My name is Blair Courchene, I am yes,

the man behind BAC Hockey and BAC 4 Hope. 
But, more then that… I am a son, a husband, a brother, nephew,
grandchild, and a friend.  Lately, I have
found reward in being able to say that. 
Almost, pride. 

I debated with myself last few
months if I submit my own story on BAC4Hope, or perhaps everyone already knows
my story from my previous blog so I don’t need to bother, and certainly don’t
want to burden people with another story of my depression.  

But, what I have learned, and what
I have decided is, my story has changed, it changes seemingly every time I want
to write about it.  Some days it’s
better, others, it’s darker.  In the last
few months, I have put in probably more sustained time and effort into helping
myself become a better version of myself that I think it’s time to share that
journey from start to finish. 

A journey to me has many different
parts, it’s not just a road that’s straight ahead.  Many different turns, hills, and obstacles
that perhaps you didn’t see coming.  So I
will attempt to share my journey over four different segments.   1) the beginning 2) the unforeseen obstacle
3) the real bad, dark times and 4) the final pursuit, the checkpoint of
happiness and joy. 

This isn’t a happy story, I’m not
sure if it’s even a story with a happy ending. 
It’s not glorious, or pretty.  In fact,
to be frank… I wish I didn’t have the experience to even tell this story.  But, what I learned somewhere along the way
is it is who I am, I have to own that, be proud of it, and if there is an opportunity
to share my own journey to maybe help someone else, I’ll do that.  While I have learned to cherish my own journey,
and embrace it.  I simply don’t wish it
upon anyone else.  I really don’t.   This
story is about hardship, sadness, darkness.  It’s about figuring out who you are,  It’s about loss, grief, and learning to grieving
process on the fly, and that it never really ends.  This story is about vulnerability, struggle,
it’s about  learning to survive.  This is my pursuit of happiness. 

Part 1) The Beginning – Learning to Live, and Ignore My Own Defect  “Depression” 

I don’t know exactly how old I was
when I finally realized something just wasn’t right with me.  I was 12, maybe 13.  I just remember I couldn’t genuinely feel happiness, or joy.  But, I wasn’t able to
really process that, I just began to think it was kind of made up.  Like, what really was happiness and joy.   Sure, I laughed, and I had fun with my
friends and family at different times.  
But, it was also exhausting.  It
was hard to come by.  Even in those
moments where you’re having fun, and your experiencing that joy…  It wouldn’t take much to completely shut it all off.  Someone said something, or
something didn’t go my way, or really anything. 
It’s like the alarm clock went off, and the sensation of joy, and
happiness had expired.  Time was simply
up.  What would follow was often just gloomy,
sulking, darkness, an emptiness almost. 
It would overtake my whole body and leave me just in a blur with no
direction, or purpose.  I didn’t want to
do anything.  Playing street hockey, video games, whatever it was… I’d just kind shut off, and become a zombie.  I can even remember times playing mini sticks with friends, and things were going great but time ticked away and the alarm
went off.  You could feel the joy just
exit my body, and substitute for nothing, and that would be it.  I didn’t want to play anymore.  I couldn’t really laugh anymore even if I
tried.  I couldn’t smile.  I couldn’t do anything.  I tried to hide it, but I didn’t know how.  People would ask me, what’s wrong with you, are you ok.  My favorite excuse
was often “ya I just don’t feel great” or “my stomach hurts” then I’d go home
and just float around in emptiness.  My
parents would ask me what’s wrong, I’d reply nothing or my go to excuses about my stomach.

Fortunately, my parents were no idiots, and didn’t buy the same excuse over and over, day after day.  I can remember going to the doctor and for the first time in my life hearing the words depressed, depression.  I had never heard that before, and truthfully had no idea what it meant.  This is how poor
the stigma of mental health, and depression was then.   I recall later that evening hearing my mom
on the phone with someone saying those words again, he’s depressed, she diagnosed
him with clinical depression.   What did this even mean.  Was I relieved that they knew what was wrong with me?  Will I be ok?  Am I ok?  Now what? 

