#Toronto Depression

[therapysupportson]

If you’re looking for effective Toronto Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to address anxiety, depression, or other mental health concerns, look no further than TherapySupports. We are a team of licensed, experienced therapists who specialize in CBT, one of the most widely recognized and effective therapeutic approaches for improving mental health.

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[if-you-fan-a-fire]

Unemployment relief delivered by the government in minuscule amounts, The Worker. July 3, 1933.

[lcandothisallday]

my will to live is back🙂‍↕️🙂‍��️

[eyes-above--the-waves]

OH NO, I FORGOT TOMORROW IS MITCHY'S BIRTHDAY!! 😫😫😫😫

[astoryfullofwoe]

Petrichor

The sickness clings to your skin

like rain beating down on you—

persistent and desperate

to infiltrate your bones,

to rot you from the inside out.

The scent of despair follows you around—

you wear it like armour, like an umbrella.

Can’t you smell it?

The damp melancholic air

tinged with the scent

of an indescribable sorrow;

it surrounds you like screams,

like the thunder shouting her anthems of rage—

the same rage that you harbour, child,

longing for a reaction, for an outlet,

for something that your faceless

bedroom walls cannot provide.

Time floats on by, indefinite,

blown by the ever-changing winds.

Shades of grey contorting

and melting into white,

cotton clouds replacing

the gloomy overcast;

the sun has come out—

you didn’t even notice, did you?

Feel Her joyful rays dance on your skin,

evaporating the rain that has soaked your bones.

Wake up and smell the petrichor,

that earthly aromatic hymn

of the calm after the storm.

Breathe in, breathe deep,

let the dewy air enter your lungs

and embrace you like a mother.

The black sludge that lives

in your chest is evaporating,

fading, fading, fading,

until it is almost entirely gone—

reduced to puny tendrils of parasite,

suspended in futile attempts

to cling onto your ribcage;

and in its place, a sphere of light

amongst the likes of which

you have never felt before:

a blazing, all-consuming light,

but not blinding, no—

for you’ve never seen so clearly;

the veil of fog has lifted.

the world is so vast,

its corners unfolding before your eyes.

The storm has been long and harsh—

you deserve this happiness, child.

so breathe out slowly, lie down,

feel the grass tickle your bare skin

(don’t be afraid of the earth,

we are all an extension of Her, anyways),

breathe in the petrichor,

the promise of blossoming life,

and start anew.

[parcoeurs]

[iamidentical]

FRANK MAHOVLICH TRANSCENDS TORONTO

"Owena's Ode", @darkforestroads // "Viva Mahovlich!", Maclean's, 1961 // "It Should Have Been You", The Waterboys // Toronto Daily Star, Nov. 3rd 1967

[courseyoulovemeyoudontknowme]

Manchester by the Sea (2016, Kenneth Lonergan)

16/06/2024

[thepastisalreadywritten]

Toronto in the 1900s was a different city from the one we know today.

The center of business had moved west of the historical Town of York site and the skyline was undeveloped.

The tallest structures were the Temple Building at 10 stories and the Trader’s Bank Building at 15 stories.

A new downtown to the west of Yonge and King Streets was built. The City of Toronto moved into a new City Hall, built at the head of Bay Street at Queen Street.

Much of this new downtown was destroyed in the Great Toronto Fire of 1904, but it was quickly rebuilt, with new taller buildings.

South of downtown, the railways dominated most of the lands. A new viaduct was built to carry the main lines and eliminate the many at-level crossings.

A single Union Station was built to replace the several railway stations of the rail lines. It sat empty for a while over disagreements between the government and the rail companies.

In the late nineteenth century, Toronto welcomed the rise of Victorian architecture, as well as many of its revival styles.

This style of architecture was thought to be more modern, unique and creative than its successor, characterized by steep gabled roofs, round angles, towers, turrets and dormers, shapely bay windows, stained glass, centric carved woodwork, and bright colored paneling.

This style lent itself well to narrower lots, and thus, Victorian-style housing was most abundant in the city’s traditionally middle-class neighborhoods where individual properties were smaller, most notably Cabbagetown, Trinity-Bellwoods, Parkdale, and The Annex.

These neighborhoods held some of the largest collections of Victorian houses in North America.

Specifically, houses constructed in the Annex developed an individual iteration of the Victorian style, called the “Annex Style House.”

This style contained a variety of diverse and eclectic elements borrowed from many different styles.

Most distinctively, these houses were built of a mix of brick and sandstone, turrets, domes, and decorative ornamentation.

