"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance." ~ George Bernard Shaw (Irish Playwright)
Having a mother (and aunts/uncles) from Newfoundland has been a great blessing in many ways. In fact, if I could be surrounded by Newfoundlander's most of the time, I would choose that option. They are great people, for the most part, with a colorful history and a unique grasp of the English language. Growing up, there were common words and phrases used in my house that we not part of the vernacular of my friends or their parents. Since moving to a different province, one that is removed from Maritime culture, I have realized that these words and phrases are very unique to Newfoundland; although my mother asserts that they come from the old English dictionary. I have found myself explaining these terms to people unfamiliar with them and have often found people to be fascinated by this use of language. Fascinated and amused.
King Carn (K-ar-n): meaning ones neck. "Let me stick my nose in your king carn to smell your perfume."
Pole (Poll): also meaning ones neck. "My favourite part on that baby is her pole."
Come to Jesus: meaning a significant disagreement that leads to a verbal argument. "If you bring up my smoking one more time, we're going to have a come to Jesus."
Puddock (Pud-uck): meaning ones throat. "Now jam that sandwich down your puddock so we can hurry up and get out of here."
Streel (St-real): meaning someone who is lazy, typically a woman. "She is such a streel, she won't even do her own laundry."
Slut's Day: meaning someone who chooses to be lazy by lying around in bed all day. "I had myself a real Slut's Day recently and laid in bed reading a good novel all day."
Geezler (Gez-lir): meaning someone who is a nuisance. "That boy has been a geezler all day, getting into everything and making me chase him around."
Covages (Cuv-age-is): meaning greedy or selfish. "That girl is some covages, not even sharing the ice cream with her brother."
Lazier than a Cut Dog: meaning a person too lazy to move. "That boy is lazier than a cut dog...won't even get up off the couch to mow the lawn."
Piss-Burned: meaning a child needing a diaper change because they have peed so much in it that it's going to start irritating their skin. "For the love of God, would you change that child's diaper....he's going to get piss-burned.
Sleveen (Sl-eve-en): meaning a person who is lazy or deceitful. "Don't you trust that man with your money, he's a sleveen and will probably squander it."
Glag (G-lag): meaning someone who is a gossip or who talks about other people behind their back. "Don't listen to a word that glag says, she's so full of the gossip."
I will add more to this list as I remember them.
Gluten Free
"In order to change we must be sick and tired of being sick and tired." ~ Frannie Lou Harmer (American Voting Rights Activist & Civil Rights Leader)
When the witch doctor explained to me that, based on my symptomology, I was likely intolerant to gluten, I thought to myself "what in the hell is he talking about?" The only information that I had on gluten was that it's practically in everything we eat and that giving it up really sucks. Not encouraging. I had heard of Celiac Disease and had worked with a kid who had to maintain a specific diet because she had Celiac. It seemed really complicated....and expensive. I was happy when he told me that he only wanted me to try a gluten free diet for three weeks to rule out the possibility of an intolerance or Celiac. I was fairly confident that I could do three weeks; however, I was also confident that once those three weeks were over, I would be right back to eating breads and pastas. Now, I am not one for making drastic decisions and changes that would generally be considered healthy. When it comes to getting large tattoos or altering my hair style - I get an A+ for bravery. However, when it comes to making changes that require a distinctly different way of living daily life that requires an ongoing commitment, I aim for a C-. Good examples of this would be: quitting smoking, exercising and daily self care. Going gluten free demanded all of these things; therefore, my success with this particular project has been nothing short of amazing.
Initially, my witch doctor provided me with some basic information about what to expect when giving up gluten, what foods to avoid and what foods were safe. Everything else I was able to find on the Internet and there was ample information out there to support a gluten free lifestyle, as well as recipes and ingredient lists that were very helpful. The other thing he strongly recommended was starting to eat as many organic products that I could, such as fruits and vegetables. This was going to be very expensive, I could just feel it. May I ask why becoming healthy is such an expensive prospect? Is that not counter intuitive to what we are hoping to accomplish during our days on Earth as human kind? Ridiculous.
With a deep breath, I looked forward into my three weeks and plunged head first into the gluten free world. I emptied my cupboards and fridge of any and all products containing gluten, which basically left my cupboards and fridge completely bare. It really is in everything and, even when you think it might not be in something, if you look closely enough - there it is. After heading to my local grocery store and being very overwhelmed and discouraged by the lack of gluten free and organic items available, I went back online to figure out a different solution. Small health food stores were available throughout the city; however, their prices were totally unbelievable. I was lucky and quickly found a place in the surrounding area that sold gluten free and fresh organically (locally) grown products and on top of this wonderful discovery, they also delivered to your door once a week. Bingo. I set up an account immediately. A couple weeks after this, I found out that the Bulk Barn has a wonderful selection of gluten free products that are much cheaper that you can purchase in other places so I have become a frequent flier there.
Making this transition was not difficult solely because of the organization it took to consistently have organic, gluten free items in my home. Going gluten free forced me to change every eating habit I had, from the types of food I was cooking, to the new recipes I was learning, to the preparation of food, to the frequency of being in the kitchen. It was crazy. And, what was crazier was the fact that I just simply did it, without complaining or procrastinating. I just did it, completely, and that was totally unlike me. I could no longer eat at the restaurants I frequented or casually snack on granola bars and muffins. Outside of purchasing cigarettes, I no longer had any reason to stop by the corner store. My trips to the local grocery store dramatically declined. Being invited out for dinner became complicated and it became easier to stay at home and cook. I became very aware of what I was putting into my body and my body responded very positively.
For the first three to five days I went through what I assume was carbohydrate withdrawal, which for me felt like a never fulfilled hunger ache in my stomach. It drove me bonkers. Planning every meal - every snack - also drove me bonkers. After the first week, I noticed a dramatic difference in my episodes of bloating that, at times, had left me looking five months pregnant. My stomach and digestive system felt happy. The second and third weeks, I experienced a distinct shift in my mood and levels of anxiety. My brain and heart felt happy too. That was all it took really and, during my next appointment with my witch doctor, I informed him that I would be remaining gluten free. Likely Forever. That's how much better I felt - physically, emotionally and mentally. My stress decreased and my ability to cope with stress increased. People at work started telling me that my demeanour was completely different and I started losing weight. This wasn't solely due to the change in my diet; at the same time, my witch doctor was helping me address some other identified issues, which I will describe in their own, separate posts.
As time has gone by, the benefits from going gluten free and eating organic has had pronounced changes on how I function and how my body functions. I have also given up red meat, which was very difficult for me but has been worth it. Who knew? Apparently, lots of people, but, I didn't and that's all that really matters.
