Category: Uncategorized

Tales From the Front Line – The Scenes In-Between

Trigger warning: Sexual assault, rape, – not detailed.

Life is layered. More than one thing happens at a time.

So far, I have chosen to write about the things that shaped me in singular observations, (my birth, my Nana, my father). There will be more of these singular stories to come, those people/ times that I feel warrant their own lengthy viewing. But life is not just made up of the big ongoing events, there are single moments and encounters that have had a profound effect on me. These scenes did not necessarily involve main players in my life, not all were bad tragedies either. But to understand how the mental patterns in my head have been reenforced, it is important to understand the little things that have happened to solder the wiring of my brain.

I was about six. My Nana had a neat little house with blue trim and white picket fence. It seemed out of place next to the main road way that ran in front of it. There was always traffic, sirens at any time of day.  On this particular beautiful day I was playing on the front step. The usual bustle of traffic going by, when a car veered off the road, crossed my Nana’s lawn, onto her neighbour’s and crashed into the front of the house. The car had been going at quite the speed, it hit the next door house with such force the driver flew through his windshield and through the front window of the house. I watched all of this with a front row view from my Nana’s stoop. I still feel startled when I remember this. I think it made me a little less trusting that things are always going to be good. That we could trust feeling safe. 

In the giant back yard of this same little house, I would open hours lying on the grass, looking at the sky. Playing in the dirt and holding court with the plants. The coolness under the crab apple tree in the heat of summer, was a welcome refuge for a tea party. My Nana and I would take lawn chairs out in the middle of the yard and have tea and she would tell me about the different birds we’d spot, using my Papa’s ancient binoculars. These are some of the times I really felt connected. I did not have the language then, that I do now, I am blessed to be able to recall this feeling in my very marrow when I am out in nature, walking in the woods, playing in my garden. That are some of the most peaceful, spiritual moments I have. I am glad I had that in my childhood early on. It left a positive imprint on me, one that I seek out as healthy self care.

In that same little house I loved the kitchen, the bath tub and wooden toilet seat in her bathroom (seriously, as a kid I would be in there for hours reading, it was the most comfortable seat in the house.). I hated the basement. It was old, three quarters finished, cold. Filled me with the worst dread. I have nightmares of hiding near the washer and dryer in that basement. It was in that basement I was molested by a male relative. He would drag me down there to play hide and seek. I think he was about five or six years older than me. He’d find me, and lay himself on top of me and rub himself on me, asking if I wanted to play hotdog. My Mom and Nana upstairs and I couldn’t tell them or he said he’d beat me up, plus it was just a game, he’d try to convince me. It happened three or four times. This reenforced me giving in for peace, and not having any power. 

There was a boy who lived across the street from where I grew up. He was five years older than me. All the girls on my street had mad crushes on him. My parents let him babysit me when my sisters weren’t around for the task. He would wait till my folks were gone and pull me into the room under the stairs where we kept all of the board games. He would kiss me, with his tongue. It always felt so gross, he kept trying to jam the slimy thing in my mouth. He was so well loved in the neighbourhood I couldn’t tell. I knew it didn’t feel good, but everyone loved him so something must be wrong with me. I feel uneasy thinking about this, another early betrayal of trust. Another early experience of betraying myself and my instinct because it would ruffle others. I struggle with this still.

I was eight years old when Raiders of the Lost Ark came out. There was a little gang of us that hung out, I was one of the youngest. It was summer and the kids got permission to be able to see a movie with out parents. It was so exciting. My Mom was reluctant but I told her it was just a little adventure movie, it would be fine. Yeah, that melting scene at the end… I had nightmares for weeks after. But it was worth it. That sense of freedom I had when I was out with my friends. That was the moment I knew I really do love my independence to experience different things with different people. And considering how anxious I can be, I love scary movies, I like controllable fear.

I could devote a few paragraphs to the multiple times I have been sexually violated in my life. I have thought long and hard, and rather than dissect each one, looking at them en mass  has shown me is that a victim needs to feel heard. They need to be believed. That you can’t make assumptions of how these things will happen. I was assaulted as a young teen at a party with my sisters friends. I never told her, but her brother in law saved me. I was raped at a high school party. I was molested by a female classmate in elementary school. I understand how these things reenforced my lack of self worth. My being invisible unless there was a use for me. I can see how this had started to create that constant need for validation, that I was good, I was wanted, loved.

The absolute rush I got in grade six, the first time I wrote and directed a play. It was well received and elaborate. The first time I saw my words in print, in grade one, a story in the inter school magazine. The first time I won an award for one of my plays in high school. The first time I treated a client as a professional, not a massage therapy student. The first time I taught a class. The first birth I was asked to attend as a helper. Sitting one fall day and listening to a homeless gentleman’s story. He thanked me, for reminding him he was human. All of these things made me feel so incredibly useful. So needed for the right reasons. Any time I can connect, through touch, through words, teaching, I still get that same feeling. A warm rush, like I am glowing, plugged  into the universal energy. That I have purpose.

I can see how these things all fit in to help create light and dark. I am sensitive to those that feel unseen. I love to share ideas and conversation, to be truly connected. When this is out of balance I become needy, paranoid that I am repulsive, worthless. I truly want to help who I can, when I can, but I have to be mindful it is not to feed my own monsters. I can not seek adulation, gratitude, indebtedness, acceptance, love as the payment for being of service. When I start to feel the “what about me and my needs” whine start, I am learning to step back and see if there is an underlying cause or if I am just depleted.

