Tag: shadow work

Tired Thoughts

Vulnerability is to be strong. So I have read. We all have the desire to be loved, encouraged and accepted for who we are.

There was so much more I was going to write. And part way through, I realized it is pointless.

Wether I am kind or cutting. Giving or closed off. It will never be correct as people put their own meaning on the things others do. We will always be the bad guy or the weak jerk in someone’s story, no matter the intent.

It’s easy to let that removed judgement defeat us. Turn us cold, label people as toxic, cruel – hold on to anger, hurt.
To stop trying, loving, understanding, trusting, accepting, respecting, connecting……. we do not allow vulnerability, where true healing is found.
We turn this on ourselves, to reinforce kindness comes with payment, we are unworthy of love and acceptance, we are unworthy of working towards better.
And so the cycle goes.

Whether I am a good character or bad character in the story you tell yourself- I can not change this. But I am learning to accept I am a whole character trying hard to hang on in a world that makes it very hard to be vulnerable, content, kind and forgiving.

❤️

Communicate

Communicate. Say what’s on your mind, even if it’s hard. Own how you feel.

Before you open your mouth understand it’s origins. Understand where it comes from, inside you- Do not attack.

Be mindful that you will NOT full understand the motivations of others. Don’t walk away on assumptions. If there are good things to tell, do that too.

For a writer, I have never been good at conveying my personal feelings without over explaining, or thinking that people should just know. These opposite ends of the spectrum are heightened by my mental illness, there seems to be no in-between. It leads me to taking everything personally (victim mind set). “What did I do? How can I fix this?” It leaves very little room for other person because I have created the narrative already.

I have been working on learning the difference between what is mindful compassion for yourself and the other and what is falling on the sword martyrdom.

Falling on the sword martyrdom- “I know I am horrible and I am the reason you are angry/sad. I have ruined everything, but I wouldn’t have if you weren’t so mean. Tell me what i did wrong? But I will change, I will be the perfect one.- or- I have done nothing, I will withdraw, that’ll show them, they will realize what they have done and miss me 😒”

Mindful compassion- “Things seem off, and I am feeling that there is some anger/tension and I’d like to discus the situation. It is making me uncomfortable/sad.”

The catch? The other person may not be receptive to this style, they may not be willing to participate in this way.

The lesson is to not take that personally. Which is hard if you are really trying to come from a place of mindful compassion, and it feels they are not.

It won’t always work. You are still human. They are still human. All you can do is try- especially if the relationship was significant. At least if it can’t be fixed it can go out on a respectful end. And you might be surprised at what you learn, what can be worked on, what can be achieved.

Communicate with intent, love and respect.
Rambling 5 am thoughts…. Thanks for reading

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.

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.

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.

Being overwhelmed. An understatement.

 We’ve all felt it. We’ve all muddled through. There are degrees. 

It’s a silent thing. Sometimes it’s a response to mental health issues. Sometimes it’s a trigger for them.Sometimes, even when help is offered, we are so far down the rabbit hole we don’t know where to begin. The fear that if we open up, the tidal wave that may come out won’t stop. So we don’t. Vitriol and sarcasm leak out instead. We detach from those that can/want to help. We hyper-attach to people or things that may serve as a temporary distraction. We fix a mask to our faces and hope it holds for public viewing.

We look at others who seem to manage and think we are just weak, disorganized, deficient in someway that we can’t handle our day to day. We choose to see their mask, not the chaos.

This is a marker in my own mental health. Over the years I have been working hard at certain aspects of my mental illness, digging out triggers, learning new tools to work through an anxiety attack, working through buried trauma and anger. Over time I did a lot of things to distract myself from the day today overwhelming crush of life that I could not manage while the battles raged.

I was pretty decent at giving the appearance that I could juggle it all, marriage, motherhood, career(s), creative outlets, working on my anxiety disorder, a social life. I even fooled myself, until I couldn’t.