When the witch doctor explained to me that, based on my symptomology, I was likely intolerant to gluten, I thought to myself "what in the hell is he talking about?" The only information that I had on gluten was that it's practically in everything we eat and that giving it up really sucks. Not encouraging. I had heard of Celiac Disease and had worked with a kid who had to maintain a specific diet because she had Celiac. It seemed really complicated....and expensive. I was happy when he told me that he only wanted me to try a gluten free diet for three weeks to rule out the possibility of an intolerance or Celiac. I was fairly confident that I could do three weeks; however, I was also confident that once those three weeks were over, I would be right back to eating breads and pastas. Now, I am not one for making drastic decisions and changes that would generally be considered healthy. When it comes to getting large tattoos or altering my hair style - I get an A+ for bravery. However, when it comes to making changes that require a distinctly different way of living daily life that requires an ongoing commitment, I aim for a C-. Good examples of this would be: quitting smoking, exercising and daily self care. Going gluten free demanded all of these things; therefore, my success with this particular project has been nothing short of amazing.
Initially, my witch doctor provided me with some basic information about what to expect when giving up gluten, what foods to avoid and what foods were safe. Everything else I was able to find on the Internet and there was ample information out there to support a gluten free lifestyle, as well as recipes and ingredient lists that were very helpful. The other thing he strongly recommended was starting to eat as many organic products that I could, such as fruits and vegetables. This was going to be very expensive, I could just feel it. May I ask why becoming healthy is such an expensive prospect? Is that not counter intuitive to what we are hoping to accomplish during our days on Earth as human kind? Ridiculous.
With a deep breath, I looked forward into my three weeks and plunged head first into the gluten free world. I emptied my cupboards and fridge of any and all products containing gluten, which basically left my cupboards and fridge completely bare. It really is in everything and, even when you think it might not be in something, if you look closely enough - there it is. After heading to my local grocery store and being very overwhelmed and discouraged by the lack of gluten free and organic items available, I went back online to figure out a different solution. Small health food stores were available throughout the city; however, their prices were totally unbelievable. I was lucky and quickly found a place in the surrounding area that sold gluten free and fresh organically (locally) grown products and on top of this wonderful discovery, they also delivered to your door once a week. Bingo. I set up an account immediately. A couple weeks after this, I found out that the Bulk Barn has a wonderful selection of gluten free products that are much cheaper that you can purchase in other places so I have become a frequent flier there.
Making this transition was not difficult solely because of the organization it took to consistently have organic, gluten free items in my home. Going gluten free forced me to change every eating habit I had, from the types of food I was cooking, to the new recipes I was learning, to the preparation of food, to the frequency of being in the kitchen. It was crazy. And, what was crazier was the fact that I just simply did it, without complaining or procrastinating. I just did it, completely, and that was totally unlike me. I could no longer eat at the restaurants I frequented or casually snack on granola bars and muffins. Outside of purchasing cigarettes, I no longer had any reason to stop by the corner store. My trips to the local grocery store dramatically declined. Being invited out for dinner became complicated and it became easier to stay at home and cook. I became very aware of what I was putting into my body and my body responded very positively.
For the first three to five days I went through what I assume was carbohydrate withdrawal, which for me felt like a never fulfilled hunger ache in my stomach. It drove me bonkers. Planning every meal - every snack - also drove me bonkers. After the first week, I noticed a dramatic difference in my episodes of bloating that, at times, had left me looking five months pregnant. My stomach and digestive system felt happy. The second and third weeks, I experienced a distinct shift in my mood and levels of anxiety. My brain and heart felt happy too. That was all it took really and, during my next appointment with my witch doctor, I informed him that I would be remaining gluten free. Likely Forever. That's how much better I felt - physically, emotionally and mentally. My stress decreased and my ability to cope with stress increased. People at work started telling me that my demeanour was completely different and I started losing weight. This wasn't solely due to the change in my diet; at the same time, my witch doctor was helping me address some other identified issues, which I will describe in their own, separate posts.
As time has gone by, the benefits from going gluten free and eating organic has had pronounced changes on how I function and how my body functions. I have also given up red meat, which was very difficult for me but has been worth it. Who knew? Apparently, lots of people, but, I didn't and that's all that really matters.
The Osteo
"If you want to know what your experiences were like in the past, examine your body now. If you want to know what your body will look like in the future examine your experiences now." ~ Ancient Proverb
Society as a whole is astoundingly disconnected from the Earth and from ourselves, as human beings. As an individual, I have wholeheartedly neglected myself emotionally, spiritually and - most pronounced - physically. For years upon years. Oh, there were some good moments in there....I distinctly remember being in the best shape of my life in 2005 when I was hitting the gym, swimming, and kickboxing. I must have had a lobotomy or something that year because to say that was "out of character" is a gross understatement. I have been prone to laziness. A lot of the time. To say the least.
Given my sometimes lazy attitude and my tendency to relish eating chocolate, Thai food, pop (oh, how I love Pepsi), and the worst offender - Bailey's - the last few years have not been kind to my body and my age is now changing my ability to drop 5lbs in one week. Now, I actually need to work at it. Besides that, I experience pain in various parts of my body....not like requiring pain management pain, but more aches and pains than I likely should have at 33. And headaches. And stress. And, I smoke, so knock a couple hundred years off my life expectancy for that evil-doing. Oh, and I did some drugs over the years and pickled myself with alcohol. Basically, I'm fucked.
A couple months ago, my BFF was telling me about her recent experience with visiting an Osteopath, which was extremely positive and she immediately saw results. An Osteopath falls under alternative medicine and basically they look at the relationship between structure and function of the body. It's a holistic approach that believes they body holds the power to heal itself through making connections between the body, mind and spirit. Not exactly the same as western medicine, eh? I have been working with my doctor (GP) for some years now and, although I like her and think she is competent, she is a medical practitioner and is limited in her ability to step outside of the medical model and look at someone as a whole person. Over the past some months (no, wait...years) I've been experiencing a lot of stress in relation to my workplace; it's a complicated story that I won't get in to. As a result, I have developed issues that I have assumed were stress related and the advice my GP gives me is to "just find a new job." Outside of that, no tests have been performed, no further exploration into matters.
I have always been one that is open to experiencing different ways of working through problems and I have participated in acupuncture, therapy, yoga, and attempted meditation at various points in my life. For me to explore seeing an Osteopath isn't really that out of the ordinary. I had no idea what I was in for and I am so glad I went as the things I have learned are crazy. I now affectionately refer to my Osteopath as my "witch doctor" and he doesn't seem to mind. My witch doctor is originally from the UK and is unassuming, gentle and kind. Apparently, he is very good at picking up on the energies of others and, upon first meeting him I left him feeling very "scrambled." Not shocking if you know me. His education is both in Osteopathy and Naturopathy and he brings philosophies and techniques from both into his work. He is a very cool guy. Seeing an Osteo is a distinctly different experience than any I've had utilizing western medical practices from the moment you walk into the beautifully calming office to the examination process to what you are prescribed (not meaning medication). From what I've discovered, it's one of those things that you just need to go with and, quite likely if you over think it, you will fail to benefit wholly from the experience. It's so outside of our experience with western medicine that it is easily dismissed and, if I had not been open to meeting with my witch doctor and wasn't prepared to listen to what he had to say.....well, nothing would have changed, I guess.