It will always be an inner dance, a negotiation. Sometimes I will get it right. Sometimes I won’t. That’s human. it is something we will all do. But not all of us will try to learn from it, try to grow from it. You can’t have the expectation that life will become exactly what you want. But you can align a little better if you’re willing to work at it.

Thanks for reading.

Tales From the Frontline: The Crone’s Lesson on Anger, Words and Love

My safe harbour when the storms blew up in my family was my Nana. 

My Mother’s Mom. She was a delightful old Crone. 

She was not a big woman, but she was strong. Her laugh was like a thousand devilish chimes, her eyes sparkled, she had a bawdy humour and she had a little hooked nose and gnarled hard worked hands. She liked her whiskey, her bingo and her little adventures.

She taught me to bake, a pinch, a handful, and yes you will know when your dough is right by how it feels.

She taught me to cook, a pinch, a shake, stir clockwise three times round and fill your cooking with love. 

She had started to teach me gardening, talking to the plants, respecting nature, the value of having your hands in the dirt when your head is in the muck. And always remember to make friends with the Fae. 

She taught me to see an adventure in the every day, ask people questions, stop and really take a look around. Listen to the stories being told, feel the ones that aren’t. 

She taught me that music, dancing, play and humour were not to be saved for a once in the while. Dance when the mood strikes, sing loud and laugh often. 

She tried to teach me to crochet, alas this was hard as I am left handed and she was right. It never really worked.

She taught me to look for the signs that our Gods and Ancestors would provide when asked. She taught me to look into the Cards and listen to what I was being told. She never once doubted me or made me feel like a freak for being able to hear and dream of the dead, or for knowing things I ‘should not’.

She taught me that when you grieve deeply, be grateful, it means you have loved deeply. Be of service and help out with an open heart.

I learned so much from her, so many lessons, some that I have taken thirty years to even begin to understand. I find comfort in talking to her, even now.

She would take me for weekends to come and stay with her. It’s funny I still dream of her house and garden in vivid detail, sometimes even waking, the smell of her and her home still linger.

It was a four bedroom bungalow, situated on a giant lot that had a small garage and amazing garden.

My Papa had died the year I was born, I never got to formally meet him (more on that later), but she talked about him often. He had put much work into their little house. My Nana had wanted a proper dining room, so he had taken two of the upstairs bedrooms and knocked the wall out. There was a big table in there, which i remember having family dinners around. The closet is where she kept her treasures, the war medals of my Papa, her brother, old photo albums, letters…… Sometimes this room would double as her sewing room. 

The living room had a formal stiff couch, the well polished table had a crystal candy dish filled with a clump of licorice allsorts. On Saturday nights we would sit in here in the two armchairs closest to the TV, with our TV trays and eat dinner and play Kingo Bingo.

There was the ‘guest room’, it used to be my Mom’s room that she had shared with her middle sister. There were twin beds, but what I remember most was the curtains in that room. They were white with large green flowers. But at night, with the street light shining through those flowers all had evil little faces and I could never fall sleep in there. I usually preferred sharing my Nan’s bed.

Her room had a dresser and a small table by the window for plants. Her bed was a double that had a frame with storage in the headboard. She kept her books and night creams in there. It had well worn gold coloured comforter, the sheets were soft and the pillows fluffy. The mattress was old, as it was the one she shared with my Papa she he was alive. By all accounts he was a hard drinking bear of a man, but loved his family. 

When I was about five, I recall waking from a dream that had scared me. I dreamt that I had walked into my Nana’s room and there was a large man in the bed, with an oxygen mask on. He looked so ill, he beckoned me towards the bed. That’s when I woke up. When I described the man to my Nana, she told me that it had been my Papa wanting to talk to me.

That was about the time she began to teach me to ‘hear’ and ‘see’ and to not be afraid. My Nan started soon after with teaching me the fine art of tarot. 

She loved to teach me about the magic in everyday. One of the things that we would do with regularity is take a bus adventure. She would get us up early in the morning, I would draw a number out of a hat. We would dress in our ‘Sunday finest’ and find that number bus, we would ride it the full route- pretending we were tourists and taking in the sights of a foreign town. Sometimes we would have accents, sometimes we would share fantastical story or two. We would then make our way back to the mall by her house, have a little lunch and go home and play in the garden or play cards. She would get me to tell her about what I had observed.

When my Mother had extended stays in the hospital my Nana would come to stay with us. She was one of the most important people to me. She kept me safe, she made sure that I had a wondrous parts to my childhood in many ways. She also took great care of her ‘baby’, and I am sure it must have been one of the hardest things to watch your child dying. As time began to run short for my Mother, we were all vying for time with her. My Nan would often give up her one on one so myself or one of my sisters could have time. The Christmas before my Mother died we were told that she had about six months to a year left. She wanted to be home as long as she could. This was punctuated by short stays in the hospital. February of that year we could tell time was going faster. My Nan and I were preparing for my Mom to come home from the hospital. It was unspoken that this was more than likely the last time that she would be coming back. I don’t remember now what had prompted the conversation but I know it ended in an argument between my Nana and my eleven year old self. I wanted time with my Mom, my Nana wanted time with her baby girl. I got angry with her and told her I wanted to be alone with my Mommy. Nana had gotten frustrated with me, I did not want to listen to reason, I did not want to share her time. I don’t really remember what she said, but my come back is burned in my memory. The last thing I said to my Nana was to leave and not come back. 