When I was in Vancouver last year with a dear friend for the SPN con, I was blessed to spend time with another lifelong friend I hadn’t physically seen in years. We’ve always had a bond that can not be explained. We talked late into the night. He has struggled hard over the years too, and last year was one of the hardest. I supported as best I could, from the physical distance that had separated us. I was so relieved to finally look into his eyes and see he was finding solid ground.He took my hands and looked me in the eyes and said ‘enough’. He could see my through my mask. He knew I had hit a critical time. And he lovingly called me out. He saw all the cracks in the facade.

There were other profound experiences and conversations I had that weekend ( who knew a tv show convention would lead to profound life changes?!) that began to percolate ideas in my head and heart.

I had been rocking the bright red hair for some time prior to this ( ‘hey look, i’m good! I’m vibrant! I am a spectacle to enjoy!! I am on FIRE!!!!) It represented the ‘fiery drive’ I was bringing to my 40s. Living past my mother. Determined to prove I deserved to do so. In Vancouver I dyed it black/purple. Initially it was for cosplay, so, I could have done it with a temporary or a wig.But I knew in my heart the redhead was not coming back from Vancouver. She couldn’t. The next step could not be done by her. The wild red needed to be grounded and brutally honest with herself.

In my juggling act of the last few years my anxiety would often take over and I would go back and forth between proving all ‘ I am!’ And lamenting my torment with some of my monsters and how much of a failure I was…. it’s funny, because at that time a newer friend would take pains to remind me I’m human, and that was ok. I’d feel disappointed and angry at this, which looking back now, I didn’t want to be seen as mere mortal, I wanted to believe I was ‘better’ than that because ‘look how many plates I can spin in the air!All while battling my monsters!’( please pay no attention to all the broken plates on the floor). 

There have been a few catalysts since my return in September. Situations presented to me that forced my hand to truly be accountable, not just for what’s going on, for what’s been avoided, but the fall out on others around me. I had to take a long glaring look at what I was avoiding and why, my boundaries, my actions and really decide what I was going to do.

I realized I had let so much fester in the background, that the ‘hidden’ clutter in my head and house could no longer be ignored. I was and had been, for sometime feeding some of my own monsters. All the while, dear reader, sharing some of the battles with you, raising battle cries, encouragement and showing how much I was learning about my own mental health struggles. I was and am still determined to help myself and the people I care about.But in someways I’ve failed you all dear readers. I kept to the light and didn’t really jump into the muck until the fall. I had risked relationships due to the clutter, disorganization and noise.A few situations came to a head. 

It is hard. Small chunks at a time. Set a new boundary here. Clean out that closet there. Get paperwork in order here. Hard conversation and accountability there.Still battling monsters. Trying to not chastise my self for the disorganization. Trying to not feel broken at the disconnect with others who had been pulled into my vortex. Hoping that I can be forgiven by those I’ve disappointed by the messes created. Hoping to forgive myself and be less disappointed that there was such a wounded duality. Learning to say no. Learning to hear no. Making it not so much about me. Making honest room for others. Work at undoing a trigger. Keep trying move forward and plan. Find forgiveness. Reconnect in healthy ways. 

Try to reestablish so much of the good, creative and ‘magical’ things I discovered about myself, my spiritual nature, and the world around me, during the last few years. And be the person I intend. The person I almost thought I was. All the while fighting the slippery slope of falling back into comfortable patterns that no longer serve a healthy purpose.
A tall order. With no guaranteed outcome. 

Reflected in the mood hair, I suppose. The red flamed out. With it, I hope, the burning chaos that cluttered the spaces, scorched myself, others and pulled all the air out of the room.In its place, a shadow of the embers. Dark, earthy. Rivers of purple and faint red wind through the pitch. Representing cool movement forward, I hope.

I appreciate all of you so much, those who have followed, read my stuff and encouraged me. I hope you will continue to do so. I hope my honesty will not discourage your faith in me. As I work at the changes in my real ( not online) life I also hope to find forgiveness from those I love. And forgiveness for myself.
Thank you all so much for reading. ❤️💜

My Abortion

** In light of the draconian events taking place in Texas and the rumblings of anti abortion movements here in AB, I am republishing this essay.