The city received new European immigrant groups beginning in the late 19th century into the early 20th century, particularly Germans, French, Italians, and Jews.

They were soon followed by Russians, Poles, and other Eastern European nations, in addition to the Chinese entering from the West.

As the Irish before them, many of these migrants lived in overcrowded shanty-type slums, such as “the Ward,” which was centered on Bay Street, now the heart of the country’s Financial District.

As new migrants began to prosper, they moved to better housing in other areas, in what is now understood to be succession waves of settlement.

Despite its fast-paced growth by the 1920s, Toronto’s population and economic importance in Canada remained second to the much longer-established Montreal, Quebec.

The Great Depression of the 1930s reversed the employment trend, with approximately one-fourth of the Toronto population unemployed and caused severe financial problems for suburban Toronto.

Capital debt payments could not be met and expenditure on public services—sewage and piped water supply in places remote from the lake, for example—had to be postponed.

However, World War II’s demands for war supplies and soldiers soon changed the employment picture.

Following the war, and into the 1960s, times were prosperous throughout North America.

Toronto’s economy diversified and boomed, greatly altering the cultural and spatial pattern of the city.

Other factors after the war included the baby boom, demand for single-family dwellings, and the proliferation of the automobile.

Suburban sprawl was assisted by the increase in road networks and freeways, thereby consuming some of the best agricultural land in the region.

By 1953, a reorganization of local government had been created, along with the Corporation of Metropolitan Toronto, in an attempt to control development in the surrounding regions.

Suburban growth continued. In 1966, new City of Toronto boundaries were drawn, amalgamating 13 communities, with the Metropolitan government still in place.

By the 1976 census, Toronto passed Montreal to become the largest city in Canada, and the gap between these two cities continued to grow.

(Photo credit: City of Toronto Archives / BlogTO / Wikimedia Commons / Britannica / Flickr).

Updated on: February 6, 2023

[uwumacaronitime]

Public school window blocked by ad.

Took 3 months ago, Mc. Gregor public elementary school, Toronto, Ontario. I know the image is slanted, I took this quickly while on my walk.

To be clear: Mc. Gregor has always been an underfunded, overpopulated school. Classes had to be merged into one classroom, and the amount of students in the school got so bad they had to full the playground with temporary buildings while my sister was attending. I'm 70% sure that this is just a supply closet window. But it's still depressing they have to put dental ads up for funding.

Tagging this more than usual because I want the word to be spread about this.

[therapysupportson]

Welcome to TherapySupports, where your mental health and well-being are our top priorities. As a trusted virtual psychotherapist in Toronto, we provide accessible, high-quality therapy services to individuals, couples, and families looking for support in managing life’s challenges. In a world where time is often scarce, our virtual therapy sessions offer the flexibility and convenience you need to prioritize your mental health without compromising your schedule.

TherapySupports 88 Bloor St E., Toronto, ON M4W 3G9 (647) 964–3669

Official Website: https://therapysupports.com/ Google Plus Listing: https://www.google.com/maps?cid=2174038919680065174

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Virtual Psychotherapist Toronto : https://therapysupports.com/services/trauma online couples therapy Toronto : https://therapysupports.com/services/couples-therapy Toronto Anxiety Therapist : https://therapysupports.com/services/anxiety Toronto Depression Counseling : https://therapysupports.com/services/depression LGBTQ+ Therapist Toronto: https://therapysupports.com/blogs/lgbtq-emotional-challenges Toronto Cognitive Behavioral Therapy : https://therapysupports.com/blogs/virtual-psychotherapy-ontario individuals therapy services Toronto : https://therapysupports.com/services-for-individuals

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Depression Counseling Anxiety Counseling Life Transitions Counseling Parenting Stress Counseling Online Couples Therapy | Couples Therapy Services Virtual Trauma Therapy | Online Trauma Therapy Services

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[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"BELIEF IN "HAIRY GIANTS" NOT CONFINED TO INDIANS," Toronto Star. March 8, 1934. Page 5. ---- White Men Familiar With B.C. Natives Belief In "Sasquatch" ---- ONE SAW FAMILY ---- By A. D. KEAN That "Sasquatch," the legendary hairy giants of West Coast Indian fame are believed in by white men borne borne to-day when J. A. Hewat, came into The Star office to see me. Mr. Hewat is the son of Ronald Hewat one of the best known of the older police constables of British Columbia, and has been an acquaintance of mine since Childhood, having been born in the Similkameen valley near my own home.