She had agreed to go shopping that morning to give my Mom and me sometime to just hang out. (This mostly meant me snuggling up with my mom in her bed, mostly while she slept.)

A few hours later I was burrowed in blankets next to my Mom. We were watching TV. Out of the blue my Mom told me to look out of her bedroom window onto the front street. I asked her why and she urgently told me to get off the bed and look NOW.

When I looked outside what my child’s mind let me see was a blanket in the middle of the street. I told this to my Mom. 

She glared at me, and quietly said “It is not a blanket, that is my Mom. Get outside to her now!”

“Mommy, it is just a blanket someone left there.”

“Get your ass outside now.” She had pushed herself to a mostly seated position on the bed, she had grabbed her cane and hit me in the hip to get me moving.

By the the time I had gotten my shoes on, I could hear the ambulance outside. One of the the neighbours had called. I came out to see my beloved Nana on a stretcher with a tube down her throat but no one doing anything else. My neighbour had tried to grab me in a hug so I could not see her. Her nose was bloody from falling. I remember screaming. One of the EMS saying how there was nothing they could do. 

I kept screaming. I could not go back in my house and tell my Mother her Mom was gone. I had done this. I had told her not to come back. I had stolen my Nana’s and Mom’s time together by pitching a fit. I knew telling my Mom that she would go back into the hospital and never come home. I knew she would hate me. I had caused all of this.

I don’t remember going back into the house, but I can still see my Mom, somehow she’d gotten herself out to the kitchen, she was holding her cane and had slumped down in the chair when my neighbour had told her. I kept crying. I had killed her. I had told her to leave and not come back. One of the most precious people in my life. I never said sorry, I never told her how much I loved her. I only told her to go away. 

The next memory I have of that day was my sisters being there, we were waiting for the ambulance to come and take my Mom back to the hospital. I was standing by the stove, holding my cabbage patch kid and almost twisting her head off. I could hardly speak. I could not tell them what I had done. I could not tell them this was all my fault. That my father was right. We were evil. We made bad things happen.

I remember standing by the door as they wheeled my Mother out, the front wheel of the gurney rolled over my foot. I didn’t flinch- it was the least pain I deserved for what I had done. 

For a very long time there was a part of me that believed I really had killed her. 

Now, even all these years later, I have an exceptionally hard time allowing myself to be angry. I get physically ill and have panic attacks when it comes to confrontation. Often I will not express my anger, I will make excuses for the other person, take on the responsibility of the disagreement and be the one to make it right, whether it was my ‘wrong’ or not. I apologize for being angry when it does happen. I am beyond careful in what I say, that if it is a disagreement with someone I care about that I am not mean and never call them names. I don’t ever want vitriol to be the last words I exchange with someone. I will give in to keep the peace.

I loved her so much. She was the spark that lit my faith, my trust in the cards, my trust in the ether.  She is the reason I am curious, I watch the sky, I cook for anyone I can feed and I talk to the birds. She is the influence for my kindness, my openness, my compassion and empathy.

While the extreme anxiety that comes form this trigger makes me appear a doormat, a ‘fixer’, a pleaser, as long as I always do the right thing, you adore me, so we will NEVER argue! It has effectively stolen my voice many some cases.

There is a bonus, when I can balance my right to be expressive in my justified anger, I conscientiously separate a person from an action (while you are not an ass, what you did was an ass move). I have to calculate if my expressing my anger is worth the possible anxiety attack, this means often I don’t give in to reactionary behaviour over small things. These can be very positive things.

I will miss her until we meet on the other side of the veil. I know she knows I love her, and that I honour her. And if I could even now, I would take back those words in a heartbeat.

Faith

Energy. It is the basis of everything. 

I believe it is all connected. 

I believe we are all connected.

I believe we are here to learn. 

I believe we are here to help each other.

I believe in past lives.

I believe that a multiverse is a probability.

Energy never ceases to exist. It just changes.

I believe not everything is predestined.

I believe in timeless connections

I believe in soul families

I believe in levelling up

I believe in being of service

I believe in love

Tales From the Frontline- The Sins of the Father

My father was a handsome, dynamic man. He was funny, charming, and so incredibly smart, even though he only had a ninth grade education. At 15 he left home and got a job as a welders assistant. He could fix and build anything. Over his life he worked his way up to being one of the top in his field. He was an artist, he could draw, made beautiful wrought iron as a hobby, he played the trumpet and loved to dance. The thing I still remember most when I think of my father, were his hands, they were beautiful and strong, a working man’s hands. Until I was eight years old I always called him my Buddy, not dad or daddy.

When he drank he was dark, cruel, manipulative and psychologically violent. I believe he committed heinous transgressions to members of my family but those are not my stories to tell, I am simply observing my own relationship with him, and how this has shaped me.

His own upbringing was marked by violence and loss. His father was abusive, his mother died when my father was a teen. He left home very young and from what I can remember did not have close relationships with his two younger siblings. I am sure there were many bleak stories he kept buried in his own tortured soul.

My father was gone much of the time for his job, he would be away for weeks at pipeline camps working to provide for us. When he was home my parents would party a lot. I remember often falling asleep to the sounds of drunken revelry, and waking in the morning to find the basement littered with cups, over filled ash trays and empty bottles.

I looked forward to when he’d come home. We’d spend days together out in the garage, building things and sorting tools. He would take me with him on his errands- I found out later that my Mother made him take me with him, in the effort to stop him from drinking. I wonder if she knew how much time I spent in the parking lot of the legion while he went into have just ‘one’.