Things have changed and my body is starting to heal. And because my body is starting to heal, aspects of my emotional and mental self are also starting to heal. Thank you Osteo. The things we discovered about my physical self were profound to me. May be not to others, but to me. They were profound because once we started working on them, I felt so totally better that I literally could not believe it. It was so simple. My witch doctor has said that there are things - aliments that we just learn to live with as humans, such as headaches, bloating, anxiety, back problems, etc. However, we don't have to live with these things and, in fact, they are startlingly easy to fix. Over the past two months or so, I have discovered that I am intolerant to Gluten, my thyroid was not functioning properly and I had a parasite (gulp). Yes, a parasite. A fucking parasite. Like a worm thing? Yes, like a worm thing. How my GP never explored any of these things, given the symptomology I reported, I will never know because they seem pretty damn significant if you ask me.
"Just get a new job..." are you kidding me?
Society as a whole is astoundingly disconnected from the Earth and from ourselves, as human beings. As an individual, I have wholeheartedly neglected myself emotionally, spiritually and - most pronounced - physically. For years upon years. Oh, there were some good moments in there....I distinctly remember being in the best shape of my life in 2005 when I was hitting the gym, swimming, and kickboxing. I must have had a lobotomy or something that year because to say that was "out of character" is a gross understatement. I have been prone to laziness. A lot of the time. To say the least.
Given my sometimes lazy attitude and my tendency to relish eating chocolate, Thai food, pop (oh, how I love Pepsi), and the worst offender - Bailey's - the last few years have not been kind to my body and my age is now changing my ability to drop 5lbs in one week. Now, I actually need to work at it. Besides that, I experience pain in various parts of my body....not like requiring pain management pain, but more aches and pains than I likely should have at 33. And headaches. And stress. And, I smoke, so knock a couple hundred years off my life expectancy for that evil-doing. Oh, and I did some drugs over the years and pickled myself with alcohol. Basically, I'm fucked.
A couple months ago, my BFF was telling me about her recent experience with visiting an Osteopath, which was extremely positive and she immediately saw results. An Osteopath falls under alternative medicine and basically they look at the relationship between structure and function of the body. It's a holistic approach that believes they body holds the power to heal itself through making connections between the body, mind and spirit. Not exactly the same as western medicine, eh? I have been working with my doctor (GP) for some years now and, although I like her and think she is competent, she is a medical practitioner and is limited in her ability to step outside of the medical model and look at someone as a whole person. Over the past some months (no, wait...years) I've been experiencing a lot of stress in relation to my workplace; it's a complicated story that I won't get in to. As a result, I have developed issues that I have assumed were stress related and the advice my GP gives me is to "just find a new job." Outside of that, no tests have been performed, no further exploration into matters.
I have always been one that is open to experiencing different ways of working through problems and I have participated in acupuncture, therapy, yoga, and attempted meditation at various points in my life. For me to explore seeing an Osteopath isn't really that out of the ordinary. I had no idea what I was in for and I am so glad I went as the things I have learned are crazy. I now affectionately refer to my Osteopath as my "witch doctor" and he doesn't seem to mind. My witch doctor is originally from the UK and is unassuming, gentle and kind. Apparently, he is very good at picking up on the energies of others and, upon first meeting him I left him feeling very "scrambled." Not shocking if you know me. His education is both in Osteopathy and Naturopathy and he brings philosophies and techniques from both into his work. He is a very cool guy. Seeing an Osteo is a distinctly different experience than any I've had utilizing western medical practices from the moment you walk into the beautifully calming office to the examination process to what you are prescribed (not meaning medication). From what I've discovered, it's one of those things that you just need to go with and, quite likely if you over think it, you will fail to benefit wholly from the experience. It's so outside of our experience with western medicine that it is easily dismissed and, if I had not been open to meeting with my witch doctor and wasn't prepared to listen to what he had to say.....well, nothing would have changed, I guess.
Things have changed and my body is starting to heal. And because my body is starting to heal, aspects of my emotional and mental self are also starting to heal. Thank you Osteo. The things we discovered about my physical self were profound to me. May be not to others, but to me. They were profound because once we started working on them, I felt so totally better that I literally could not believe it. It was so simple. My witch doctor has said that there are things - aliments that we just learn to live with as humans, such as headaches, bloating, anxiety, back problems, etc. However, we don't have to live with these things and, in fact, they are startlingly easy to fix. Over the past two months or so, I have discovered that I am intolerant to Gluten, my thyroid was not functioning properly and I had a parasite (gulp). Yes, a parasite. A fucking parasite. Like a worm thing? Yes, like a worm thing. How my GP never explored any of these things, given the symptomology I reported, I will never know because they seem pretty damn significant if you ask me.
"Just get a new job..." are you kidding me?
Creeping Back
"Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence, fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress." ~ Bruce Barton (American Author & Politician)
After Sue died, things drastically changed for me. Not in all of typical ways you might think, but, there was change. I imagine that many people, after losing a friend so suddenly (particularly when said friend was only 41), would take inventory on their life to see where changes could be made. After Sue died, I made a lot of promises to myself that never came to fruition. For example, I vowed to quit smoking - that was over two years ago....and here I go, lighting another cigarette. I vowed to start engaging in physical exercise - again, two years ago, not a lick of exercise has been done. I guess these promises were akin to making New Year's resolutions that never actually happen. Frankly, I think Sue would have been disappointed....not in my lack of commitment, but from me thinking I would change these things in my life simply because she died. In fact, she would have been wholly against quitting smoking, something that we tried to accomplish together when she was alive and never succeeded in past the 24 hour mark. At one point we attempted to channel the "just for today" philosophy and would attempt to quit smoking for just one day (with the goal of quitting again the next day, and so on). Yeah, it didn't work, but we had fun trying.
The changes I experienced were a little more philosophical than that. If there was any remaining doubt as to whether god existed or not.....that was finished. Probably unfair to the 'big guy upstairs' should he actually exist as someone dying likely isn't good evidence of his non-existence. But, that was the final nail in the ol' proverbial coffin (no pun intended). There was also a profound understanding that someone could be there one minute and gone the next. This was a lesson I had begun to understand with the loss of my previous relationship (see previous Africa entries); however, he was still alive, just figuratively dead. She was gonzo. And in beginning to understand that this was a reality of life - the understanding that life was extremely short became overtly pronounced.