"Sure I believe in Sasqusttch," stated the known stalwart J. A. "for I've known a great many Indians who must have seen the hairy giants. Not only among the tribes who live on the mainland but among those of the north end of Vancouver island as well. For three years I was with the Dominion geological survey, in the capacity of packer, with from 10 to 20 horses and three to five helpers in charge, and at various times I came I came in contact with Indians who told in detail of meeting the Sasquatch. The giants are thought to live in caves mostly, and have been known for ages in the districts adjacent to the Fraser delta, the western mountain passes of the coast range in and around Coquohalla - where the boundary railroad comes through from the Okanagan valley to Vancouver, and upon the high table-lands about Victoria peak on the northermost tip of Vancouver island.

More Than Legend "Sasquatch is considerably more than a legend with all those Indians," said Mr. Hewat convincingly. "I've even heard the giants described being the last living descendants of the once powerful Aztecs of Mexico and the country to the immediate south. I knew a prospector, Cariboo George by name, who told me he had seen huge barefoot tracks of the Sasquatch in the shore of William's lake (North Central B.C.) and had followed the giant's trail up into the hills nearby.

"Cariboo George related how he had hidden himself in some bushes while the Sasquatch went by. They were a monster 8-foot man and his wife and child. All were completely naked except for a thick coat of pale, brownish-colored short fur or matted hair. The giants spoke with deep rumbling, guttural voices and seemed act very happy toward one an other. Old George seemed so wholly convinced by what he described that I found myself believing likewise in the reality of the Sasquatch," admitted Hewat seriously.

"Cariboo George also claimed that a good-sized family of the giants lived in the William's lake district somewhere and that they paid visits intervals to the local waters at nightime for fishing.

Several Near Fort Langley "Near old Fort Langley, on the upper Fraser delta," went on J. A., "there are known to be several of the giants. Many Indians there whom I met and knew told me they had seen the Sasquatch. These Indians, like those farther inland, declared the giants to be rather blonde than otherwise, but that the Indians feared the Sasquatch greatly considering them in the light of evil spirits. All the Indians agree, however, that the Sasquatch are of immense stature and tremendously powerful, and that they possess the faculty of seeing clearly through the darkest night.

"No can hide from Sasquatch, one of the stock phrases of an Indian, when relating some legend of giants," said the dark-eyed Hewat.

"About the best story I heard told of the experience of an Indian trapper who lived on the northern extremity of the Mt. Victoria plateau on Vancouver island. went on J. A This Indian looked on out of his split log cabin in early one morning to find a Sasquatch stalking about dooryard.

"The giant spied the Indian just in time to prevent being shot at. According to the trapper the Sasquatch leaped behind the corner of the shack and tore the whole roof-corner off at a single sharp pull.

"This act so terrified the Indian inside that he fell into a swoon, from which he did not awaken for several hours. When that frightened trapper regained consciousness the place seemed deserted so the redman crept cautiously outside to look around.

"While following the huge footprints left by the Sasquatch the trapper came suddenly upon the giant seated calmly at the foot of a widespreading 12-font cedar tree. With horrified gaze the Indian froze In his tracks. the while the Sasquatch eyed him silently. Presently the giant spoke. He used the native dialect of the Indian though hardly used to it.

"Why Do You Follow Met" "Why do you follow me? asked the Sasquatch in a rumbling voice. I could have killed you but you were too frightened. So I came away. Now go back and tell your tribesmen what you have seen and I have done and remember, Sasquatch cautioned, ominously. 'If you so much has tell the least falsehood about me I shall bring more of my people and we will destroy you all. At which the trapper turned away and fled.

"I asked the trapper what that Sasquatch looked like and he described the giant as being of a red-brown color with a cost of thick all over the body. He said the Sasquatch showed great shiny white teeth and around the loins of the monster was a short skirt made from the pounded inner bark of cedar plaited into a strong-looking cloth.

"The Sasquatch wore no shoes or moccasins, but the bottoms of his feet appeared tough and calloused, like the pads on the feet of big bear. The giant's hands were of immense size, nearly twice as large as of a man. And the height of Sasquatch was at least eight feet. He must have weighed 400 pounds, declared the trapper.

"ONe day at home in the Similkameen valley I met an Indian who claimed to have visited the cave of Sasquatch," continued Hewat. "The place was near the head of the Tulameen river, up near the old pass used to drive cattle over to the coast when you and I were boys."