The province where I live has elected a Premiere that is allowing a space for the vocal pro- life people (I detest this term, but more on that later) to start to demand a re-examining of the abortion laws and availability here. At the moment he has said it is not on the table, others in his cabinet have stated otherwise. I find this current head of government as truthful as a sighted man at a blind nudist colony and this has me worried. I see what is happening south of the border from here and it makes my blood run cold.

Abortion is a very uncomfortable conversation. It is a very personal conversation. It is a conversation that needs to be publicly addressed, but not publicly decided, other than safety. It is a topic that everyone seems to have an opinion on. It is a topic few want to take real responsibility for.

Pro-Life. This is such a crock. I detest this term. Why? This is an unfair representation. When these groups step up to claim that abortion is murder, that they are saving lives, they lie. These same handwringing do gooders that profess to care oh so much, where are they once that child is born? Where is the unconditional love for the child, now in poverty? now in a familial dysfunction/addiction/poverty cycle? Where are the easy access programs, understanding and support for the grieving parents, having been forced to carry a life they knew would not be viable? The young woman/girl who has to reconcile the life inside her was put there by violence, a permanent (yet innocent) reminder of cruel violation, how does she navigate the system once it fails her? Once these groups have forced the pregnancy and shamed the woman, they are all but gone. And often times negative cycles begin with another generation. They make it sound like abortion is an easy choice, a throw away choice. They put shame and guilt on even considering it an option. Somehow, some of us have appointed ourselves gate keepers for other’s reproductive rights. Just because you may not understand someone else’s choice, does not mean you can or should choose for them. The argument of how selfish it is to just end a pregnancy like that when so many couples are trying to get pregnant. My heart goes out to all the women out their hoping to conceive, and facing a barren womb. I can not imagine the pain. But someone’s choice to end their pregnancy does not in any way affect someone else getting pregnant. I understand that for those truly trying it must be heartbreaking and the unfairness of it all, but it is not a slight to them. It’s has nothing to do with them at all.

In my life I have been pregnant four times that I know of. (A woman can miscarry before she even knows she is pregnant). One ended abortion, one in a miscarry, one a full term beautiful boy, lovingly surrendered in adoption, and one now thriving 10 year old at home with her Mom (me) and Dad. None of these events hold any regret for me. Sadness? Some, yes. Each holds it’s own space in my heart. Three were loving decisions made. All have a profound effect on my life. I am going to discus my abortion. Not to change anyone’s ideas or thoughts on what their personal choice would be. But to tell my story, to impart the thought, the love, the grief and what I will always carry from that.

I was 16. Living on my own. I had been motherless for four years at this point. Same boyfriend off and on for the last three years. I remember not having the money for a pregnancy test. There was this place advertised on the buses, I think it was called birth choices or something friendly like that. I went, it was on the third floor of a cold cement building. I had a friend with me- it’s funny, I can’t really remember who. I can however remember all the bright and sunny posters of smiling pregnant women, families and babies that papered the walls. I remember feeling sick as I shamefully asked for the test. My hands trembling as I tried not to pee on myself in the stall. Washing my hands and then handing the capped stick to the woman with the tight practiced compassionate smile. She left the room for a moment. I could feel the bright smiles from the posters pushing up against me. I know when the lady came back in with my test results, sunnily informing me that I was pregnant, I began to cry. Someone hugged me. I remember saying over and over that I could not do this. And the, I am sure, well meaning woman, kept encouraging me to talk to a counsellor right then about pregnancy. That they could help me get a prenatal doctor, and all the things I would need. The more I said no, the more I protested, that this could not happen, the more she pushed. I knew in the back of my head that this place was not actually offering much in the way of choice, at least not all the choices. I needed time to absorb what I had been told and knew to be true.