To say I have wasted many years may be, in fact, a gross understatement. My sister once told me that the secret to life is that you don't know how short it is before you've wasted countless years of your existence. I think she's on to something because I have been kicking my ass over my wasted-years-a-plenty, of which I am solely responsible for. In saying this, I am also extremely grateful I have started to figure this stuff out by 33 rather than 43 or 53 (or never). I am also appreciative of the fact that during the years I didn't have it figured out, I did not produce any children who would have been forced to bear the brunt of my meanderings. If you read my profile, you know that I have admitted to suffering with chronic immaturity. I don't mean the kind where you get drunk and do stupid stuff (which I've done countless times) or the kind where you can't have a normal conversation with another adult or hold down a responsible job and lifestyle - not that kind of immaturity. What I mean is the kind of immaturity that results from not being nurtured in the way you needed as a tiny human, resulting in this kind of internal searching that is never fulfilled or complete (similar to an itch that you cannot scratch). The kind of immaturity that results from having attachment issues that were dealt with poorly (understatement) from an early age. So, wasted years....yeah, I have complied a astounding amount of them.
I guess the fundamental evolution that came from Sue's death was my understanding that my life needed to be (and could be) different in order for me to achieve genuine happiness. Rather than bumbling through life randomly (and destructively) I realized that I needed to become an active participant in my life. This realization took awhile to fully set in (awhile meaning at least a year) and took even more time to actually work into my "doing something." I am an idea-person, not an action-person. This was one of the things to change. Dreaming of Africa was also one of the things to change; however, doing that took some deep self evaluation and exploration that traversed many hours of reflection on countless numbers of my combined life experiences. Basically, I had to get to know me and that was hard and unpleasant at times, and enlightening and freeing at other times.
I miss Sue. On my recent annual summer holiday I visited her grave, as I have done every year since her death. I might miss our visit next year if/when I am in Kenya....but, that's jumping ahead of where we are in this story. When I visit her grave, I talk to her - which doesn't make a lot of reasonable sense because I don't believe in heaven, but I do believe in spirits....it makes sense in my head. Sometimes, I talk to her about the changes that have occurred in my existence since her death. Sometimes, I talk to her about how the immense grief of her sudden death, combined with the loss of my former partner at that time, was so intensely painful that I was forced to recognize that actually I survived it. And in that, I was able to make change - gradual change - that was profound and required strength. I got that strength partially from her death and some of that strength has gone into my developing journey to Africa. And for that, I am grateful.
After Sue died, things drastically changed for me. Not in all of typical ways you might think, but, there was change. I imagine that many people, after losing a friend so suddenly (particularly when said friend was only 41), would take inventory on their life to see where changes could be made. After Sue died, I made a lot of promises to myself that never came to fruition. For example, I vowed to quit smoking - that was over two years ago....and here I go, lighting another cigarette. I vowed to start engaging in physical exercise - again, two years ago, not a lick of exercise has been done. I guess these promises were akin to making New Year's resolutions that never actually happen. Frankly, I think Sue would have been disappointed....not in my lack of commitment, but from me thinking I would change these things in my life simply because she died. In fact, she would have been wholly against quitting smoking, something that we tried to accomplish together when she was alive and never succeeded in past the 24 hour mark. At one point we attempted to channel the "just for today" philosophy and would attempt to quit smoking for just one day (with the goal of quitting again the next day, and so on). Yeah, it didn't work, but we had fun trying.
The changes I experienced were a little more philosophical than that. If there was any remaining doubt as to whether god existed or not.....that was finished. Probably unfair to the 'big guy upstairs' should he actually exist as someone dying likely isn't good evidence of his non-existence. But, that was the final nail in the ol' proverbial coffin (no pun intended). There was also a profound understanding that someone could be there one minute and gone the next. This was a lesson I had begun to understand with the loss of my previous relationship (see previous Africa entries); however, he was still alive, just figuratively dead. She was gonzo. And in beginning to understand that this was a reality of life - the understanding that life was extremely short became overtly pronounced.
To say I have wasted many years may be, in fact, a gross understatement. My sister once told me that the secret to life is that you don't know how short it is before you've wasted countless years of your existence. I think she's on to something because I have been kicking my ass over my wasted-years-a-plenty, of which I am solely responsible for. In saying this, I am also extremely grateful I have started to figure this stuff out by 33 rather than 43 or 53 (or never). I am also appreciative of the fact that during the years I didn't have it figured out, I did not produce any children who would have been forced to bear the brunt of my meanderings. If you read my profile, you know that I have admitted to suffering with chronic immaturity. I don't mean the kind where you get drunk and do stupid stuff (which I've done countless times) or the kind where you can't have a normal conversation with another adult or hold down a responsible job and lifestyle - not that kind of immaturity. What I mean is the kind of immaturity that results from not being nurtured in the way you needed as a tiny human, resulting in this kind of internal searching that is never fulfilled or complete (similar to an itch that you cannot scratch). The kind of immaturity that results from having attachment issues that were dealt with poorly (understatement) from an early age. So, wasted years....yeah, I have complied a astounding amount of them.
I guess the fundamental evolution that came from Sue's death was my understanding that my life needed to be (and could be) different in order for me to achieve genuine happiness. Rather than bumbling through life randomly (and destructively) I realized that I needed to become an active participant in my life. This realization took awhile to fully set in (awhile meaning at least a year) and took even more time to actually work into my "doing something." I am an idea-person, not an action-person. This was one of the things to change. Dreaming of Africa was also one of the things to change; however, doing that took some deep self evaluation and exploration that traversed many hours of reflection on countless numbers of my combined life experiences. Basically, I had to get to know me and that was hard and unpleasant at times, and enlightening and freeing at other times.
I miss Sue. On my recent annual summer holiday I visited her grave, as I have done every year since her death. I might miss our visit next year if/when I am in Kenya....but, that's jumping ahead of where we are in this story. When I visit her grave, I talk to her - which doesn't make a lot of reasonable sense because I don't believe in heaven, but I do believe in spirits....it makes sense in my head. Sometimes, I talk to her about the changes that have occurred in my existence since her death. Sometimes, I talk to her about how the immense grief of her sudden death, combined with the loss of my former partner at that time, was so intensely painful that I was forced to recognize that actually I survived it. And in that, I was able to make change - gradual change - that was profound and required strength. I got that strength partially from her death and some of that strength has gone into my developing journey to Africa. And for that, I am grateful.
The Background
"People talk about 'dysfunctional' families; I've never seen any other kind." ~ Sue Grafton (American Writer)
To attempt to explain my family would be an effort of futility, as I imagine it would be for most individuals. Family matters are fundamentally complex – I should know given my line of work. I can sit back and observe and appreciate that complexity when working with other families; however, when applied to my own, my appreciation declines significantly. Let’s start with some background:
I come from an intact family – I know, shocking these days. The ‘rents are still married and their 42nd wedding anniversary is soon approaching. My mother was born in 1948 and was raised in a small out port in Newfoundland with eight brothers and sisters. Terming my mother’s community as a “small out port” is generous as it was the “not-on-the-map” kind of extremely small when she was growing up. Mom was raised dirt-poor....she jokes that when times got tough her brothers and sisters would fight over a rock sandwich to get fed. She was 13 by the time she had electricity and at no time did she ever have indoor plumbing. Mom often recalls wearing the same clothes year after year as there was no money to buy more and talks about the kids being “lousy” (meaning having lice) and being dirty a lot of the time. Her mother stayed at home, as most mothers did, to take care of the kids and her father was often absent as he was a member of a shipping crew that did import and export from Newfoundland to the United States. Her parents, my grandparents, came from Scottish heritage of the Grant Clan. Mom got her ass out of that small out port at the age of 17 and she asserts that from the day she was born, she knew she was meant for bigger things than that community could ever offer her. At 17, she travelled from Newfoundland to Nova Scotia with only $2.00 in her pocket and made a life for herself (the life she established pre-Dad days) by working hard and being honest. My mother is nothing if not brutally honest.