When I was eight it changed. He was home more, and drinking more. He wasn’t so ‘fun’ anymore. He would disappear for days at a time, when he was home he was angry. They argued a lot. They drank a lot. My Mother tried to keep me sheltered from this. She told me that when his friends were over to always keep myself covered up and stay out of their way. It confused me a little. This was my dad, my Buddy….. It is harder to recall the innocent, happy and good childhood memories. There are vivid and ugly memories that rise to the surface, much easier to recall.

-My father and some of his friends drinking in the kitchen, me doing my best to be invisible to be able to walk through the kitchen. “Hey Deed, come and sit on your old man’s lap.”

“No Dad, it’s ok…”

“I said come and sit on my lap. You don’t want to let my friends think you hate me, do you?” I tried to position myself on his lap, he thought he had covered my ears, but he did not. He says to his friends, “If she sits here too long, I’ll have to weld the legs on the chair, she’s so fat.” I was eight. I was a big kid, but in looking back at pictures I was not morbidly obese, (that came later). I was devastated, I tried to get away but he wouldn’t let me go. I had to yank my wrist out of his hands. I locked my self in my room. My Buddy, my dad had cut me down infront of his friends, and thought it funny.

-The first time my Mother was hospitalized, I was told that it was for a ‘slipped disc’ in her back. Something that was pretty simple to fix and she would be home really soon. When my dad came back from taking her to the hospital, he got drunk. He proceeded to tell me (I was nine), that she was going to die. This was the first time I remember him telling me he was going to commit suicide, and take me with him. I locked myself in the bathroom until he passed out.

-Coming in from playing, my Mom was resting, as she frequently needed too. I went to find my dad instead. He was in the garage, the large door was closed on this warm day, and he only had the work bench lights on. I went in the little side door, as I stepped through, he closed the door behind me. That wa the first time he held his shotgun on me. I maybe was nine or ten at the time. He was drunk, crying, talking about how he believed his father killed his mother. That he was evil, his blood line was tainted. he would do the right thing and take us both out. I have no idea how long we were in there. I remember seeing police outside, my Mother must have called them. I remember trying to stay very calm. I kept telling him I loved him, if he put the gun away I would make him soup in the house. I kept repeating it. It would end with him weeping, and if I waited for the right time, I could walk away. This drama was repeated a few more times over the next couple of years, until my Mother could finally get a restraining order against him and remove him from the house. From that point until my mid-teens my father would alternate between needless legal cruelty against my sisters and I and having me followed and watched.

-My Mother tried to divorce him before she died. She wanted to be able to give my sisters and I more financial independence away from him. He contested so much, to run out the clock. She was unable to obtain a divorce before she died. He kicked us out of the house almost immediately after she died.

-I did not see or directly speak to him from the last six months before my Mother died until I was fifteen. By having his friends follow me, he knew most of my goings on. I got very good at spotting them, and i got very good at hiding in plain sight.

-I tried to be a better daughter and build a relationship with him when I was fifteen. He was, after all, the only parent I had. He had decided to let me have a party in the house where I had grown up. It was a pretty epic party by the standards of the time. Until he showed up drunk. For some reason, I never did find out about, his two front teeth were missing. He proceeded to be the cool dad for pouring shots for my friends, and regaling them with a very convincing tale of how I was the one that had knocked his teeth out. Encouraging my male friends to ‘keep me in line’, because I was awful. This was the nature of our relationship.

The string on the pendulum finally snapped when I was twenty. I had been homeless for a few weeks, some intermittent time on the street but mostly staying with friends where I could. I was pregnant. I wanted to get my life in to a better place. I went to my father as a last resort. He had decided the best thing he could do was to buy a mobile home, I could live in it, pay the bills and some rent. He would live in it with me for the six months out of the year when he was here. I would be on my own, the other six when he went south. It was the best decision in a bleak situation.

I struggled. I had not yet decided what I was doing with the child inside me. I was just twenty, working a minimum wage kitchen job, living in a mobile home. One long, overly warm May day, I was walking up the road from the bus to my trailer. I was feeling more unsettled, tired and I was still not sure on what to do with the child inside me. I looked up toward my my place, on the small front deck, sat my father in his jeans and white teeshirt, drinking a beer, cleaning his hunting gun. I placed my hand on my belly, I made a promise to my baby and to myself that we would not be stuck here, this was not and will not be our lives.

Eight months later I had gotten a much better job, retail at a record store, the money was decent. For once I was dating a really nice guy. Someone kind, quiet and gentle. Someone who seemed to just like being with me. I managed to keep my ‘ugly’ under wraps. I was careful in my words and reactions. It was peaceful, fun, safe, ‘normal.’ A few months into dating, my father was set to return from the south. They were now going to meet for the first time. I begged my father not to drink anything other than beer. (It is amazing to me how certain alcohols create different behaviours. For the most part my father drinking beer was mostly ok. If given rye or whiskey he was evil.) It did not go well. My dad drank whiskey, locked my boyfriend’s bike in the shed and would not give it back when he wanted to leave. I had to steal the keys to the lock, and get him the hell out of there. Subsequent contact rarely went well. If my boyfriend called while I was not home he would be told I was out whoring around. I was trash. Alternately, my boyfriend was also told he was not good enough to date me. And so it went. I was counting the days until my father was leaving for the US.

