Echoes of Trauma: A Life Shaped by Mental Illness

I’ve alienated many people over the years, including close family members, who couldn’t handle the drama my mental health issues and reactivity—stemming from early trauma—brought into their lives. Being bipolar, my extreme highs and lows are hard for others to follow. My energy fluctuates, I constantly shift lifestyle and focus, and relationships all too often become strained to the breaking point.

Now, as I piece together my life through my memoirs, I see how some people need their own space to honour their own boundaries. Others, however, have stuck around through thick and thin, showing incredible patience, kindness, and generosity of spirit. For this, I’m deeply grateful. I take very little for granted in this life.

From Clouds to Chaos: A Fragile Connection

One example of this ripple effect is a couple I befriended through an ex-boyfriend. They invited me to a small New Year’s party at their gorgeous studio in Old Montreal, a space that reflected their warmth and love for each other. The man had an impressive whisky collection, which he generously shared with us, while I indulged in my own vice—smoking dope, a lifelong habit I picked up and dropped repeatedly.

It didn’t end well. After several hash joints and more whisky than I could handle, I ended up sick, praying to the porcelain god in their bathroom before passing out cold.

When I woke the next morning, on a January 1st in the mid-noughts, I thought I’d ascended to the clouds. They’d prepared a soft, cozy bed with feather pillows and a thick white duvet in their tiny but immaculate studio. Everything felt pristine, bathed in winter sunlight, and for a brief moment, I felt safe, wrapped in the warmth of their kindness.

Unfortunately, like many of my healthier relationships, I eventually lost touch with this lovely couple. After a manic episode, I spiraled into poor life choices, including sitting with an attractive young man drinking beer by a convenience store simply because he looked like Robbie Williams’ twin. He turned out to be a gentle but persistent alcoholic stalker. Oddly enough, he has a knack for reappearing every time I bring him up, which makes me hesitate to recount too much of our story, but he may require a chapter of his own.

When I confided in my friend about him on a phone conversation from the grounds of a psychiatric hospital, she gently but firmly told me she couldn’t maintain a friendship with someone who continually sought out trouble. She wasn’t wrong, and I never held it against her. This was one of many lovely relationships that slipped from my grasp. But there were others, more essential ones, like the one with my father, which proved to be resilient despite the many challenges we faced.

My Father’s Portrait, Age 71:  The Light and the Shadows

My father and I loved each other dearly, but sharing physical space was a challenge. He was rough around the edges, didn’t care for social graces, and obsessed endlessly over his dietary restrictions. Every conversation seemed to revolve around his latest experiments with food or his chronic health complaints.

Spending time with him was especially difficult for me because I’d suffered from chronic migraines ever since early childhood, which eventually culminated in an eight-year period when the migraine never left me. Up until 2012, I’d only had one or two migraines per week, but by then I was experiencing several severe, extended bouts each week. Any added stress would trigger another episode or worsen the symptoms. Despite these challenges, art was our bridge, our one truly meaningful connection—something we could always share without tension.

That day in June 2012, as we sat on the back balcony of the apartment I ended up renting for over 20 years, was a gift to us both. The balcony overlooked a lush green alleyway and a towering centenary tree. The weather was gorgeous—sunny and comfortably warm. He sat for me as I drew, and we chatted peacefully for hours.

He had his dog Lulu—a miniature pinscher he took loving care of for over 18 years—on his lap, while I had Coco, a toy poodle I’d rescued after he was found wandering the streets. Coco, my gentle little lamb. I cherish the photos I took that day of Zeev sitting with both dogs on his lap, my drawing of him in the background.