My father was born in 1947 and was raised in a small Acadian community on the French Shore of Nova Scotia. His family was even bigger (French, Catholic – go figure) and he had 12 brothers and sisters (that lived - there were more children, however, some of them died). Dad made 13. His mother was a school teacher before becoming a mother; however, I’m sure being either pregnant of breastfeeding for 26 years straight put a damper on her career. His father was a farmer and a logger and was very good at both. Dad started working on the farm as soon as he could walk and has continued to work to this very day. He brings an entirely new definition to the phrase “hard work.” Although my father’s family did not have disposable income of any kind, they were well taken care of in terms of having plenty of food, being clean and having at least good clothing to go to church every Sunday. Although Dad had to work since the day he was born, the stories he tells of his childhood have a happier tone to them then Mom’s do. Mom’s stories are slightly more depressing and gloomy due to the circumstances of her family’s insolvency, whereas Dad speaks of having a cellar full of preserves and his mother always baking bread and rolls. Mom might joke about fighting over rock sandwiches but, in reality, they did fight over lard and small corn on the cobs you could get in a can. These differences led my parents to have different outlooks on life and different understandings of what it means to succeed. Success to my mother meant being the exact opposite of poor, always putting on a good appearance to others, getting a good education (to to avoid being poor) and never wanting for anything. Success to my father meant putting in an honest, hard day’s work, taking care of your family and making a life for yourself and your kids that was better than the life you lived as a child.
Although my mother worked before I was born, after I graced this world with my presence in the spring of 1978, my mother transitioned into a full time stay-at-home-Mom. My father established his own construction company in the early 80’s where he worked as the general contractor – initially on jobs requiring additions and renovations and, over time developing into some pretty custom work for some pretty high paying customers. For as long as I can remember, my father worked six days a week (sometimes seven), 14-16 hour days. He used to fall asleep at stop lights and during construction season when the roads were backed up. He was a tired guy. He has rough, calloused hands and I never remember minding this. He still smells like wood and sawdust, two of my very favourite smells to this day. Mom, being the one that stayed at home with us, was the one to bake the cookies and be the disciplinarian and, although I repeatedly heard the phrase, “wait until your father gets home” from my mother, I don’t ever remember a time feeling frightened. Dad was kind through and through and never laid a hand upon us. Mom was more of a loose cannon....but, man she could bake some good cookies.
Living in a family with one parent who was Acadian French and one parent who was straight off the rock (the province of Newfoundland is often referred to as The Rock in the Maritimes) was interesting at best. Both came from vastly different backgrounds; however, the functioning of their communities – albeit different – was very similar. Church had a big role in the education system and attending church on Sunday’s was not an option....it was what you did. Mom was raised Anglican and Dad Catholic and, upon getting married, Mom converted to Catholicism. Regardless of whose house you were at, the rules were the same and if you acted up – it didn’t have to be your parent who cuffed you upside the head to put you back in line – that was a privilege every parent had in the community. Everyone in the community basically had the same thing – next to nothing with a lot of mouths to feed.
One difference between my mom and dad’s upbringing involved the level of affection they received as children. Dad’s family was somewhat cold in the sense that hugs and kisses were not offered readily and no one was fussed over past the time of being an infant. I never remember my Grandmére (French for grandmother) being affectionate or snugly in any way when I was a child being forced to spend every Easter at her house that was still heated by a wood stove and only had three TV channels that were all in French. I don’t remember my Grandpére at all; although there are pictures of me with him as a child before he died. My mother’s family – extended included - was very affectionate and Mom tells loving stories of her grandfather, “Pop,” living with them. It’s my understanding that hugs and kisses were easily passed around and that my grandparents were adoring, funny and generous people (as we would expect Newfoundlanders to be). I never experienced these grandparents after I was a baby as both my grandmother and grandfather died. My Grandmére, however, lived until my late teen years and I guilty wish that I had the Newfoundland Nan and Poppy around rather than the Grandmére. Even the title is cold. I never experienced the cookie baking, cosy, protective, tender grandparents that my friends often describe and I really wish that was part of my narrative. As an adult I see my parents, now grandparents, interacting with my now six year old nephew and think I really missed out on something special.
In saying that I have a nephew, it would make sense for me to talk about my sibling a little. I have an older sister who is my senior by five years and it’s just the two of us, her and I. We couldn’t be more different if we tried in terms of our lifestyle, our beliefs, our approach to human interaction, our politics and so on and so forth. We don’t particularly look alike either – she’s about 5”3 where I stand at almost 5”11. Her body is type is straight from my mother’s side, yet her facial features represent Dad’s side of the family. I am the opposite and my height comes from my father, but my eyes and across the bridge of my nose look just like Mom. My sister’s personality is a lot like my father’s – reserved, a thinker, pragmatic, whereas my passion for people, helping others, and my temper comes straight from my mother. However, despite our obvious differences – and they are plentiful – put us beside each other and get us talking and there is no doubt we are sisters. Our expression, our sarcasm, our sense of humour and our wit are extremely similar.
My sister married her high school sweetheart, a wonderful man who has been present in my life since I was 14. He was the first boy she brought home that I didn’t have a crush on and now, all these years later, I affectionately refer to him as my “brother.” He comes from an equally dysfunctional family, also an intact, two-child family. He and his older brother are much closer in age than me and my sister are and I’ve heard plenty of stories about his older brother beating the shit out of him on more than one occasion when they were boys. That would have never happened in my family. If anyone was going to get the pleasure of beating the shit out of anyone.....it was going to be Mom. A funny aspect about my brother-in-law and his brother is that they have both produced boys that look exactly like them. The boys (one being my nephew, the other being his cousin) are both six years old; however, one is older by four months. They are carbon copies of their fathers and I can only image what it is like interacting with them both from the perspective of my sister’s in-laws (my nephew’s other grandparents). I imagine it must be hysterical....like a watch wound back in time. My sister and her husband have done well for themselves. After getting married at the tender ages of 25 and 26, they waited longer than anyone had patience for (except for me, I had all the patience in the world) to have a child. Both were well established by the time my nephew was born in 2005. My nephew is basically the best thing ever.