One night I called my boyfriend from the bar, seeing if he wanted to come and meet me and a few work friends I was with. I was told to go home. I was told that he had stopped by my place earlier to see if I was home, (This was before cel phones) and my father seemed unwell and I should just go home. He whispered into the phone, “He shaved off half of his moustash.”

“What?! What do you mean half?” I was a little drunk, but I could feel a small pit forming in my stomach.

“The left half was just gone. I think you should go home.”

“Oh shit, here we go. My dad does this when he’s about to go off the rails. It’s his warning sign. I’ll call you later.” My monsters started stirring. I had not been good enough or obedient enough daughter. I now had to play saviour. There was also a huge part of me that went numb, as I was also preparing for the end of my relationship. I mean who the hell would want to get involved with this sick dance. As I made my way home I kept thinking of each time this feeling would come. We had not had a full blow out like this in years. I had been mindful of keeping the bathroom and bedroom door locked while he was home and drinking. There had been fights about his drinking. I would regularity call the police to pick him up from driving drunk. This minute was taking me back to the moment, of that feeling of the garage door being closed behind me. He only had half his moustache then too. Being that I was drunk too, was not going to improve current matters.

As soon as I walked into the house I knew exactly what was up. There was not a sound. All the lights were on. The gun was on the counter. An almost empty two-six of whiskey was sitting beside it. My father was sitting at the cheap kitchen table, it had ugly green plastic placemats on the fake white woodgrain. On the table was a full ashtray, my dad’s cigarette rolling machine and tobacco. He was smoking and had a rye in his hand. “I see you stopped whoring around long enough to come home.”

“Hello to you too dad.” I lit a cigarette.

“Your boyfriend stopped by, I told him you were out whoring at the bar. If you don’t keep your legs closed you are going to end up knocked up again.”

I felt dead inside, a dark calm, “I am not doing this anymore. I see what you’re doing, I am not playing this game. You have done this to me since I was a child.”

The fight began to rage from there. The vile that poured from him was harsh. The anger, depression and added aggression of the booze. Something snapped inside me. Years of rage burst out. “How dare you make me do this again. I am your daughter, I am not a whore, I have done everything I could. Suicide threat again? Fuck you! I don’t give a fuck anymore. I will lay out plastic, I will even load the fucking gun. Just do it or shut up about it. But do me a favour, try to not make too much of a mess, I will have to resell.”

“How dare you! You selfish little bitch. You should have never created life. It was supposed to stop at you. We are poison.You don’t care about me. I am your father and you treat me this way. You’re just like your mother. Used me for what she could get. Never acted like a proper wife.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?! Fuck you father (I spit this at him, full of hatred.) You are the reason she died. You killed her. If you had not been so awful she could have lived longer. I know why your other kids hate you. I am done, this is the last time.”

There was much screaming and threats. Slammed doors and broken glass punctuated me walking out. I left that night. I never saw him again. I called him once, about five years later. (9/11), I had started school, I was still with the man I had been dating then. I wanted to tell him I was happy and we were doing well. All he said was that he had no money for me, and he hung up.

Ten years later, at a dinner with an old childhood friend I was informed that my dad had died a few years earlier. The person who told me, said they had no further details, other than they found it odd that none of his kids were listed in the obituary the pipe fitters union published. It did not make me sad. I had lost my father a long time before.

This relationship created many monsters and triggers but it definitely had a hand in the “need” department. I feel that both my parents had pinned hopes of a new and better life on me, that is what I initially represented. I had failed in my job. In the eyes of my father I was nothing better than a whore, who did not make things better, only took from him. I needed to be kept in my place, understand who’s wants and needs came first. I was not worthy of value. I had to keep working harder to be the right person, the perfect daughter, what he needed. An impossible and inappropriate task. I will aim to fix things, take care of and keep the peace to the point that I cost myself my peace of mind, pieces of self.

It also created a rebel streak in me that will burn shit down if you try to tell me what to do. ‘Don’t cut my hair? Buh-bye locks. Think you actually get a say in what I do? Fuck you and fuck no!- Until once in a while I trip up my own monsters, I will rebel, and then probably apologize for doing so.

It also helped to create an ability to read people. A very good ability to negotiate. When I am using these skills wisely, it can be helpful, diplomatic and empathetic. When I am not, I can be manipulative, intense and unlikable.

Love

Love is not fragile

It has a strength that transcends time and distance

Love is not meek

It is ferocious

Love is not reserved for romance

It is Self, Family, Friends and Earth

Love is powerful

It can change the course of history

Love is not biased

It can see the true soul, regardless of colour, sex religion and economic standing

Love is not meant to be hidden

It is meant to be shared, cultivated and grown

Love is all there is 

Tales From the Front Line: Born Under a Bad Sign

I need, I covet validation. I crave being wanted, admired and adored. But it is never enough. When I don’t get the constant feed and attention my monsters being their chant of worthlessness. “You are forgotten, you are invisible, you are not worth enough to notice.” This refrain will build to ‘they know’. “They see how broken and used you are. They see how worthless you are and have moved on, they will turn away in disgust.”

In part of the program I am using we are encouraged to look at our traumas, what we used to survive and how that may have set the stage for patterning later on. The ‘first’ thing that I am evaluating was not my first remembered trauma. There were violations that had taken place before the conversation that comes to mind. However, looking back, this highlights that even before birth there was a chance I was being wired with little sense of independent self worth.

