Sitting across from Steven Page, you do not see the quirky, hyperactive frontman who defined the Canadian airwaves in the 1990s. The man who once bounced across stages singing about Kraft Dinner and million-dollar dreams is now a more measured, reflective figure. He has spent the last 10 years carving out a solo career that is arguably more interesting, and certainly more honest, than the peak Barenaked Ladies era. But the shadow of his past remains a backdrop for his current mission: deconstructing the myth of the "tortured artist."
It was back in 2011 that Page went public with his bipolar disorder diagnosis. He admitted to years of self-medicating, a survival tactic used by many in the industry to mask the jagged edges of a chemical imbalance. Since his 2009 departure from the band he helped build, Page has recalibrated. He is managing his illness with a transparency that is rare in a business built on artifice. He is not just a musician anymore; he is a vocal advocate, and he will be taking the stage at the Canadian Mental Health Association Windsor-Essex County Breakfast of Champions on May 7.
When I ask him if this public vulnerability provides its own form of therapy, he is characteristically blunt. There is no ego in his answer, only the reality of someone who still questions his own standing.
"I guess it does in some ways," Page says. "I usually go into some of these events thinking ‘who am I to be talking to people about my story, what does it matter and is this something that just I’m just doing this for my own sense or my own mental wellness,’ but at the end of the day I do these events and the just feed off the feeling in the room. It makes it all worth it."
This hesitation is a classic symptom of the advocate’s imposter syndrome. In an industry where "authenticity" is often just another marketing buzzword, Page is actually doing the heavy lifting. He is walking into rooms filled with people who only know him from catchy choruses and forcing them to see the human beneath the hook.
"The fact that you can open yourself up and be vulnerable around people who are also either experiencing those same kinds of issues, have a past issue themselves or they have family members or co-workers and they just don’t know how to talk to them about it," he says. "Those are huge issues to have and open up about."
And he is right. The statistics are often cited with a clinical coldness that strips away the human cost. We hear "one in five" and treat it like a weather report. But for Page, those numbers represent a silent struggle that is far more pervasive than the official data suggests.
"They say that one in five people suffer from mental health struggles and that’s just the one in five who actually admits it," Page says. "We all deal with it because we are surrounded by it. We live a normal life with people who are struggling, whether it’s with very serious problems and mental health struggles like schizophrenia or there are the very common ones of depression and anxiety. Every one of those mental health conditions can kill. When people take their own lives or make horrible life-ending decisions when they’re suffering from the same depression and anxiety that everybody else sometimes suffers from, I’ve learned to take it seriously. I think some of that rubs off on other people and it gives other people the opportunity to speak out about their own struggles and I’m happy to be able to do that."
It is a sobering thought. The "common" struggles like anxiety are often dismissed as part of the modern condition, yet they carry the same lethal potential as more stigmatized disorders. Page sees his platform not as a soapbox, but as a utility.
"That’s a gift that has been given to me to be able to help other people with that," he adds.
The timeline of his struggle is a familiar one for many who deal with bipolar disorder. The symptoms often manifest in early adulthood, just as life is supposed to be taking off. For Page, that meant the diagnosis arrived right as his career was skyrocketing.
"I guess I was in my early 20s when I was diagnosed first, but apart from taking medications on and off, I really didn’t take it particularly seriously until I was in my 30s," he admits. "I think one of the things that made me look the wrong way at my depression was that I saw it as almost like a badge of honour, like I was the tortured artist. It was somehow, something romantic and if I took too much medication, I might lose what made me special as an artist. It’s all rubbish, but it took me a long time to come to terms with that and it’s time I wasted."
That "tortured artist" trope is a dangerous lie the music industry sells to fans and creators alike. It suggests that health is the enemy of creativity, and that stability results in boring art. Page spent a decade under that spell before realizing that the music was a shield, not a symptom.
"Then I realized it’s not because of my mental health issues that I am an artist," Page says. "I’m an artist because that was what I came up with to combat my mental health struggles. Looking back, I realize now that music has been the thing that kept me going. I seek appropriate treatment and take care of myself better now and I’m more productive than I ever was."
Not every medication works the same way for every person... I took it for a while and felt kind of numb. I didn’t feel like myself... If the professional you’re working with...if they’re not listening to you, go find somebody else. You have the right as a patient to find the care that you need.
There is an inherent difficulty in being the public face of a band while your internal world is collapsing. The audience expects the "fun guy," and the business requires a reliable product. If the product breaks, the machine stops.
"I bet you’re right," Page says when I suggest people might have doubted his struggles because of his public persona. "I bet people did think it was some kind of a curtain. You might be okay with showing some symptoms in front of other people, but sometimes those symptoms might make people find you unreliable and that is terrifying."
In the high-stakes world of international touring and corporate sponsorships, "unreliable" is a death sentence. The Barenaked Ladies were a massive business enterprise. When you are the engine of that business, you learn to hide the smoke coming from the hood.