I suppose you might be wondering where I fit into this dynasty; I have asked myself the same question repeatedly over the years. The easiest answer is: I don't. If I was adopted or was the result of an affair my mother had, it would actually make more sense to me. Although I possess qualities from both my parents, I am fundamentally different from the individuals who comprise my family unit. This is where the stories for these posts will develop from: a place of belonging to a family just by virtue of being part of the family, while being completely different from them and never feeling a true connection to what it means to be part of my family.
Should be interesting.
Should be interesting.
Broken Hearts
In reading the news about the recent shooting in Norway (http://ca.news.yahoo.com/man-kills-least-91-norway-shooting-bombing-112925703.html), I found myself struggling to understand mankind. I think we are all challenged to understand that at times and, since working with the kids, I have struggled even more. My heart goes out to the children and parents impacted by this atrocity.
When I first started working for the non-profit organization that I am currently employed with, I knew nothing about teenagers other than the fact that I had been a really "bad one." Since then, I have had the liberating realization that I wasn't actually a "bad kid;" rather, I was surviving the best way I knew how in a shitty situation. In comparison, my shitty situation and the kids shitty situations are not on the same (or similar) level at all. But there is something that we share, which directly contributed to our survival response within our shitty situations and, for myself, it took a lot of money and education to figure this very simple concept out.
Although medical and psychiatric professionals tend to pathologize every human experience, pain, loss, mental anguish and symptom we have, there is actually a simple answer to the age-old-question of why children behave the way they do (when those behaviours fall outside of what society considers to be on the "normal" spectrum). For example, a teenage girl I am working with (who is gorgeous, smart, funny and talented) cuts her arms, legs, and belly to smithereens at every opportunity. A teenage boy I am working with (who is athletic, intelligent, and personable) destroys the things he loves to punish himself when he experiences overwhelming feelings of anger. Another girl I am working with, who is Aboriginal (and who is an excellent creative writer, affectionate, beautiful and generous) cries herself to sleep every night, cuts herself, and runs away whenever possible. The psychiatric community has labeled these children as being: oppositional, defiant, conduct disordered, hyper-active, unmotivated (sometimes they have all of these labels at once). In a child's mind these labels translate into one simple statement or self-concept: I am a bad child, I am a bad person. They are defined for the things they do rather than who they are.
When I was a teenager, I was fortunate to know that I wasn't a bad kid - I placed the blame where the blame was rightly due - on my mother. As I grew older, however, the guilt of "what I put my parents through" set in, and I definitely believed I had been a rotten kid who caused my family endless pain and grief. Hearing stories of my wonderful father, crying while standing in the kitchen making his lunch at night due to worry over me, plagued me for a long time. It took me working in the field and spending some valuable hours in therapy to realize that I had simply relied on coping strategies that I believed to be effective and that appeared, at the time, to meet my needs. My coping strategies were varied, self-destructive and consisted of: using a significant amount of drugs (into my early 20's), being promiscuous, dropping out of school, being purely hateful towards my family (primarily my mother) and running away from home for long periods of time (at the time I did not know this was considered running; I understood it as leaving, as my parents typically knew where I was). Partially because we were a middle-class family, and partially because my mother never would have considered shaming herself to this level, no one like the Children's Aid Society was called to help manage my behaviours. Since working in the field, I am so grateful this was not done, as there are much worse things that can happen to a kid than what I was going through and experiencing - and being 'in care' is one of them.
I cannot imagine what it feels like to live in 49 different "homes" before the age of 13 - most moves requiring changes in schools as well. I cannot imagine what it is like to have adults "caring for me" that are not my parents but complete strangers. My guess is that it would be terrifying. I cannot imagine what it would be like to be removed from these "homes" over and over again because I didn't fit the necessary profile or because I couldn't manage my behaviours well enough for the "caregivers" to take care of me. Can you imagine what that is like? I am truly and deeply sorry if you can.
Although there are some similarities, I was nothing like the kids I work with - they are survivors with the internal and external battle wounds to prove it. To get back to that simple concept I was referring to.....the reason that kids I work with cope the way they do is because they suffer from broken hearts. It is not because they have oppositional defiant disorder or conduct disorder (common psychiatric diagnosis for the kids I work with); rather, it is because their hearts were broken when they were very small and fragile and they have continued to be broken all along the way.
I have a white board in my clinical room that I use to write inspirational quotes by people the kids can relate to. Recently, I had a quote from Bob Marley that said, "don't worry about a thing...because every little thing...is gonna be alright." I erased it after one of the kids, the Aboriginal girl I mentioned above, expressed that the quote was a lie...that there was a lot to worry about and that everything was not going to be alright. Her heart has a million cracks.
In general, the kids don't understand why they act the way they do. They know they experience a lot of pain and anger but they often don't realize where it comes from in a meaningful way. They can describe their abuse, neglect and abandonment in a way that is similar to reading a recipe out loud, void of emotion. Flat. Last year I attended a wonderful seminar that focused on attachment theory (which is my theoretical orientation, my foundation and the way I view kids and families) where the speaker taught us about the "broken heart" concept. It is the most basic understanding of the issues that kids experience and, more recently, I have started using this understanding to help the kids develop their own understanding of why their lives are the way they are. Within the last couple of weeks, I had a breakthrough with a very closed off youth by explaining the "broken heart" concept to him.....the results left me speechless.
As it turns out, mothers are generally the "heart breakers;" although, that's not to say that there isn't a lot of fathers out there that are causing significant harm. But that bond with a mother, the bond that develops even before birth occurs, is unfathomably unbreakable. When a mother cannot be a mother, or even worse when she cannot be human, the impact on the child is incomprehensible. Being partially responsible for mending broken hearts is challenging but worthwhile. What the kids need are mothers...."forever-mothers" and that is something that I cannot provide them with. But, I give hugs (even though I'm not supposed to), I look at them adoringly and tell them that they are precious and wonderful, I celebrate their successes and help them through their failures. None of this is enough, however.
For me to actually have a long term impact on these kids, I would need to live at the residence full time and the entire treatment team would have to operate from an attachment perspective. As an agency, we are far from this place and, for myself, I could never take that on. Selfishly so, my heart would likely break too often and I am simply not grown up enough to live with eight traumatized children. I'm not grown up enough to have my own children and I seriously doubt I ever will be. I have considered fostering teenagers when I am older but, for now, it's easier for me to live with the dog laying at my feet who is presently yelping in her sleep, dreaming of chasing something.
Sometimes you need to protect your own heart so that you can be effective in helping mend the broken hearts of others.
Children Singing
"In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life: it goes on." ~ Robert Frost (American Poet, one of my personal favourites)
Slowly, I crawled back into the world of living. It took the sudden death of my good friend and then the entrance of a new friend into my life, who I undoubtedly credit for bringing me back to life.