Something my Mother told me before she died, that had happened when she was pregnant with me. Both my parents had been married before. Both had children from those marriages. The vague story I had been told for my very young years was the typical- they met, fell in love, got married and had me. As I got older and more adept at math I realized that my Mother would have actually been pregnant with me when they got married (I am a March baby and my parents got married in August). When I was about nine, I came across my parents marriage certificate in a random box. The story changed yet again. I was born in 1973, they were married in 1973, August, not 1972- I was actually five months old when they got married. This discovery was upsetting for a bit, except neither of my parents would talk about it, no one in the family did. They just brushed it aside, like it was not real.

It wasn’t until my Mother knew that she was at the end of her life that she told me the following. It came in whispers in her hospital room. I was twelve. It’s funny, I know she spoke in quiet tones as it took great effort to speak by then, but to this day I hear each word with a deafening volume. “Oh baby doll, I am so sorry.”

“For what Mommy?” I had gone back to calling her mommy when we were together some months before, I was so scared of losing her and it made me feel like such a baby.

“For leaving you with all of this. You’re so young. I am sorry, so sorry you have to fend for yourself. I am sorry about your father.”

“Mommy, I don’t understand. But it’s going to be ok. I am going to be ok.”

“It’s not Baby doll, you need to know, and I am so sorry.” I held tightly to her dry hand, we had lowered the railing on the hospital bed. I leaned over from my chair and laid my head on her stomach. The hum and beeps of the monitors crisply present. The dry antiseptic smell of the hospital room, the faint smell of decay coming from my Mother. How hollow and small she felt. It had been weeks since she had been able to have more than liquids, cancer had been feasting on her for four years. Softly she began to stroke my hair.

“Dee Dee, I don’t want to leave you, I worry. Nana is already gone. I am so sorry. I love you my baby doll. But you should know I never wanted you.” The sting cut deep, I could feel tears coming, I tried my best to hold my breath, not to say a word. It really had to be the drugs she was on, to tell me this now. I held back the tears, remained quiet. By this age I was well versed on not expressing much emotion. It was a matter of safety sometimes, staying calm was important.

She poured out the story of how I came to be. By accident. She was thirty-two, divorced, two children (9/11) and living with her Mother. My father was divorced, three children (8/10/13) with which he had a fractured relationship.

They were not an entirely serious item. (I would come to learn later, by accident of finding an old cassette, how ‘party fuelled’ their relationship was). She had no intention of having another child. She thought it proper (although she didn’t tell me why) to tell him. For many years after I questioned why she should have told him at all, until I was faced with a similar decision.

My father begged her to have the baby. He made good money and could provide a comfortable home for her, her two girls and a baby. She would not have to work. He wanted a chance at having another family. To make this one work. I truly believe she had no idea the muck she was entering into. She eventually agreed. The whole time she spoke, she stroked my hair, and periodically remind me that she loved me and how sorry she was.

This woman, who had a choice, who did her best given the circumstance and time. She believed she was creating a future for her and her children by agreeing to my father’s suggestion. I was a trade, a bartering chip. Yet I also know I was loved by her.

She did her best to shelter me from some of the darker moments of my young life. As I grew older, more aware and she got sicker, she did her best to keep me safe. It was becoming more volatile with my father as he became more unhinged. We spent hours driving around, hiding, or keeping the house in lock down. She would try to keep me distracted by TV, crafts and food.

To think of it, it felt like a moment of clarity had hit me. (I realize now that this was the first real identifiable monster rally, where my safety/survival mechanisms failed me.) I was a bad trade. Somehow all this horror had been my fault. I was not good enough. My Mother had placed her hope in the thought that bringing me into the world would create something better. Instead she lived with a psychotic alcoholic and was dying, painfully and slowly. I had failed in my job. I had taken her mother from her (That is a whole other blog). My very existence was supposed to make life better, yet it was not good at all. These were the thoughts created, that I had no human value, I was a very worthless trade commodity.

My Mother never framed it to me that she blamed me for anything. She kept apologizing, she kept stroking my hair. She carried so much guilt about bringing me into this life, that she did not follow her original instinct, and now I was being left to fend as best as I could. She felt remiss at how young I was.

I was in anguish over her pain. I felt it so deeply. Somewhere buried a lot of anger formed to. So much had happened to me by then, I had an easy time believing I was poison, damaged. Another monster being given strength was the one that has me utterly convinced at times that if I could always be what was needed and useful, I may be able to keep my true vile nature hidden. and I would not be alone. This would become a reenforced thought pattern over time affected by other traumas and behaviours. I had for many years seen my self as a useful commodity, worthy of use but not love.

There was buried anger but all in all I still carried a fairly idealized picture of my Mother, even after her admission of not wanting me. I did not have a ‘whole’ view of her until more recently. I had discovered an old cassette tape a couple of years ago. The beginning part of it is me (I am about age 4) and my Mom talking about the dog we had at the time. It is a sweetly beautiful moment that was captured. But as I have come to expect, most of my sweet moments can be tinged with salt.

The tape went on, there was a click of it being shut off, and another click of it being turned on again. There is a party in the background, voices I have not heard since I was a child. My Mother holding court as a story teller. She told the story of the night I was born, amongst other tales. I had never been told about the night of my birth, and now I know why. The details broke my heart, some being told to humiliate my father. It showed me that my Mother had not only traded me, she had traded pieces of herself too. She was bitter, even from the start. I have not let a soul hear the second part. It stoked the fires of some of the monsters and emotions in me that I am still processing. Reenforcing again my damaged core. My failures, my unworthiness. That I needed to work harder to please, to earn a place in my life.