Naturally, I was a very snoopy, nosy kid so I had to figure it out.  That
evening, I remember going onto our computer, hooking up the old dial up
internet and heading to to figure out what’s this depression thing I have been labeled with.  What did it mean.  I was hopeful Jeeves would have answers for me.    Sadness. 
Hopelessness.  Lack of Energy.  Appetite Changes.  As I read through the symptoms, I recognized
them.  Depression.  That’s what I had I guess.  That’s what is wrong with me I thought. 

Then there was the secrecy of it all.  I don’t recall my parents ever
saying don’t tell anyone or anything, I just don’t think we really ever discussed it that much.  But, as I
learned more about the illness, I recognized it was not only me, but my sister to had the same thing wrong with her.  Then my mom, her too.  We all kind of had the same thing wrong with us.  We all kind of
seemed to suffer from extreme sadness.  I didn’t know if my mom truly did, or if it she was just sad that Jen and I both had the same Illness.  I remember thinking it had to be the latter, because she’s too strong to have this weakness. 

Our family, while I wouldn’t trade where I came from for a second, I love my dysfunctional family.  But, our family loved secrets.  Still do.  Everything is a secret.  Everything is hush hush.  I don’t know
if it’s intentional, just lot of things just aren’t talked about.  Kind of brushed under the rug.  As I grew older, I began to do the same.  As I struggled through my own bouts of depression,
the severity of it became my own secrets especially as I learned to live, and ignore my own personal defect I was equipped with; depression.  

My first trip to the therapist was in Sherwood Park.  It was a quiet ride into the city, I think I was reluctant to go, I can’t recall.  I didn’t quite understand how talking to some stranger was going to help me.  Walking
into the clinic, the whole place just reminded me of that aforementioned secrecy that
came with my defect.  It was avery quiet place, very private. Everything just screamed silence. 
It reminded me of a library with closed door offices instead of cubicles and tables.   I actually remember
enjoying the process of therapy to start, I liked the woman I had gone to talk too.  She was calm, didn’t seem to treat me as someone who had a defect.  I felt normal.  I can’t remember how many times
we visited her, but I remember life slowly beginning to change.  I had appointments in the city to talk to
these people, I had medication I had to take that was supposed to help me.   I just couldn’t comprehend how pills were going to help my moods.  It wasn’t till years later, I would learn about the actual chemical imbalance, and serotonin.  It wasn’t till years later, I would learn that this was actually a disease, an illness. Not a defect.  But, In the meantime, I continued to live as if I were different.  Oftentimes, I would wonder if any of my friends had this same thing wrong with them.   Or was it just my family, why was it just us.  Sometimes my lack of energy, and emotion would simply turn to frustration and anger.  I was mad that this thing had affected my family so much. 

As I continued to handle my own defect, I increasingly grew frustrated, and agitated with the constant trips to Edmonton.  It became exhausting, and I was already exhausted.   I didn’t want to
do this anymore.  I didn’t want to go talk to people.  They all wore off, and
started to just piss me off.  All of them.   There were cycles I would go through in my 
my teenage life with depression.  The silence, then there was exhaustion, then there
were manic episodes, there was anger, frustration, extreme sadness, then extreme anger.  I turned into a jerk, I was an asshole to my parents, my sister, my friends, my family… everyone around
me, I was not pleasant to be around.   I knew it too, but I didn’t care.  Then
there’d be cycles where I thought I was fine,  because I was feeling emotion again.  I just didn’t recognize it was the wrong emotion.  I began to become an expert in not just living with my defect, but ignoring it, and hiding it.   

As years went by, and I stumbled my way through high school, I continued fighting with my mental illness on my own, refusing to let anyone help me.  I watched it beat my sister down day in and day out.  That was probably the hardest part.  I saw how much she struggled, and then when I compared it to me, it was nothing.   So I began to think I was simply just being a baby, and a burden.  Jen was the one who was really struggling.  The word suicide would often come around.  Usually it was the 3rd
question every doctor, or therapist would ask.   How are you feeling?  Any risks of you harming yourself?  Any suicidal thoughts?   I never really did, I was just very sad and empty at times.  But, I often wondered
about my sister.   Was her condition so grave that she did actually have these thoughts?   I kind of started to tier my depression in my own mind, and ranked hers very high, way above mine.   
So while suicidal thoughts never really crossed my mind as an action I would commit, it was something I thought of every day, and feared.  Not because of me but because of my sister.  But, anytime I was asked this question…  Instead of saying what I just told you, I would nod and say ‘Nope, All good!’