"Yes I know where you mean," I answered, but go on with the Sasquatch story."

Found Great Stools "Well this Tulameen redskin told me he walked right to the mouth of the strange cave before he realized it was there at all. Inside the darkened dwelling were great stools made of gnarled fir tree roots. There were six of these, the Indian said. In the centre of the big cave was a strong wide table. It, too, was made as though to carry several tons of weight.

"There were long logs piled at the side of the cave, near a sort of rough-looking fireplace. Farther back hung the unskinned carcass of a blacktail buck deer and there were several set chunks chunks of meat hung upon the cave, sharp racks protruding. The Indian took one fearsome look around, then darted from the cave mouth at a swift run. He never stopped, he said, until he reached the safety of his own family wig-wam.

"So you see," explained Hewat, "it's pretty hard to disbelieve the presence of the Sasquatch, in face of all the realistic stories passed on by the various tribes of Indians who live near the mountains, and who are so convinced of the existence of the giants that they scarcely dare to speak of them in more than the whispers.

"How about yourself?" I questioned J. A. "Do you believe in the Sasquatch?"

"Sure-I can't help but believe in them, after hearing almost every tribe along the lower mainland of the B.C. coast tell about the wonders of the Saskquatch," concluded Hewat.

[manwalksintobar]

Words for the Body // Anne Michaels

       Landowska, overheard during a heated argument on interpretation:       “You play Bach your way, and I’ll play him his way.”

     1

We knew we’d reached Dunn Lake because the trees stopped. Chilled and sweating under winter clothes we stood in the damp degenerated afternoon. We grew up waiting together by water, frozen or free, in summer under the cool shaggy umbra of firs, or in the aquarium light of birches. It’s always been this way between us. We reach lakes and then we just stand there. Silence fills us with silence.

     2

When we were fourteen you read to me about Landowska, who “tottered the world and stopped the sun when she held a note.” We argued over interpretation until we were sixteen and discovered Casals: “The best musician learns to play what’s not on the page.” We decided music is memory, the way a word is the memory of its meaning.

    ·

The first time I knew what we were trying for I was waiting on the back porch while you practised. Piano flickered the leaves, evening in perfect summer, temperature the same inside and outside my body, night a pigment on my skin.

In that swathing twilight I knew you’d had a lover. Everything became part of that new perception. The yard disappeared. Sudden as my sense of your body, I knew you were attempting silence. To move an audience until they aren’t listening.

We believed in our head’s perfect version, but you couldn’t make your hands, and I couldn’t make my words, pronounce it.

Even now when I hear you play I think of a lover, gasping at the gate of another, who suddenly knows love has no power to make it right.

    3

The summer you stopped playing we were driving home from the farm, windows full of stars on the dark highway, legs bare on vinyl seats, night air cold and new as from the sea.

In a voice that came from the highway you described the blackness where music waits, tormenting until you draw it out, a redemption. Then the fear of forgetting notes disappears, the fingers have a memory of their own.

You spoke of a kind of hunger that makes pleasure perfect. Then you said how it was to be opened and tasted by a hall full of people.

When we reached home you were crying.

Within a month you stopped playing. You stopped sleeping. Eighteen years old, exhausted, holding to the idea of perfect sound.

End of summer, rainy morning, your head in my hands. Across the room a jar of flowers made its small fire. Curtains held their breath against the wet screens.

    4

Dunn Lake We skied there gracelessly through the woods. Desperate light pressured black trees to hold their pose. The moon reached under the ice where the lake moved, obedient.

Night pressed its thumbs over our eyes. Too dark to take the way we came, we went by road.

You reached the farmhouse ahead of me, I saw your figure in the porch lights.

We ate watching the fire, logs collapsing under the weight of flame, flames collapsing with their own weight.

Almost no word spoken since our silence at the lake, you said you’d play again.

Over two years since your hands were yours.

You asked, smiling, face torn with shadows from the fire: “haven’t you given up the perfect word yet?”

     ·

Fingers have a memory, to read the familiar braille of another’s skin. The body has a memory: the children we make, places we’ve hurt ourselves, sieves of our skeletons in the fat soil. no words mean as much as a life. Only the body pronounces perfectly the name of another.

    5

This morning your letter. A photo of redwoods in winter, the half-frozen pond. Remember the way we walked each other home— one block further, one block further— the way we skated in the ravine, late winter afternoon, so cold the air seemed to magnify the world, sky the colour of plums.