From birth the seeds had been sown for the never ending reassurance, the never-ending need to be wanted. “Fill me up. Tell me I am worthy. Love me. I will be exactly the girlfriend/friend/employee that you need. Because if you see what I truly am…………”

But the seeds were also sown for my ability to ‘see’ people with compassion and love. What I crave, but seldom trust that I am worthy of. My nature of wanting people to know they have worth, that I appreciate every kindness and connection they bring to my life. I love when I can do this well. It is destructive when I can’t.

I will learn to cultivate the seeds of love and compassion for myself, for that little baby that had no idea what was coming. Forgiveness.

Tales From the Front Line War Cry

I have been committed to working on myself in one form or another for some time now. However there was a series of events ( some unfortunate….. oh Lemony Snicket, insert eye roll here), slowly happening over the last couple of years, culminating in a few things last fall that showed me there are things in my life that are not working for me.

Coping mechanisms I use, that no longer help as well as they once did. Things I believed I created, that would protect and support me, now proving to be much in the way of smoke and mirrors. Loop around patterns that get me no where. There are beautiful moments of grace as well, but all have obvious signs that I need to be doing something’s differently. By the Goddess’ grace I am only half way through my journey on this plane. I know I have work to do, and I need to do it with out always having a battle going on in the background. I deserve better. 

When you decide to make changes, level up, go to battle purposefully with the monsters in your head, there is not a single battle front. The offence/defence must be mounted on multiple fronts. I had to look at the health of many things in my life, my physical health, mental health, the health of my relationships, the health of my relationship to my self. I have to be willing to be honest, to own what I can. To find acceptance of self, light and dark. To see the beauty and power in all of the pieces of me. To change what I can. So I had to start somewhere.

Physical help: For me, conventional anxiety/depression medications have not proven helpful. I am grateful they exist and so many are helped. But for me the negative side effects far outweigh any positives. In my profession I am a vocal supporter of patient knowledge and advocacy for diagnosis and medication. If a client tells me something does not seem right I encourage them to keep on their doctors, research and ask questions until they get answers. I did not do this well enough for myself in the last few years. I have been on a drug for the last four years, ( it’s very common) that I take as prescribed for a genetic condition. The whole time I have been taking it, my doctor has been upping the dose, to get me to the documented acceptable level. The current dose I am on was prescribed 2.5 years ago. Too high of a dose of this medication can have similar symptoms to my GAD. I had noticed that I was beginning to get hot flashes, my anxiety levels were climbing and my ‘control’ tools were not as effective. Then I asked my doctor if the meds were perhaps the culprit, I was met with, ” we have the textbook level we need in your blood, you are heading into your mid 40s and probably menopause and you have existing mental health issues.” I was inclined to agree with him. But no less concerned at the blazé way my concerns were met with. Even if this was a result of the inevitable menopause, this does not sound like a fun way to live, so perhaps some suggestions?!

I did a little more research into this medication on my own and found that a too high dose can result in muscle pain, anxiety, short temper, skin issues, changes in menstruation and ‘foggy’ brain. Now to be fair my diagnosed GAD does present with many of these issues as well. I have over the years employed coping mechanisms that would help me manage or mask in a situation. Those coping strategies seemed to no longer work as effectively as they had. I felt twitchy most of the time. I am now working with a new doctor who is willing to explore the idea of adjusting the dosage to see if it will lessen the GAD symptoms that seem to be heightened.

There were healthy habits that I let go by the wayside. Three years ago, I was doing some kick ass exercise, I had never in my life looked so physically good. The shear physical challenge of it was also helping to keep my twitchiness at bay. It worked well for a time. I was strong, I was confident. But slowly the monsters in my head starting getting fed. I have a super power of being able to overthink a conversation and distill all the meaning out of it. I will analyze, and at times laser focus on a statement, a nuance, and it will burn into my memory. Well, these beasts fed off of comments said in frustration and perceived slights. These things really weren’t rooted on my physical changes, but from other life issues, but man oh man can those monsters twist and hyper focus like pros. These barbs took root and poison bled from them. Vocally however, I mostly used my shoulder injury as the main reason I stopped exercising.

It was so very wrong of me to give up. To fall into the entrenched pattern of ‘fixing’ things by being destructive to myself. Of course this created another chorus of monsters reminding me I am not worthy to be noticed. I am not worthy to be confident in who I really am. I am only valued when I am who others want/need me to be. This struggle has lamely toggled back and forth for the last year and a half. A couple of weeks ago I recommitted to building my physical strength again, for myself, monsters be damned. But this act did open the gates of hell in my head. I am still trying to nail that shut. I am fearful for phantom reasons, and I can recognize that. But I have begun.

I really had to look at my mental health. I am very aware of my defined diagnosis, GAD and a few assorted add ons. But what I was really wanting to look at was my life and my mental health, I mean ‘How the fuck did I get here? How and why were these monsters created? What am I responsible for? Can I really change anything after all this time? Or will this be the same ‘wait it out’ battle for the rest of my life? I have known for sometime in my heart that things could/should be different. With help, I have been working with a program for the last month, it falls in line with behaviour modification and retraining the brain to respond differently, mindfully. It is hard, it is scary. I am honouring myself by taking it slowly. I have also incorporated more spiritual work in my life as well. Both the spiritual practice and the cognitive mental health practices I am working on have lead me to the same path. It is suggested in both places to be very specific about what I want to work on. Not to take on everything at once. To have patience and to trust. To ask for help when I need it, to be honest on my path and to help others where I can. To do my best to practice non judgment on myself. To accept the darker parts of who I am.