That day is one of my fondest memories, and it often brings me happy tears as I recall how peaceful and content we were in each other’s company. But it’s a bittersweet memory too, tinged with heartbreak, because for most of my life, we struggled to communicate. Still, we never gave up trying—something that can’t be said for many human relationships I’ve had. 😪

The Unbroken Bond: Lessons from Zeev

My father never judged me—no matter what foolish life choices I made, no matter how sick I got with severe mania or depression, which led to multiple hospitalisations, and not even after our worst fights. He forgave and moved on, always willing to rebuild. Many who knew him would agree he could be a “crazymaker” with his stubborn refusal to follow social norms or graces of any kind. But he supported me when no one else did—emotionally, spiritually as well as financially when he was able to afford to. He sacrificed his own needs, living the life of a minimalist, a born ascetic, to provide me with opportunities I couldn’t have afforded otherwise.

Through my worst episodes, he was there unconditionally. In his later years, our frequent conversations over the phone were a blessing. We lived an ocean apart for most of my life—he in Israel, me in Montreal—so we made the most of what eventually became free long-distance calls thanks to the internet.

We came to accept our mutual failings and cherish the time we had. Both of us knew his time was limited. Diagnosed with prostate cancer in his 50s, he somehow managed to stay relatively healthy through his holistic approach to self-healing. His daily yoga sessions turned into chi kung, and his obsessive so-called healthy diet no doubt played its part. Or at least, he certainly thought so.

Roots That Hold Firm Through the Storm

When there is true love, some relationships are worth fighting for—but I’ve learned that both people have to be willing to do the work and carry their own responsibilities. There have been times in my life when communication broke down, doors were slammed, and harsh words were shouted. Understanding that everyone carries their own trauma has helped me navigate these moments and figure out what healthy boundaries look like.

Not all relationships can or should be salvaged, but I’ve found that some are worth the effort. Over the years, I’ve seen people change—including myself. Growth often happens quietly, in the background, and I’ve had to remind myself to look for those subtle shifts. Letting go of old wounds doesn’t mean forgetting; it means making space for something new. I’ve seen that happen in my life, and it’s a gift I’ve learned to embrace.

Therapists and counsellors have been a huge part of my journey. I was fortunate to have the same therapist for 20 years, along with others who offered their time, compassion, and tools for healing. They helped me process trauma and foster healthier communication, lessons I carry with me every day. Growth is a lifelong journey, and every moment brings an opportunity to learn and change.

Some of you know my Hebrew name, Ilana (אילנה), meaning “tree” or “oak tree.” To me, it’s more than just a name—it’s a core part of who I am. My father had a vision of the Tree of Life during an LSD trip he shared with my mother when I was conceived. That vision feels deeply ingrained in me, as though the essence of the tree—its strength, resilience, and connection to life’s rhythms—has shaped my very being.

I find comfort in the natural rhythm of growth. Trees shed what they no longer need, bend with the wind, and remain rooted. And so do I, when I embrace life’s opportunities. 🌳

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The dry pastel drawing shown above, from June 16th, 2012, captures my father, Zeev (Ze’ev) Shamir, in a rare, reflective moment. He sat for me that day, talking endlessly, as he always did—filling the space with his stories, his musings, his restless energy. I suppose I take after him that way. His distinct profile takes shape through bold, angular strokes in vibrant blues, pinks, greens, and earthy tones. These colours reflect his personality—dynamic, vivid, and as ungrounded as the wind that bends the trees.

The leafy, organic background hints at his connection to nature, wild and unpredictable, like a tree growing stubbornly in its own direction. The textured pastels give the portrait a raw, almost electric energy, mirroring both his spirit and the intensity of our bond.

That day, though, I remember him looking so happy, so content. This photo I took shows him smiling, his eyes alight with a rare joy. It’s one of those moments I cherish—a snapshot of peace in the middle of life’s chaos. I drew, he talked, and for a while, the world felt quiet. This drawing holds that fleeting happiness, the kind that speaks louder than words ever could.

• A Christmas gift to myself
• A few of the drawings I destroyed this year
• THE AKATHISIA FILES: PT 5
• THE AKATHISIA FILES: PT 4
• “I like rocks.”