This to me was the problem with therapy…  These professionals, taught by book curriculum, who I don’t know
are asking me extremely private questions.  I’m not answering them truthfully.   I’m not showing any weakness to anyone.  Or, at least I am going to try my hardest to put on a brave front that everything is OK. 
Even though, I knew it wasn’t.  Again, I didn’t want to be a burden.   I knew my
sister was hurting, and it broke my mom’s heart.  I could see the hurt in her eyes.  It broke my heart, so there was no way I wanted anyone to know the real severity of my own defect. 

I remember there being a bit of a gap between therapists, and trips to Edmonton. 
I think my mom must have picked up on the irritation going to Edmonton caused me, or perhaps it just became ridiculous having to drive there each week for therapy.  So I went to see someone in
Vegreville.  This was the worst experience.   All I remember is loathing having to go somewhere where I may be spotted.  I was reluctant, and I remember fighting with my mom about it.  I swore to her I was fine, and did not need anymore help, or anymore therapists.  I would change if she thought I wasn’t, I promise, I’ll change! 

I walked into the place with my head buried, I didn’t want to look up in case someone saw me, the secret would be out that I had this flaw, that I was different, or worse of all… that I was weak.  I struggled in high school trying to figure out who I was, and what I wanted as it were, I had no idea.  I just knew that I was different, and I was weak so I tried to fit in and be cool.  So I couldn’t stand the thought of someone seeing
me here, seeking help, seeking treatment for sadness.  I began to self-ridicule myself around that
time too, that depression was just a fancy word for sadness, and sadness equalled
weakness and that was all I was. 

With the seemingly constant struggle my sister endured, and convincing myself I was just sad and weak.  I began to lie more and more about my depression to my parents.  I’d tell them I’m fine, really..  I didn’t need the meds, I didn’t need the appointments.  I was good.  I just needed to hang out with my
friends, and do my own thing.  I think while this did help, I certainly wasn’t clear of depression, and feeling
empty.  Not at all.  But, I became a pro at hiding my own emotions, and faking it.  Then all at
once, it seemed everything around me started to fall apart.  I was forced to not only conceal my own
day to day struggle, but I actually had to deal with other stuff.  There was the regular high school drama with
my girlfriend, my parents fighting nearing a divorce, my brothers health always scared me, then there was the cancer diagnosis for my girlfriend, then there was the black hole that never seemed to get better that was my sisters mental health.  Of course, there was so much sadness and darkness that was associated with that.  All of that, with the ever-so-sweet topping of the ‘Courchenes Vow of Silence’ as a family.  My mom struggled.  These things all seemed to eat me up, and as I continued to bottle everything up, things just worsened.  I became a ticking time bomb.  I knew I was going to explode, but I didn’t know when.  I’d stay out late on weekends partying, drinking, going to bars.  I’d get as drunk as I could because it made me feel social, it was the only thing that seemed to allow me to pretend to be something else.  But the more I drank, the more I seemed to sometimes get emotional, either I’d get sad, and reality would kind of hit me, or I’d get
even more angry than normal and turn into an asshole again.   At home, My dad and I would physically fight, even though it never went well for me.  I began to resent my Mom, while I lashed out at my Dad for no reason.  I’d get into fights at school, or I’d run someone through the boards at hockey, and I didn’t care who it was, or if it hurt my team.  Then the worst of it came, I began to resent my sister.  I hated that she
still fought this so hard.  Part of me just didn’t want to believe it, part of me wanted her to just handle her shit
like I was.  Why couldn’t she.  When she moved in with us one summer, I thought maybe I could help her. 
Honestly, I looked up to her, she was the coolest person I had ever met.  I wanted to be like her. I wanted
to talk like her.  I wanted to listen to music like her.  Everything.   She was my hero, she really was.   I idolized her.  Imagine that…  I’m 16-17 years old, and I thought my 20 year old sister was the coolest
person ever. I don’t imagine there are many siblings like that.  I used to wake up on weekends and run to her
room to wake her up to hang out, but she’d sleep till noon some days, or even
later and it drove me absolutely nuts.  I used to try and make as much subtle noise as I could just to wake her up.  I just wanted to spend time with her.  I wanted to laugh, hear her one-liners.   But she’d sleep, and sleep. 