Sue - the only person who's name I'll use on this blog because she's dead and can't complain about it - was one of those people that you totally loved or totally disliked and there was very little in between. Most people, including myself, loved her for her unique nature as she was different in every way possible. Sue was a good 'ol girl from a small community in Prince Edwards Island (god's country, they would say) and she had salt in her blood from the ocean that surrounded her. She was wild, totally out of control, and her antics put other people's shenanigans to shame. We met through work, as she worked with the kids directly 'on-the-floor' and, as soon as I was introduced to her - I wanted to get to know her better. She was totally unfeminine and people at work, those who knew and loved her, often joked about Sue being the boy in the Johnny Cash song, "A Boy Named Sue." Her voice was husky, likely from too much smoking and drinking. She was loyal and funny and would do anything for you that she could. If I had ever killed a person and needed an accomplice to help me out, I would have definitely called Sue. She was "that" friend. The closeness that existed within the friendship we developed, in relative terms, was surprising as we did not actually hang out for all that long. I think that's why it was so special. Sue had beautiful blue eyes that reminded me of water swirling around in a pool and I doubt she never knew that she possessed such beauty. Her spirit was old and wounded, while simultaneously wise and youthful. She was simply Sue, no more, no less.
At 41, instead of coming to pick me up at the airport when I flew in from Halifax, NS on a Monday night, Sue died. No warning, no sickness (that was obvious), she just died. As tests later showed, Sue had Acute Leukemia that literally sent her white blood cells out of control on that particular day, attacking her organs - including her brain. When I got to her she was being kept alive by machines, waiting for her parents to arrive from PEI. I got to spend 17 hours with my friend, just me and her, before her parents arrived and the machines were shut off. It was precious, those 17 hours, so precious. I talked to her about so many things and, for once, she shut up and listened. Sue had this terrible habit of laughing inappropriately when you attempted to talk to her about anything serious or emotional; her silence that day was deafening.
I heavily grieved Sue. She was this gigantic presence in my life and, like blowing out a candle, she was gone. Totally and utterly gone. I read at her memorial: Ecclesiastes, To Every Thing There is a Season....
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
I haven't been one for prayer in quite some time, but this - to me - is beautiful. After the ceremonial portion of her service, the minister invited people to get up and share stories about Sue. Her mother, a lovely woman who is absolutely hysterical, got up and told a story about her and Sue once being in a restaurant that got held up. Great story. I didn't get up and share any of my stories but, in reflection, I might have shared this particular memory....
Very often, Sue and I sat outside on her very small porch that was extremely narrow, which meant we could sit in our chairs with our feet propped up on the top of the railing without much difficulty. Most times, we would sit out there as the sun was setting, smoking our cigarettes, her drinking beer and me drinking wine. And, we would chat out there as her two crazy cats would climb in and out of the small window that sat directly (behind) in between the two of us. Many times, we discussed my dreams to go to Africa, dreams that were - at that time - under developed and not quite goals yet. I remember one conversation when she asked me why I wanted to go and I replied to her that I really, really wanted to hear African children singing. She joked and commented that it would be cheaper to purchase a CD. She found it odd that I would travel to Africa to hear children singing, even though she knew there were many more reasons than that. I told her that the African tribal music I'd been listening to made me feel calm and at peace. For some reason, it made me feel like I understood myself better. When I sat down and listened to this music, I could vividly picture myself there and that made me happy. She sat there, smoking her cigarettes, and listened to me babble on and on about it. She ended the conversation with a simple statement: you'll go...someday, you'll go.
I remember thinking to myself, I just might.
Here's to you my friend.....
If you care to hear a beautiful song of such singing, it can be foud on the Blood Diamond Soundtrack. This one is my favourite:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnvnHNEEINs
Slowly, I crawled back into the world of living. It took the sudden death of my good friend and then the entrance of a new friend into my life, who I undoubtedly credit for bringing me back to life.
Sue - the only person who's name I'll use on this blog because she's dead and can't complain about it - was one of those people that you totally loved or totally disliked and there was very little in between. Most people, including myself, loved her for her unique nature as she was different in every way possible. Sue was a good 'ol girl from a small community in Prince Edwards Island (god's country, they would say) and she had salt in her blood from the ocean that surrounded her. She was wild, totally out of control, and her antics put other people's shenanigans to shame. We met through work, as she worked with the kids directly 'on-the-floor' and, as soon as I was introduced to her - I wanted to get to know her better. She was totally unfeminine and people at work, those who knew and loved her, often joked about Sue being the boy in the Johnny Cash song, "A Boy Named Sue." Her voice was husky, likely from too much smoking and drinking. She was loyal and funny and would do anything for you that she could. If I had ever killed a person and needed an accomplice to help me out, I would have definitely called Sue. She was "that" friend. The closeness that existed within the friendship we developed, in relative terms, was surprising as we did not actually hang out for all that long. I think that's why it was so special. Sue had beautiful blue eyes that reminded me of water swirling around in a pool and I doubt she never knew that she possessed such beauty. Her spirit was old and wounded, while simultaneously wise and youthful. She was simply Sue, no more, no less.
At 41, instead of coming to pick me up at the airport when I flew in from Halifax, NS on a Monday night, Sue died. No warning, no sickness (that was obvious), she just died. As tests later showed, Sue had Acute Leukemia that literally sent her white blood cells out of control on that particular day, attacking her organs - including her brain. When I got to her she was being kept alive by machines, waiting for her parents to arrive from PEI. I got to spend 17 hours with my friend, just me and her, before her parents arrived and the machines were shut off. It was precious, those 17 hours, so precious. I talked to her about so many things and, for once, she shut up and listened. Sue had this terrible habit of laughing inappropriately when you attempted to talk to her about anything serious or emotional; her silence that day was deafening.
I heavily grieved Sue. She was this gigantic presence in my life and, like blowing out a candle, she was gone. Totally and utterly gone. I read at her memorial: Ecclesiastes, To Every Thing There is a Season....
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;
A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.
I haven't been one for prayer in quite some time, but this - to me - is beautiful. After the ceremonial portion of her service, the minister invited people to get up and share stories about Sue. Her mother, a lovely woman who is absolutely hysterical, got up and told a story about her and Sue once being in a restaurant that got held up. Great story. I didn't get up and share any of my stories but, in reflection, I might have shared this particular memory....
Very often, Sue and I sat outside on her very small porch that was extremely narrow, which meant we could sit in our chairs with our feet propped up on the top of the railing without much difficulty. Most times, we would sit out there as the sun was setting, smoking our cigarettes, her drinking beer and me drinking wine. And, we would chat out there as her two crazy cats would climb in and out of the small window that sat directly (behind) in between the two of us. Many times, we discussed my dreams to go to Africa, dreams that were - at that time - under developed and not quite goals yet. I remember one conversation when she asked me why I wanted to go and I replied to her that I really, really wanted to hear African children singing. She joked and commented that it would be cheaper to purchase a CD. She found it odd that I would travel to Africa to hear children singing, even though she knew there were many more reasons than that. I told her that the African tribal music I'd been listening to made me feel calm and at peace. For some reason, it made me feel like I understood myself better. When I sat down and listened to this music, I could vividly picture myself there and that made me happy. She sat there, smoking her cigarettes, and listened to me babble on and on about it. She ended the conversation with a simple statement: you'll go...someday, you'll go.
