porch on a warm spring evening
and listen to the frogs chirping in the pond nearby, or as I walk along
the beach, feeling the warm sand on my bare feet, and I am suddenly hit
with the magnitude of everything—the overwhelming feeling of just
‘being’ when I came so close to not being.
If you choose to read
it, I want to thank you for allowing me to share my story with you. I
knew that if I was going to pour my heart into this book, I needed to be
honest about how things really were. Glossing over the truth would be a
disservice to readers, and to myself. Mental illness can be messy and
frightening, and sadly, the person struggling with their mental health
often takes down other casualties with them—the people who love them
most. I didn’t want to skim the surface, I needed to tell the raw,
honest, painful truth, not package it up nicely so it would be easier
and more comfortable to swallow. It may not be easy to read, but I hope,
with all my heart, that you will find something in it that you needed
to hear.
Mental Health Awareness Month: Concrete Steps to Give and Get Help
Posted by Heather Hutchison on 26 May 2021
May is Mental Health Awareness Month. It heartens me to see more people than ever talking about their struggles, but it also saddens me that so many don’t know where to turn for help for themselves or a loved one. I thought I’d write a list of some concrete steps that we can take to give and get support. Feel free to add any others you have found useful in the comments.
•Take a mental health first aid course to better know how to assist someone in crisis. There are many options if you search online.
•Tell
our governments that we need and expect better mental health supports
so people with mental illness aren’t waiting months or even years to see
psychiatrists or mental health workers, by which point it may be too
late.
•Language matters. People don’t ‘commit’ heart attacks, why do we say someone “committed” suicide?
•Familiarize yourself with the signs that someone may be thinking about ending their life..
•Be
conscious of not minimizing the feelings/struggles of others.
Everyone’s experience is different. Telling someone to “cheer up” “Come
on, it could be worse,” etc can be really unhelpful.
•Mental illnesses are often cyclical. Just because someone is in treatment doesn’t mean they’re all better.
•Be
open to talking about the hard stuff without being judgmental or
playing 20 questions. Be a friend, don’t try to be a therapist.
•Offer
to assist someone who is struggling to find professional resources to
help. It may be something they are finding impossible to do on their
own.
•Understand that mental illness looks different in different
people. It’s not always the disheveled person on the corner yelling at
people who don’t exist, or the sullen teen with bandaged wrists.
•Share your story if you’re comfortable doing so, so that someone may feel less alone with theirs.
•Reach
out to someone you haven’t heard from in a while. Pay someone a random
complement. Don’t underestimate the significance of small acts of
kindness.
Mental health matters, now more than ever. If you are struggling or concerned about a loved one, please reach out to someone, as impossible as it may seem to do so. The mental health system is hard to navigate alone, and it’s easy to be completely overwhelmed and unaware of some of the options available. It’s better to ask for help early, rather than feeling that the situation isn’t that serious and waiting to see if it gets worse.
If you or a loved one is in crisis:
•British Columbia Mental Health Support: 310 6789
•Canada Suicide Prevention Service: 1 833 456 4566
•Befrienders (worldwide)
Holding On by Letting Go
I Didn't Want to Write a Book
Posted by Heather Hutchison on 19 May 2021
“So, what made you want to write a book?” Half the time people ask
me this, I think what they’re really asking is “What would possess you
to share your darkest hours with complete strangers?” It’s a fair
question. Lord knows I’ve spent enough sleepless nights asking myself
the exact same thing. But here’s the thing… I didn’t want to write this book. I wrote it because I didn’t know how to not write it.
It
would have been so easy not to do this. I could’ve left the hospital
and done my best to move on and put it all behind me. With the exception
of a few people, no one would have ever known. But one night in the
hospital, as I took my very first, tentative step into recovery, I made a
promise to myself that I would share my story, because no one deserves
to hurt like that and feel so alone in their pain. I wanted my story to
be bigger than just me, to be more than just another senseless tragedy. I
can say with 100 percent sincerity that the most painful part of what I
went through was the thought of any other person having to go through
it. If I potentially had the ability to help others to feel less alone,
to help the loved ones of people with mental illness gain greater
understanding, to motivate people to start talking and get help before
they ever reach the place I got to, then why wouldn’t I do that?
I
believe that recovery requires purpose. Sharing my story gave me that
purpose. In making a promise to myself, not only was I trying to help
others, I was telling myself that I mattered, because I loved myself
enough to fulfill that promise. Even through all the doubt, the
sleepless nights, the worries that some people might not like what I
wrote, I knew I was doing the right thing. I have never been more
certain of anything in my life.
‘Right’ is hard. Despite what the
social media influencers like to tell us, it doesn’t always feel great
and empowering. Sometimes it feels like shit. I have spent my life
hiding the parts of me I was ashamed of. From trying to hide my
blindness from the world as a very young child, to trying to hide my
mental illness as I got older, in the end, it almost cost me everything I
had. Although I may tremble, I will hold my head high, and I will own
my story and the part I played in what happened. I will do my best to
use my story to help others. I will keep the promise I made to myself,
because I believe that a fulfilled promise to one’s self is the most
important promise we can keep.
We have become so good at ignoring
that inner voice telling us what feels right. We don’t want to rock the
boat, to make others feel uncomfortable, to feel like people are
judging us. It’s time we started to pay attention to that inner voice
again, to keep those promises we make to ourselves. Because you know
what? We are worth it.
Holding On by Letting Go