Skates, Spikes, and Sidelines

I had my first panic attack at a Bar Mitzvah of all places. I was watching a longtime family friend read from the Torah when it first hit me. A wave of adrenaline pumped through my body, which I later learned was my fight-or-flight response. I was blindsided by what the human body was capable of. I was confused, scared, and even surprised by how real and overwhelming the sense of doom I felt in my bones was. I was eleven years old, and it would take me years to understand and accept that this would be a daily occurrence for some time.

The turning point was during the pandemic years, when I flunked out of CEGEP.

You may be wondering to yourself: ‘Why the hell is Brendan sharing this?’ Well, I need to move on to my next chapter in life, as simple as that, and I cannot do so until I’ve shared this. So come along for the journey. It’s a fun one.

The Beginning

To first understand why and how I failed a two-year transition program takes a bit of explaining. As a child, I remember being shy. For many alike, there was a core root of my shyness: I was afraid of being perceived poorly, so I stayed in the shadows and tried to bring as little attention to myself as possible. Looking back, it was clear those were the early signs of my diagnosis, but as they say, “hindsight is 20/20.”

I recall an early memory, sometime in the early 2000’s, during a Canadiens playoff run. My mom had one of those flags you put on your window, and I lowered the one that the flag was being held on. I was so scared of my mom being angry (this was not something that would trigger such a reaction) that for the rest of the day, I hid away, dreading punishment. Evidently, this never came, because of course, it wasn’t a big deal. We were just outside our house anyway! This was a normal occurrence back in the day – crying. Crying because I didn’t want to go to my Jewish afternoon school (afraid of nothing important), crying because of a mix-up with a hot lunch at school (I was fed nonetheless), crying because, well, I was scared. Scared to get in trouble, scared because my mind was overcome with thoughts that had the intent to cause internal turmoil.

Now, without going into too much depth, as it is a story for another time, everything was amplified by thousands at the death of my Zaidy Bram. I was twelve years old, just months after my first panic attack. I was in grade six, and as you know, bodies and minds tend to undergo a drastic transformation at that time. This marked the first time in my young life that I experienced dissociation (I will get to the second event in time, occurring during the pandemic). I felt disconnected from my body. I felt as if I was watching myself in third person, and quite frankly, I was terrified. I masked it with grief, which, in all fairness, I had quite a share of, and tried to go about life as simply as I could. In a few short months, then, I would be starting high school and having a Bar Mitzvah of my own.

The Teenage Years

I would be lying to myself and everyone else if I said I wasn’t fond of my teenage years. I had a blast, and had a great support group around me. Life felt somewhat normal despite the semi-daily panic attacks. I was a good student and lived an otherwise normal life. At this point, I began to find my own coping mechanisms, which I now know was a grounding technique. They helped fend off the nasty attacks of my own brain, and I was managing a comfortable lifestyle. Now and then, of course, I would be paralyzed with fear during a class, that someone would find out that I was freaking out internally. I wasn’t yet comfortable with my mental illness, and allowing others in. I was a locked cupboard, no admittance.

As the years went on, it became more difficult to hide it. Exams became more difficult, and so the voices were amplified. In June of 2019, I told my parents for the first time what I had been feeling for years with the help of my girlfriend at the time. It was hard, but they were supportive, as they have always been. They set me up with a therapist, and I tried to make it work. This time, it didn’t. Although I was trying to be more open, the lying began. You can’t get help from a professional if only half of what you tell them is reality, and the other half was just to get through the hour. I lasted two sessions, and life went on. People forget, and a year later, the world flipped upside down.

Now would likely be the appropriate moment to explain how I got my emotions in check if therapy was off the table for the time being: hockey. Yes, everyone who has played sports says that it was their way to escape and to get their anger out and so forth, but it truly was an escape for me. I became a different person. A person full of hatred, of violence. It was a double-edged sword. I became more physical and felt the stress melt away anytime I laced up my skates, but I wasn’t very good at hockey. So, violence wasn’t an aspect of the game that was tolerated. Yes, I was able to center myself while I played, but in the midst of this switch, I was suspended quite a bit from play, making me angrier, more bent on washing away my feelings with the brisk air of the rink. Luckily for myself and the health of others, my hockey career was cut short on a gloomy night in March of 2020.

The Pandemic

I was seventeen when the pandemic hit. I had a girlfriend of a couple of weeks, who had the poor duty of dealing with an emotionally unavailable teenage boy. I was in an era where, before it went mainstream, I was attempting to be nonchalant. Except, I wasn’t that, I was just a piece of shit. I could make the excuse that I wasn’t in the right headspace, or I was getting irritated being stuck at home with family (as a teenager does), but it was just who I was at the time. I think it played into the next couple of years of turmoil. It was clear that I needed help of some sort, but I refused. You’d think I was being told to check myself into an asylum with how I reacted. I used my two hours of therapy experience to neglect my mental well-being, and wouldn’t budge on my need to talk through my issues and find a deeper meaning.