I decided to look at something that does not make me feel very good, it is hard on relationships and it is all around exhausting. I want to understand my need to be acknowledged, adored, needed and valued. It is a constant. It is vacuous, never ending yaw. It skews things for me. I am never satisfied, I am never calmed or reassured enough. Why do I fear being invisible, abandoned? The continuous need to be reassured that I am valid, seen. How was this behaviour created? Where do we begin?

Study your trauma (get help here if you need it), study your response, see how that pattern either serves or not now. In the spiritual world, you are doing shadow work. Have help, have guidance, have support. It may feel like a very lonely trip at times, being that far inward, but you will want to have back up. Some of the monsters you may encounter along the way were formed in traumas that for the moment may still have the ability to pull you apart. Have people you can trust, who will not judge, have professionals near too, just in case. Have your spiritual help, the Gods and Goddess’ that you can call upon, who will anchor you, connect with you, so you will know you are not alone.

Be prepared that some of what you may face may not be from this current existence. Generational trauma that can be passed in the DNA. Trauma experienced by the Mother while pregnant. Past life traumas, energetic bindings that may need to be explored, healed, repaired or cut. It is complex.

As you travel the road to your inner core self, keep in mind you will not like parts of who you are. You may also fall deeply in love with other unknown pieces of yourself too. You will not be able to change all of it to love and light, you should not want to. There is much to love and value in our shadow sides. Do your best with the wounds that fester and weep. Gently clean the scar tissue of other wounds and admire how all of this has brought you forward.

Strength, Determination. Love. Acceptance.

Draw your mirror, your sword, your heart and your breath. The Shadow work has begun.

The Precipice

This is the best part of the morning. First light, just breaking the horizon. I close my eyes,  the light breaking on to my face. My full trust that Thrakena will keep me safe. 

It’s cold and clear up here. The light feels like fire on my face. There is silence, only broken by the gentle whoosh of my beasts great wings. Holding us steady in the air. She too holds an appreciation of the coming light. The heat suits her fire nature. We are one when we fly. My legs working a rhythm with her muscles. After all this time it has become an effortless union. We can read each other in subtle shifts, nudges. She has a rich, warm cinnamon smell, it fills my nose and warms me as I lean my head against her broad neck. Feeling the sinew strain against my thighs as she pushes cooly upward. 

It had been too long since we had just flown for fun. I needed this moment. Freedom, with the one creature I could trust. My hair blows back behind me and Thrakena takes a steep drop- it feels like a free fall. I hug in closer, my heart beating hard against my chest. The sting of the frigid air against my cheek. My breath quickens, A delicious tension exists between my body and her’s. Knowing when to lean into and away from each other. Another massive thrust with her hind legs and we once again burst upward through the light gossamer clouds to meet the light coming over the horizon. “Hold steady for me, will you?” My companion aquiesces, slowing the beat of her massive leathery wings once again, to allow us to hover in the light, stolen time.

We only have but a moment left. I push into her harder, “I don’t want to go.” She turns her head toward me. I see the emerald brilliance of her eye, clear and wise. She nods ever so slightly. 

Burying my face in the soft leather of her large scales. “Not yet may friend. This is pure magic, soul filling freedom.”

She dives into a subjacent trajectory. I hold my breath, keeping my eyes closed against the stinging wind. I hear the ringing in my ears, the sound starts from far away, begins to fill my head. 

Deep inside I feel my soul begin to split. “No not yet.” I plead to the air, Thrakena picking up speed as we descend. 

The ringing gets louder as we go faster. The time has come, it must begin.

Light on the Other Side

It can not be all tragedy, twitches and triggers.

This shadow work has also begun to highlight pieces of me that are beautiful, spiritual, mysterious, loving and strong.

My capacity to love is deep. I recognize wounds in others, I can see the best in most.

I want to be of service, I want to give a hand up or a soft place where I can.

I am creative, insightful and have a bawdy sense of humour.

I have an easy smile, and a big heart. I am inquisitive, I am intelligent. I am sensitive. I try to not pass judgment but to be understanding. I feel contentment just as deeply as I feel pain,

I am gentle. I am ferociously loyal. I love to laugh. 

I can feel the magic that surrounds me and moves through my senses.

I feel the elements, I have known peace.

I appreciate others, their talents, their stories.

It may take time, but I am resilient.

I am tenacious.  

I am sensitive. I cry, for joy, for sorrow, for pain, not just mine, but for all those I connect with.

These things too, were born in me, at the times the monsters were created. These things too were fostered in the same environment.

Sometimes the monsters win and I forget. 

But sometimes they don’t, and I remember, I am love, I am kindness. I can stand firm as a badass warrior. The battle scars earned, as are the moments of grace.

I will not be defined by my traumas and my mental health issues. I will be defined by how I live despite them. 

This mantra I repeat to myself often. This is why I share my story. Not for pity. Not for sympathy. Not for adulation.

But to connect. To inspire compassion, kindness and healing. To help someone find the words, as others have helped me (music can be my saviour), to soothe a damaged heart.

No, it is not all monsters and dark, it’s a wild mix of colour and light too. And I am so grateful for that.