"Whether you’re running a business like the Barenaked Ladies or a bank, if your mental health issues are getting in the way or people are afraid that those mental health issues might get in the way of other people’s livelihoods, safety or security, then you’re going to want to hide it," Page explains. "That’s where stigma comes in and that’s what we’re in the process now trying to shift the perceptions about."
But shifting perceptions is a slow, grueling process. The general public often views mental health through the lens of a "quick fix." Take a pill, see a therapist and get back to work. The reality is far more cyclical and frustrating.
"We can live productive, satisfying lives and we are learning to get through those issues," Page says. "They’re always fixed – people always expect a quick fix. People who aren’t suffering with mental health issues tell you to go get some help and then come back once you’re on your medication or whatever else and pick up where we left off. That’s not always how it goes. It really is up to the person who is suffering to learn their own boundaries and that can be a difficult thing for the rest of the world to catch up with."
This disconnect often leads to the "numbness" that many patients report. When I mention my own husband’s struggle with medication that stripped away his personality, Page nods with the weary recognition of someone who has been there.
"Absolutely! That the thing really," he says. "Not every medication works the same way for every person and that’s exactly what happened to me. When I first was diagnosed, I went to the doctor and he gave me a prescription and I took it for a while and felt kind of numb. I didn’t feel like myself and eventually I stopped taking them, or I took them long enough to feel like okay now I feel better, and I stopped taking them without working with a doctor’s help."
This is the cycle that kills. A patient feels like a zombie, stops the meds and then crashes harder than before. It is a failure of the system to provide personalized care in a world of one-size-fits-all prescriptions.
"They either taper you off or find a different medication, but there are lots of different treatments out there," Page notes. "For some people, medication isn’t the answer. Sometimes medication is something to help you to just get out of bed. You can couple it with other practices, whether it’s therapeutic, talk therapies or just diet and exercise or whatever else works, but work with professionals. Also if the professional you’re working with - whether it’s your family doctor or it’s a psycho therapist or a psychiatrist - and if they’re not listening to you, go find somebody else."
But finding someone else is easier said than done. The Canadian healthcare system is notoriously bogged down when it comes to mental health. The "right as a patient" often clashes with the reality of a three-year waitlist.
"You have the right as a patient to find the care that you need, and what happens so often, and I could speak to this personally, is that you take medications that doesn’t work or make you feel worse in a certain way and It turns you off of taking care of yourself," Page says. "What you end up doing is just kind of playing Russian roulette."
The frustration is evident in his voice. We expect people in crisis to be their own best advocates, to navigate a bureaucratic labyrinth while their brain is telling them the world is ending. It is a systemic absurdity.
"It’s really frustrating and I think it’s really hard to see a psychiatrist," Page says. "But if you’re looking to get medication, you need to get it from a psychiatrist or you can get it from your family doctor. Your family doctor is dealing with a million other conditions from a lot of other patients too, so they may not be as up-to-date or have antidotal evidence as someone who works strictly with mental health issues."
And then there is the "audition."
"With a psychiatrist, sometime you have to wait eight to 10 months to be able to see one and then it kind of feels like you’re going to audition for them and show them if you’re sick enough for their time," he says. "It shouldn’t be like that."
It is a grim irony that Page’s most famous song, "Brian Wilson," is a tribute to a man whose own mental health struggles were exploited by the industry for decades. Page wrote it long before he knew he was looking in a mirror.
"I wrote that song when I was 19 or 20," Page says. "It was not really about depression at the time because I hadn’t been diagnosed yet. I didn’t fully realize that the song truly is about depression."
The song has become a touchstone for fans who feel that same isolation. It is about the "lying in bed" phase of a breakdown, the ceiling fan spinning like a clock you can't stop.
"It was about the power of music to help lift you out of that," he says. "I have since had the opportunity several times to get to meet Brian and even sing with him, which has been a huge thrill, but there is a connection for sure. I have always felt connected to his story in a way. That’s really what the song is about."
His new work, specifically the album *Discipline: Heal Thyself, Pt. II*, carries a sharper edge. The lead single "White Noise" is a biting commentary on the current state of discourse, and there is a palpable anger that was often buried under the BNL harmonies.
"I think that edge has always been there, but I got angry when I see people who are being victimized and that’s the thing that bothers me that most," Page says. "That’s how you get a song like White Noise or I get angry at myself for things which has always been a theme in my songs, but I think that’s something people can relate to: your frustration with not living up to your expectations of yourself."
But despite the edge, there is a sense of peace in the man sitting here today. He isn't the "tortured artist" anymore. He is just an artist. And he is one who has survived the worst of himself.
"I don’t feel half as angry as I used to when I was a younger man, that’s for sure," Page says. "Life has been pretty good to me."
Tickets to the Breakfast of Champions are $50 each and are available at windsoressex.cmha.ca. The event takes place on May 7 and features Page in both a speaking and performing capacity. It is a chance to see a Canadian icon not just for his hits, but for his humanity.
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