And so, the pandemic moved wearily along, and with it, my mental health declined rapidly following a break-up after a year of my nonsense. I was lost. Music was my escape, but it only sent me deeper into a trench that would not be overcome. It was a dark time, one that I have no happy memories of. I failed my first class in the third semester at Dawson (otherwise known to my family as the school that shall not be named), and that was just a drop in the bucket.

I failed all but one class in what was supposed to be my fourth and last semester at the school. The class I passed? Collage. A class that you would pass even if you never set foot into the studio. I even failed a gym class, for god’s sake. I wasn’t okay, but I had become a pro at hiding it. I tested positive once for COVID, but at the time, it was quite a joyous moment. I was still optimistic about the year, and I was admitted into Concordia’s finance program. With a mask on, I ran downstairs to tell my dad about the great news. We were overjoyed and ready for my next chapter. Little did we know it would be a long time before we felt this way again.

Alas, the failing of classes came and went, and I stored them in the back of my mind. I now had a girlfriend again, and I didn’t want to burden her or my family. I dealt with the stress on my own, or rather, ignored it on my own. The summer should have been magical. I visited Hawaii for the first time with my family. It was beautiful. A constant awe I doubt I’ll ever experience again. In a place meant for tranquility, I was far from that feeling. It was August, and I knew what that meant. School, which I was not actually enrolled in, was around the corner, and I needed a plan fast. In that moment, I could have told my parents, my girlfriend, my friends, anyone really, what was going on. I could have gotten help, any sort, to find my way out of the mess I created. I rather did the opposite. I began to tell myself that a university of Concordia’s caliber wouldn’t notice that I didn’t have my DEC. To my benefit, my student card worked, my student portal worked, and thus, the darkest point in my life began.

The “College” Days

I can’t put into words the state of constant panic I was in from September 2022 to April 2023. At first, all went smoothly. I was going to classes at Concordia, completing assignments, and studying for tests. Ultimately, all that seems too good to be true typically is, as it was in my case. Overnight, I understandably lost access to all University services. That moment would change my history for good. This was the second and final instance of disassociation I’ve experienced. I could say that I didn’t know what I was doing, but that wouldn’t be true. I was in total control of every action and decision I took. However, I wouldn’t say it was Brendan in control. It was more the anxiety part of my brain finally taking the wheel, and smothering the logical part to death. Every day I would go to campus, sit on the fourth floor, and read, or watch movies I downloaded so as to not use data because, as mentioned previously, I no longer had access to the wifi.

The rest of the year, in full honesty, was quite a blur. I don’t remember much of it. Whether it be because of my dissociation or my brain blocking the trauma, I don’t remember much. What I do remember is going into debt, a tale of constant lies, and more than once, the thought of ending the struggle. It’s hard to talk about, and even harder to conceptualize now, how I ended up at that point. I can only be grateful for resilience and, to be frank, my cowardice. This is why I now raise money every November. I know that life can get hard, but there’s always an upward slope, regardless of the time it takes. But we will return to that slope in short. The tipping of the scales, of all things, was tax season.

The Day of Reckoning

Tax season. The time everyone dreads, except for me in the last three years. My tax slips revealed that I had not indeed been in University like I was leading on. There was no tax break for tuition to be provided! The day that it was revealed, I will never forget:

It was the morning of one of my “exams.” My dad had become suspicious of the legitimacy of my college enrollment, and he had had enough. The tax reveal is what set him off. He demanded to see my university portal with marks, which I obviously had no access to, since it didn’t exist. I went to the bathroom to try to edit something together to no avail. I sauntered downstairs, ready to share the world-shattering news in my underwear and ill-fitting shirt. I told him, and he asked if I was on drugs. No, I told him. I explained everything. I burst open. The stress of over a year poured out in the cries of a broken boy. The next several hours and days ensued as follows, without going into too much detail, as it was quite personal: my girlfriend was told and rushed to the house, where I explained my situation many more times. I had a long, barrier-breaking conversation with my father, going through my mind and creating a new and beautiful relationship between the two of us. I was set up with a therapist, trying anew to find help. I was put on medication for severe anxiety and chronic depression, a medication that I still take to this day. Melissa, my therapist, helped me for the next year and a half. A year and a half that shaped me into who I am today, and broke me free from the mental prison I had created for nearly a decade.

The Road Goes Ever On

Here we are today. Two years removed from the end of my perpetual free fall into sadness. I am happier than I have ever been. I found my love for writing. I go to a school that, despite my constant complaining, I adore.

Publishing this completes the chapter I’ve just shared. The future is ever bright. I thank everyone who has been on this journey with me, those who have just joined, and those who have not yet been introduced.

In my short twenty-three years on this Earth, I have lived through quite a bit, but there is much to be experienced, discovered, loved, and hated. There will surely be moments of jubilance, and more moments of dismay. But I know I can get through it.

The upwards slope I’ve mentioned is another story for a different day. One that I’m still living, still writing the future of. Time will pass, chapters will end, and others will start. I welcome them with open arms, ready to grow, ready to progress, ready for the challenges.

– May 14th, 2026.