Writing Diaries #18: Fighting Anxiety and Depression as a Young Adult

I tried to outrun my unhappiness by getting on a train to the other end of the country.

Office Jobs and Escape Routes

Starting in my late teens in the late 1960s, I took on—and quit—a ridiculous number of entry-level office jobs.

They gave me no satisfaction and made me miserable.

I can still picture the stale air, the fluorescent lights, the hush of typing and paper shuffling, and the feeling of being pinned to a chair while the clock barely moved.

When the work became intolerable, I walked out the door.

I didn't know my misery was caused by anxiety and depression

Why I Took Whatever Work I Could Get

I took whatever came along to pay for university tuition, and later to help my mother—a garment factory worker abandoned by her controlling, violent husband, my father.

He left her to raise three children on her own in a country whose language she barely understood.

They’d emigrated to Canada from Italy in the early 1950s.

My memoir, Elvie: Girl Under Glass, tells that painful story.

The Help I Didn’t Know Existed

In the late 1960s, when all paths were open to me, I would have needed a wise person to guide me.

If I’d known professional counselling existed to help me fight the anxiety and depression ruining my life, I would have asked for help.

My Mother’s Practical Priorities

My immigrant mother had no useful advice to offer a daughter whose world existed in a universe far removed from her own.

Her priorities focused on survival—shelter, food on the table, and money in the bank.

I can still see her coming home tired, shoulders rounded, hands rough from work, the faint smell of fabric and steam clinging to her clothes.

To that end, you took the job you could get. Period.

You put your head down and did it.

Self-fulfillment? Using my talents?

“Grow up,” my mother scolded—her voice sharp with worry, as if my wanting more might tempt fate.

The Desk Jobs That Broke Me

The office jobs that obliged me to sit for hours, shackled to a desk and repeating the same task, traumatized me.

My shoulders would tighten. My jaw would clench.

The air felt used up before noon.

These were symptoms of anxiety only I didn't know it.

The three years I spent as a 411 information operator with Bell Canada were the worst.

The headset pressed against my ear. The cord tugged when I shifted.

Voices poured in—impatient, bored, angry—one after another, all day long.

The numbers blurred. The script became a cage.

I left in desperation when I could no longer cope with panic attacks that hit me whenever I went to work.

My heart would race before I even reached the building.

My palms would sweat. My throat would close.

Sometimes the world narrowed to the sound of my own breathing and the hard certainty that I had to get out.

The Earlier Damage

In truth, I had other serious stresses in my life that had left me mentally fragile.

I’d grown up in a household ruled by a violent, cruel father.

Even after he left when I was sixteen, the damage he did to all of us remained—like a bruise you stop noticing until someone touches it.

I lived with a constant, low-grade depression, with periods of deep anguish depending on what else assailed me. Anxiety was depression's constant companion.

The Pattern: Change Everything

To cope with the worst of times, I would quit my job or somehow change my circumstances.

I’d pack boxes and suitcases with that restless, urgent energy—tape ripping, drawers emptied, hangers clacking—telling myself this time the air would feel different.

I had a Bachelor of Arts degree, and the economy was good and plenty of low-level jobs to choose from.

I told myself things would improve with the next job, the new apartment, the new city.

A new set of streets.

A different view from the window.

Different faces on the bus.

As if a change of scenery could change what I carried inside my own skin.

Why I Didn’t “Work My Way Up”

Did it occur to me to stay put with one company and work my way up?

Yes.

But I couldn’t tolerate the current job long enough to get to where I thought I wanted to go.

Some afternoons my body would revolt—tight chest, buzzing nerves, a headache blooming behind my eyes—while I sat there pretending to be fine.

Quitting gave me immediate relief—like stepping outside after holding my breath too long.

What I Wish I’d Done Instead

I should have sought help.

I should have sorted out my mental issues.

Once unburdened, I could have made a plan and taken steps to see it through.

But I didn’t.

March 1975: Burnout

Instead, in early March 1975, on the cusp of turning twenty-six, I quit the job I’d done for two years as a jailer in a secure institution for delinquent adolescent girls: we were called child care workers.

The work had its rewards.

But it burned me out.

Some days the air felt thick with tension.