We sang in harmony on the ice, breath echoing white under the bridge, our fifteen-year-old bodies perfect and young under winter clothes, warm from skating and singing, trees along the ridge a black lace picket fence against a plume of orange like a comet’s tail where the sun had been.

Remember climbing the hill, already dark, and stopping to hear trees shake their branches, how we’d enter your parents’ warm house in a daze of images.

Remember once, mauve and yellow tulips on the dining room table, remember the music when we said play those colours and turned Bach’s “Anna Magdalena” the colour of yellow, the colour of mauve.

Remember that October, standing in your farm’s back field, half a mile apart, while daylight collapsed under the weight of darkness, and trees thick with burning leaves shouldered the stars. Music emerged from those moments, from air, like a room’s white dimension in the window at nightfall.

    ·

Any discovery of form is a moment of memory, existing as the historical moment—alone, and existing in history—linear, in music, in the sentence. Each poem, each piece remembers our bodies, the way man and woman in their joining remember each other before they were separate.

It’s over twenty-five years and every love poem says how your music and my words are the same: praising the common air, the motive, the memory.

To praise memory is to praise the body.

And I find myself describing the joining of hips and eyes, the harbours of thighs and lips,

as the singing of two small bodies in a dark ravine, as two small bodies holding up the night sky in a winter field.

[eyes-above--the-waves]

Love that Aus and Willy heard I was missing Mitch and said, "Don't worry girl, we gotchu."

[idontwanttospoiltheparty]

the fact John did probably less than 20 gigs post-66......

[blackmalethoughts]

Deserving Better (Ontario Women are Trash 2.0)

I've been having these thoughts in my mind, heart and soul for about 8 years while going through life here in Ontario. Instead of keeping it inside and constantly talking to myself about it, I decided to post some of it here. Maybe some other guy out there reading this might relate.

I've had made a post under another name years ago, venting about my experiences with women in the GTA and how trash majority of them are. After having it up there for some time, a part of me felt I was being too harsh and unfair, in which I ended up deleting it and moved on with my life. Years later, up to this point, I'm here wishing that I hadn't deleted that blog -- wondering about all the things that I'd written at that moment, especially the part about how a woman would forgive her man if her boyfriend were to beat her (wild shit, I know).

Love is something that I have always wanted in my life from a significant other. The feeling of a lady caring about you, supporting you, giving herself to you and making you feel like you're important in her life, because that's something that I would do back for a lady. For years I've chased; from the constant rejections, to dates that seemed like it was going somewhere but it never did, to women playing too many games, to women calling me on the phone about their man problems, to being the rebound guy where those same women get dumped by their own men then hit me up with "heyyy stranger" and more messages leading up to sex, to cancel a third date after a car crash I had years ago only for that woman to ghost me afterwards; To your ex telling you how much of a bad boyfriend you were, even to the point where she'd lie to her friends about you and compare you to her ex (who to this day I don't know who he is) that raped her in high school.

I don't consider myself to be the perfect guy. I've never considered myself to be a desperate person nor a jealous person either. I've always had accepted things for what it is / was and moved forward. Regardless of these things, I've spent majority of my days alone beating myself up more times than I could count. Telling myself that I'm undeserving of love and that being alone seemed more better than having to deal with the bs from women that have taken me for granted and have made me feel worthless. Doesn't really help when you have a group of women who constantly tell black men how they ain't shit and how dusty and broke they are and more.

With all of that on my plate, I felt really lonely, depressed and frustrated with dating and the state of women here in Ontario.

I would say it was not until January 2020, which was when I took the time to realize my self-worth and how much work that I had to do for myself. From that moment on up until now, I've been focused more than ever on my goals that I have set in place for myself to achieve career wise, all the while improving on myself physically, mentally and financially. I can say that I'm in a better place now than where I was back in 2010 from when I had my first relationship (which lasted 4 months) up to 2019 where all seemed gloomy as shit.

As far as dating goes, I'm far from interested in wanting to date women for something serious. Dating is dead here, to me at least. There's nothing that women here can offer me other than headaches, gaslighting, mental issues, children from previous men, and false accusations. My future is the only thing that matters to me. I would go as far as saying traveling overseas being the best option for me at this point for finding love, even if it means learning another language and the culture, I'm more than willing to do it. Been traveling since I was 9, so why not? I know that I will never find a genuine connection with a woman nor be loved here in western society. Good men are not wanted since women settle for the man with an "edge" to them, and then once they're all used up, they want to run back to you. They're not worth the squeeze.

I deserve better in my life.