I never put it all together, I never understood why until years later when it was too late.  What I thought was just laziness, was in reality, severe depression.   When you’re hurting like she was, all you want to do is sleep the days away.  I should have known that, I felt like that sometimes.  But, when she was around, honestly, I felt great.  I felt fine.  I thought I did anyways, but I was selfish – always have been, and I still am so I didn’t think of it like that.   I just thought why the hell is she still sleeping, wake up.   Lets go.

Depression for her, was not the same as it was for me. 


Because of that, I started to wonder… perhaps I was fine then?  Was I misdiagnosed?  I did feel sad… But I didn’t feel like her, I knew that.  Because I was around it, I thought about self-harm, thought about what that would look like, but right away I knew I never had the courage to do anything like that, so was my depression really depression, then I would think back to those tiered levels I had created in my mind.  Equating my depression near the level of ‘phony’ and ‘pretend’ .    But, then I’d think about my family.  I saw the hurt on everyone else.  Somehow though, Jen either was hurting so much, and had that ‘courage; that self harm was an option.   So I convinced myself that we were in fact not the same at all.   I couldn’t do that.  So maybe I am fine then. 

This was when I realized that maybe I didn’t want to be just like her.  Not like this.  How could this be happening to her I often thought.  So many thoughts raced around my head all the time, I was confused.  But, I knew one thing…  no one could find out about any of this.  This all had to remain a secret.  It couldn’t leave our house, our family.  My defect, and her seemingly far more severe defect, no one could know about this.  I was afraid of what people would think of me.  I’d be weak.  I’d be a freak.  I’d be made fun of.  All these things came into my head. I began to think that Jen, my big sister who moments ago, was my hero, someone who I wished to be my best friend, was now risking my own social status as a high school teenager. 

I began to resent her more and more, and my admiration for her began to fade.  I grew increasingly mad with her, I didn’t like her friends, her lifestyle, the people she hung around.  I hated it all.  It wasn’t what I had envisioned for her, and I knew some of it wasn’t good for her.  So like I began to do with other people in my life, I began to convince myself that I was better than her, better than those around me.  I began to shut her out, and everyone else.  It was the worst trait I ever acquired, and one of my biggest regrets of my entire life.  I didn’t care about my defect anymore, I felt I had control of it.  I only cared about me.  Anyone who got in the way of me, I had no time for, it didn’t matter if you were my mom, my dad, my sister or my little brothers.   I hated people.  Absolutely hated everyone, and I had no time for anyone but myself, and my own attention.   I wanted to drink, and if I wasn’t at a party drinking copious amounts, I wanted to just be alone because everyone else just disappointed me, or failed me.   Or perhaps, they’d see the real me.  I didn’t have to so much put up a fake front when I was alone.  So it was almost less exhausting.   Nothing good seemed to happen if I was in the company of others, and not in the forum of a party.  I had no idea the harm I was doing to myself.  I had no idea the harm I was doing to my family.   I thought I was cool.  I was instead emotionally damaged.  These were probably the worst days of my experience with depression to that point.  Not because I felt any more saddened, or joyless but because  I had tricked myself into thinking everything was OK, and that I was actually doing GREAT, and that was when it started to really affect everyone else around me.   I was losing friends.  I was losing my family.  I was losing myself.   I was on my way to losing a hell of a lot more, and because I had closed everyone else out…  I never even saw it coming. 

Part II; “Get Your Ass Home – The Moment Everything Changed Forever

To Be Continued…

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