Instead of striking out, seek help

Today I am 49 and 24 days old, which may sound like a random date, but it’s not. Today, at the very same age, was the day that my sister, Lisa McCully, entered her final week of her life. Little did I know when we were bantering back and forth through text and facetime that this was the grand finale for her, for us. 

I’m spending this week mindfully aware of her vibrant life that was so violently, abruptly taken, and how I’m showing up at this moment in my own life. 

The pressing question that rings through my mind is a question that is shared by so many; ‘How could this have happened here? And Why?’ I had an experience a few days ago that helped to shed some light of understanding on the situation. 

While Bella was at a game in the North End, I chose to pass the time by wandering through the serene, tree-lined streets. After many months of dreading the idea, I recently felt the readiness to listen to the 13 Hours – Inside the NS massacre podcast, produced by Global’s Sarah Ritchie. So there I was, walking through the quiet Hydrostone neighborhood, listening to Sarah explain the gunman’s traumatic past which led to his psychotic behavior, and long-standing intimate partner violence that culminated in a horrific mass shooting.  

Suddenly, without planning it, I found myself at the small cluster of stores where the gunman’s denture office used to be. Years ago, we had mutual friends who informed me of his clinic and what a great guy he was. I never stepped foot in his office, but right across the street, inside a little one story bungalow is where my massage therapist lived and practiced. 

During a few difficult years, I was at her healing space once a week (admittedly sometimes more), to help get me through my own traumatic period. More times than not, I recall arriving at her door and collapsing on her table in a ball of tension, pain and fatigue. But after each session, I felt a little lighter, a lot brighter, and left her house with a renewed strength to persevere. Undoubtedly, without this healer’s therapeutic treatments and the support of other health professionals, I wouldn’t have come through that period in my life the way I did, and I most certainly wouldn’t be the person I am today. 

Standing on the sidewalk, between the gunman’s former office and the house that healed me back to life many years ago, I gazed from one side of the street to the other, aware of the different paths we chose to walk. So why did I make my choices and why did he make his? Firstly, I believe that my foray into anorexia and mental illness in my teens inspired a deep commitment to become my best self, which has required me to care for my body and mind. Secondly, self-care has largely been made easy for me because it’s socially acceptable. We all tend to consider it normal for a woman to pop out for a body treatment or a therapy session, right? 

For men though, perhaps it’s still a bit taboo. And for the gunman especially, it was not modeled and certainly not encouraged. As Sarah points out, his Dad burned his baby blanket when he was a toddler, in an attempt to toughen him up and foster independence. Hence, this man grew up very differently than I, without the same permission to ask for help, and to reach for support when pain consumed him. 

I wondered how his life might have panned out if he had been taught to be responsible for his mental health, and to deal with his painful past in a more skillful, self-nurturing way. I know that every Nova Scotians life would be very different right now. If we are to grow from this experience, one of our greatest challenges that we must all unpack is the power and prevalence of toxic masculinity in our lives – how we tolerate it, and how we indulge it. 

[For example, just yesterday I invited a male friend and his family to spend a night at the new hotel downtown in December. I jokingly wrote at the end “Yeah, if we disappear, you can find us women at the spa.” Wow-there it is, us women will be taking care, while you men… what? Spend time at the bar?! Thankfully I didn’t send that endnote. Instead, I will generously encourage him to join us for a treatment.]

This week, as I live through what was my sister’s final week, I’m committing to doing at least one act of kindness a day for a man, be it dropping off food, or texting a note of gratitude or making a quick call to check in on their wellbeing. I pray that men learn to effectively manage their stress, to identify and live up to their values and to give themselves permission to reach out for help when they notice themselves dipping into dark or addictive behaviors. I invite you to join me in whatever way seems right for you, and feel free to share the results of your actions!