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Can city living affect you?

Have you ever wished you could live in a quiet peaceful place somewhere in the country? Because city living is just too stressful? Studies back up exactly how you feel.

Brain imaging studies have found that living in a city or growing up in one can affect brain function during a stressful situation.

According to projections by the United Nations, the world is becoming more urbanized, with almost 70% of people expected to live in urban areas by 2050.

Studies suggest living in a city increases the risk of depression and anxiety, and schizophrenia rates are higher in people born and brought up in cities. But until now, there hasn’t been research into how human brain structures might be affected by urban living.

So researchers at McGill’s Douglas Mental Health University Institute in Montreal and the University of Heidelberg in Germany used magnetic resonance imaging to study brain responses of healthy German students who were taking a math test under stressful conditions.

Study participants faced time pressures and, in some cases, investigators scolded them through headphones.

The researchers reported in the online issue of the journal Nature that, when exposed to those stressful conditions, two areas of the students’ brains known to be involved in processing emotions became more active.

The amygdala is an almond-shaped mass located deep within the brain. It plays an important role in processing and remembering emotional reactions. Researchers found the amygdala was more active in those who lived or had been brought up in cities. According to Jens Pruessner of McGill and his co-authors, a brain mechanism links the urban environment to social stress processing across the human lifespan.

“These findings contribute to our understanding of urban environmental risk for mental disorders and health in general,” said Pruesssner.

He said these findings might point to the importance of taking time away from the hustle and bustle of city living.

“I think what’s important is to realize that you might be more exposed to a higher amount of social stress if you live in the city,” Pruessner said. “Therefore you should account for that by giving yourself more chances to take a vacation and pause from the stress, to find times for recreation.”

In the case of schizophrenia, scientists suspect that both genetic and environmental factors are involved. The new findings point to the social stresses of city living.

“We’ve all known that there has to be something else involved that triggers the onset of schizophrenia, and it’s called stress,” said Chris Summerville, the chief executive officer of the Schizophrenia Society of Canada in Winnipeg. “So if you have higher levels of stress in urban areas, then it stands to reason you would probably have higher levels of schizophrenia.”

The findings did not come as a surprise to a man rushing for a commuter train in Toronto.

“Seriously, if you lived in the country and you didn’t have to deal with the traffic and trains and all the noise, I think you would be a calmer person,” said David Smith.

David Hine, who now lives in the small community of New Ross, N.S., after living in cities and towns, said there is a greater sense of connectedness in rural life.

“In the ups and downs of life, it’s nice to have the security and support of a community,” Hine said.

In these studies, a city was defined as having more than 100,000 inhabitants, a town more than 10,000.

Does city living affect your stress level? I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Contact me for all your professional writing and mental health advocacy needs.

Source:
http://www.cbc.ca/news/health/story/2011/06/22/city-stress-brain.html?ref=rss

Our Sonshine vanished so suddenly

I came home that night to find something white sticking out between the door jamb and the wall. The business card of a Detective Cook from the Special Investigations Unit. I turned it over. “Grace Cherian. Please call. It’s in relation to your brother.”

My brother, Wilson, born nine years after the last of his four older siblings had become our precious “son.” An animated child, his sharp wit made us all laugh. And he was so curious. Kept us busy with his endless stream of questions. We doted on him.

But schizophrenia had changed him. Radically. Into a sad, aloof young man. Who couldn’t communicate with our family.

On rare occasions, Wils had given me a glimpse into his struggles. “I hear voices. They tell me, ‘Go to the hardware store. Buy poison. Drink it.’ Sometimes they say, ‘Go to Niagara Falls. Jump into the lake.’”

Then one day, he just disappeared. Which was so strange. Because he always kept in touch with me by phone. I had spent three months searching for him all over the city—posting flyers with a photo of Wils in hospitals, rooming houses and homeless shelters.

Trembling, I unlocked the door. My thoughts raced around wildly. Could my brother be in some kind of trouble? Committed a crime? I just couldn’t shut off the noise in my head.

I phoned Detective Cook.

“Hi, Grace. I have something to tell you. The issue is serious. I cannot discuss it over the phone. I’ll be right over.”

That really upset me. I paced in my small living room. My brother must be in awful trouble. That’s why Detective Cook couldn’t talk over the phone. But nothing, nothing could have prepared me for what I was about to hear.

The buzzer rang. Even before I heard the knock, I opened the door. Detective Cook had bushy eyebrows, which made him look quite stern. He wore plain clothes.

“We found the body of your brother in Lake Ontario this afternoon…” Detective Cook said.

We found the body of your brother? Body? What was this man doing? He was talking about my brother as if he were dead. Why? Wils is only thirty. The youngest child in the family. The youngest doesn’t die first??

“A couple from out of town was strolling along the lakeshore… ” I heard him say. “Spotted a shape out on the lake. They told the police. The Metro Police Marine Unit had to use a chainsaw to hack the body of your brother out of the ice… ”

Chainsaw… Hack…  Body… Nothing made any sense.

After a long time, I heard myself talk.

“When can I see my brother?”

“I’m sorry, Grace. His body is frozen solid. It will take about a week for it to thaw out.”

Frozen solid? I pictured the little ice cubes Wils loved to pop into his mouth and suck on as a child. Only now we weren’t talking about innocuous ice cubes. My brother had become a human block of ice!

“Do you have a photo of your brother?” Detective Cook asked. I gave him one. He left.

I collapsed on the couch. And wept uncontrollably.

I made several phone calls. First to Mom.

“Mom, Wils is no longer with us.” Mom had spent most of the afternoon weeping.

“Heard… News. About a body. In Lake Ontario.” A mother’s instinct. She knew. It was her baby—her “angel Wilson.”

“Mom, I’ll call you in the morning, okay?”

I phoned Dad.

“Oh, my God!” he cried.

Next I phoned my oldest brother James in Singapore. And my two other siblings.

I went to bed, but sleep eluded me. Propped against the pillows, I gazed at all the photos I had of Wils. Until light filtered in through the curtains. It was dawn.

James flew in from Singapore two days later.

An environmentalist, James wanted my brother’s body cremated. Mom and I resisted. That very dreadful illness—schizophrenia—had ravaged Wils emotionally and mentally while he was alive. We wanted to make sure his body was preserved intact in death. James yielded to our wishes.

Dad and James worked together to find a funeral home, pick out a casket, find a burial site and a priest to conduct the funeral service.

The coroner finally delivered his report. Now we could bury Wils.

The snow fell gently on the day of the funeral. Father Philip preached a short but moving sermon.

The light snowfall had made the cemetery grounds a bit slippery. With my hand in the crook of Mom’s elbow, we both walked to the burial plot.

The casket was closed. “Open it! Open it!” Mom cried. She wanted one final glimpse of her baby. Mom burst into a fit of weeping. I fought hard to choke back my tears. When Mom had calmed down, she placed a rosary and some dried yellow rose petals from her garden on the casket.

My brother’s death paralyzed me. With grief and depression. For about a year. It marked a very low point in my life. I couldn’t work. And tons of regrets beset me. I should have done this. I should have done that. Made myself more available to Wils. But I’ve finally arrived at peace. I know Wils would have wanted that.

This year Wils would have turned forty-seven. He now has a new body. A new mind. A new wholeness in Christ. Voices don’t torment him anymore. He lives in peace. In glory. Best of all? I shall see him again—in eternity.

Contact me for all your professional writing and mental health advocacy needs.