With fearful tears blurring my eyes I made my way to the elevator, shakily reaching for the cigarettes in my coat pocket. It was the last week of November. It’s funny the things that stick. The elevator ride down. Trying to do up my coat. My shaking hands. I don’t remember getting home. I remember telling my boyfriend. His similar instant reaction of ‘absolutely not’. His anger, breaking down into protesting that it was not his (thankfully that was short lived) How did this happen?!- I was on the pill, isn’t that supposed to be safe? No we didn’t always use a condom, but really…. I was on the fucking pill. We can’t… Could we? Discussing the maybes, the maybe nots….. The tears. Getting sick. Wanting my mom so badly. The fleeting moments of what ifs…. More tears. Fear. The resolve that this would not be. More moments of what ifs….. More tears. Anger that I was the one that had to take care of this. But grateful that in the end my boyfriend supported my decision to terminate the pregnancy.

I could not bring a child into that life, my life. I was 16, I was still in high school. I lived in a room in my boyfriends house. My mother dead. My alcoholic abusive father was held back by a restraining order. I had no family support. I had no idea how to navigate my own life, let alone be responsible for another. I knew that my family had issues. I knew that I was in a very dark place, struggling with loss, grief, (later to learn) an anxiety disorder. A child deserves better than what I could offer. I drank, I smoked, I did drugs to escape, I cut, periodically hoped to die, what life was this for a baby?

I was still considered a minor, and even though I was not living with her at that time, one of my older sisters was considered my legal guardian. I needed her permission to get an abortion. I was terrified. Terrified to be judged, that I had screwed up, that she would say no, I must suffer the consequences for my stupidity. That a child must suffer the consequences of my life. The fear of knowing decisions about my body were in someone else hands and I could not really control what happened. I remember in the days leading up to me having to talk to my sister, imagining all sorts of alternatives, most based on grisly old wives tales.

If she said no, I could: throw myself down a set of stairs, in front of a car, both dramatic, and the risk of greater injury and no guarantee of ending the pregnancy. I could overdose on drugs? I had read things about coat hangers, using drain cleaner…… They all were stupidly risky. At the time some felt like realistic options to me. However, compassionately she listened to me, she was sympathetic, she agreed, having a baby then was a very bad idea. Not only for me, but what life would the child have.

You may think, what about adoption? It is a completely viable option. I whole heartedly agree, in the right circumstance. However I had so badly abused my body by the drugs and my general lifestyle, it was also the pregnancy I did not want to go through with. How could I escape from the pain I was in if I had to be clean to grow a proper life inside of me? I could not face that. I could not allow myself to be raw, my existence depended on escape and numbness. What kind of life would that be for a child?

I remember the doctor consultation. Yes, I understood what it meant. Yes, I understood the procedure. Yes, this was my decision. I was offered counselling for both before and after. I was asked if I had any questions. My appointment was to come within a couple of days. I felt relief and grief, both in alternating waves. I was angry, angry that I did not do this alone, yet it was my body that had to go through with this. Afraid of the pain.

I remember sitting in the waiting room with my sister. Looking around at all the different kinds of women there. Young, older, some obviously financially better off than others. Each with their own story. I remember how sombre everyone was, it was obvious it is not joyous, it is not easy. My sister held my hand, I asked her if Mom would have been disappointed in me. She said no, she would have supported me. I went into the procedure room.

Cold, white, sterile. The nurse kindly directed me to change. I remember laying back on the table, she held my hand hand and told me it would be ok. At that moment I had never been so grateful for human contact. I don’t remember much of the actual procedure or what immediately followed.

I remember lying in bed, alone, sore, relieved, sad. I cried. I cried for what could have been as I said goodbye. I cried for myself. I cried for the pain. I was cramping, sore, bloated and hormonal. I cried because no one could share in this hurt. I cried for relief.

And as it does, life goes on. I will forever know the date. I feel it when it passes. It is not regret. It is not sadness. But my body and heart will forever recognize what changed that day.

This could have been a very ugly tale if I had not had access to a safe and clean medical procedure. This is my story. This is my life. My choice did not impact your life until I chose to tell you. It may impact mine that you chose to read. Will you like me less now? Does it change who you think I am? I don’t think so. I really hope it doesn’t.

Choice, my body, my choice. Your body, your choice. Keep it safe, keep it legal.