Doors clanged.

Keys rattled.

Voices rose, then fell into sudden, watchful quiet.

The institutional smell—too many bodies, stale coffee, cigarette smoke—seemed to seep into my hair and skin.

By the end of a shift I ached all over, and my nerves felt rubbed raw.

Heading West

A couple of months later, I climbed aboard a train and sped toward Vancouver, British Columbia.

I was looking for distraction—for relief.

The station air was gritty with diesel and cigarette smoke.

The platform vibrated under my shoes as the train pulled in, and when I stepped aboard, the warmth and the smell of upholstery and old luggage wrapped around me.

The depression lightened. The anxiety diminished.

I made the following entry in the diary I kept at the time.

Diary Entry — July 6, 1975

The Train Across Canada

Daniele and I left Montreal on June 4.

We took the train—economy fare all the way—across across the country from Montreal to Vancouver. With stops in major towns, the trip took three weeks.

The car smelled of old leather, cigarette smoke, and the faint metallic tang of the rails.

The seats were scratchy. The windows were streaked.

We stopped in Toronto, Winnipeg, Regina, Edmonton, Calgary, and Banff.

Where We Stayed (and How We Saved Money)

We stayed at cheap B&Bs or two-star hotels along the way while we visited the various places.

Whenever possible, we traveled overnight by train between cities to save on lodging.

That saved us money, but it’s hard to sleep scrunched up in a seat while the train shakes and shimmies.

The carriage lights never fully dimmed.

The air was dry and warm, and the seats stuck to the backs of our legs.

We ended up with stiff necks, aching knees, and bloodshot eyes—and didn’t care.

The Rocky Mountains

The ride through the Rocky Mountains took my breath away.

The peaks rose like a wall, blue and jagged in the distance, then suddenly close enough to make me tilt my head back.

Snow still clung in shaded creases.

The air felt sharper, cleaner, as if it had been rinsed.

Maybe my love of mountains is an ancestral thing.

I might not remember the Italian mountain village where I was born, but I think my subconscious—and my body—remember it.

Landing in Vancouver

We got to Vancouver in late June and stayed with my friends Jane and Rocky.

These generous people put up with us for ten days until Daniele and I found a room we could afford.

The Room We Could Afford

We found a room to share in the home of a very old woman who lived alone in a big two-storey house in Kitsilano, not far from the beach.

But the place was filthy, and the room was so tiny it held nothing but a single bed.

The air inside felt stale and smelled of ancient dirt.

The carpet looked ground-in and tired.

Daniele and I took turns sleeping on the floor of our itsy-bitsy shared room.

It was cheap, though—only $70 a month for both of us—and we could use the kitchen.

My First Real Birthday Party

Today I turn twenty-six.

Jane had a little party for me in her backyard under the plum tree.

The leaves made a soft shade overhead, and the summer air smelled faintly of fruit and cut grass.

I was so touched.

She made her traditional angel food cake, slathered in whipped cream and decorated with hundreds of blueberries.

The cake was light and sweet, and the blueberries burst cool and tart on my tongue.

In my family, we never celebrated birthdays with parties.

My mother sometimes made a sponge cake with custard filling, if she had time.

Then we’d sit down and gobble it up.

This was my first official birthday celebration.

Money Running Out, Decisions Ahead

Daniele and I are both running out of money.

I’ve applied for jobs, but I don’t know that I want to stay in Vancouver.

One of the jobs looks promising: a good-paying work as a ward clerk at the University of British Columbia’s psychiatric hospital.

Daniele will definitely be going back to Montreal in September.

I may or may not.

It depends on so many things.

The Lesson (Not Yet Learned)

I left Vancouver five months after arriving there to return to Montreal, my friends, and my family.

Depression had returned; anxiety kept me from getting a good night's rest. I had lost the fight yet again.

The experience proved once again that I could change my surroundings all I liked but my life ended seemed to end up in the same old place you like. It would take a long time to learn that nothing changes until you face your devils.

I’d have to learn that lesson a few more times before I did something about it.

But on November 7, 1975, desperately lonely, I returned to Montreal—to my friends and family.

Next blog: My job in the psychiatric hospital.