I remember thinking to myself, I just might.
Here's to you my friend.....
If you care to hear a beautiful song of such singing, it can be foud on the Blood Diamond Soundtrack. This one is my favourite:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JnvnHNEEINs
Drowning in Dreams
"There are some people who live in a dream world, and there are some who face reality; and then there are those who turn one into the other." ~ Douglas H. Everett (Author)
When everything went to shit, and it did go to shit, I fondly remembered those times that were so influenced by my dreams. Well, when I wasn't wishing myself or him dead. And I say that not because I am one of those loony ex-girlfriends who wishes all past partners dead - not at all. I say that because the circumstances that involved the end felt like the literal end in how traumatic they were. The transition between him being present in my dreams and being startlingly absent from them was difficult. Difficult being defined in this particular juncture as: spontaneously crying all the time, missing work, not eating, and isolating myself....for months upon months.
To explain what happened, I feel the need to describe an imaginary situation that you can apply to your own life, in hopes of you possibly "getting it" in your heart instead of your head. Intellectually, I know what I should have done.....emotionally, that was impossible. This is pretty personal...so, here we go.....
I want you to imagine the love of your life. The one and only person you have ever dreamed of spending a lifetime with. The one and only person you have ever considered joining with in a union that represents "forever." The one and only person you have ever considered having children with.
Go that? Ok.....
I want you to imagine that one day you wake up and, spontaneously, that person has disappeared with no explanation. He or she is gone. Their side of the bed is empty. You call their family and you call the hospitals and no one knows what happened to them. They are gone.
Following me?
For days and then weeks, you do not hear from him or her. You are frantic and sleep deprived. Eventually, you get in your car and drive the streets looking, searching. All you think is, "how could this be?" You drive and drive until your eyes hurt from looking so hard. And, one day, you see a person that resembles your love, that has all the features of the person you've been looking for, yet looks empty. Like a ghost. And when you run to them, when you embrace him or her, they are only the shell of the person you once knew. Regardless of the fact that you have found them, they are still gone.
Bringing it home now....
This continues for months. At times, you are able to bring him or her home and restore some of what you have lost, but only for short periods of time and it never feels quite the same again. Having your love around has become equally as difficult as having them absent, which they frequently are for weeks or months at a time. Eventually, your devastation, your heartbreak, your sorrow turns into a hardened bitterness of what should have been. You become just as hollow as they are. Your sleeplessness becomes chronic. You are drowning in dreams that haunt you.
Imagery complete. This is what it is like to be in a relationship with a recovering addict who suddenly becomes "not so recovered." A relapsing addict is not a pretty sight. What might make my story - this story - unique from other similar stories lies in the severity of the transition between sober and not sober. Going from having employment, living with me, and weighing in at 225lbs to living on the streets, smoking crack and injecting other choice drugs, and weighing in approximately 70lbs less took about four to five weeks in total, with very little in between. Living on the streets was immediate, as was the drug use; the weight loss took a little longer. Think back to an episode of COPS - one where it showed the mug shot of a crack addict coming in off the streets. That's basically what I was dealing with. And I did not deal with it well.
As an aside, I figure you might be wondering what in the hell all this blabbering has to do with Africa. It is significant in the sense that this experience contributed to changes that would come later on in life, which had a direct impact on turning Africa from a dream into a reality that's happening in less than a year. Prior to this relationship, I had done a lot of damage to myself as a individual; however, I can honestly say that I had never experienced that much damage from being with another person. I'm sure there are other women out there who would have handled it differently, better than I did. I am not those women and I dealt with it in the only way I knew how - survival.
I remember my wonderful women colleagues (and friends) asking me how it was possible that I was at work with all of this stuff going on. If I wasn't at work, I was in my apartment, lying in my bed, sobbing; therefore, work seemed like the more productive option. One thing I hugely regret from this time was how absent I became in my job - not just physically, but mentally. I can recall a certain female youth I was working with telling me something about me had changed and that I wasn't the same person anymore. This was confusing and frightening for her, as the therapist should be human, but more importantly reliable and attentive. I was neither. And that feeling, or lack thereof, stayed with me (on and off, but mostly on) for a very long time.
I tried going to see my own therapist during those couple of years. It was pointless. He was wonderful, a social worker like me, but I was unable to engage in the process due to being too lost within myself. I didn't know myself any more and I wasn't in a place where he could help me find that missing person. I cancelled a lot of sessions before finally giving up and letting myself try (in futility) to forget. In trying to forget, something I know from my line of work isn't effective, I forgot who I was. And, in doing that, Africa got forgotten as well. In fact, it was grieved and then forgotten, as were most things that once held endless possibilities. Ultimately, at some point I had to move on and face the reality that we (him and I) would not be working together, him building things and me working with children, youth and adults living in poverty with HIV/AIDS. That dream was ooooooover with a capital O.
What followed was "radio silence," a virtual lapse in dreaming of anything, especially Africa.
When everything went to shit, and it did go to shit, I fondly remembered those times that were so influenced by my dreams. Well, when I wasn't wishing myself or him dead. And I say that not because I am one of those loony ex-girlfriends who wishes all past partners dead - not at all. I say that because the circumstances that involved the end felt like the literal end in how traumatic they were. The transition between him being present in my dreams and being startlingly absent from them was difficult. Difficult being defined in this particular juncture as: spontaneously crying all the time, missing work, not eating, and isolating myself....for months upon months.
To explain what happened, I feel the need to describe an imaginary situation that you can apply to your own life, in hopes of you possibly "getting it" in your heart instead of your head. Intellectually, I know what I should have done.....emotionally, that was impossible. This is pretty personal...so, here we go.....
I want you to imagine the love of your life. The one and only person you have ever dreamed of spending a lifetime with. The one and only person you have ever considered joining with in a union that represents "forever." The one and only person you have ever considered having children with.
Go that? Ok.....
I want you to imagine that one day you wake up and, spontaneously, that person has disappeared with no explanation. He or she is gone. Their side of the bed is empty. You call their family and you call the hospitals and no one knows what happened to them. They are gone.
Following me?
For days and then weeks, you do not hear from him or her. You are frantic and sleep deprived. Eventually, you get in your car and drive the streets looking, searching. All you think is, "how could this be?" You drive and drive until your eyes hurt from looking so hard. And, one day, you see a person that resembles your love, that has all the features of the person you've been looking for, yet looks empty. Like a ghost. And when you run to them, when you embrace him or her, they are only the shell of the person you once knew. Regardless of the fact that you have found them, they are still gone.
Bringing it home now....
This continues for months. At times, you are able to bring him or her home and restore some of what you have lost, but only for short periods of time and it never feels quite the same again. Having your love around has become equally as difficult as having them absent, which they frequently are for weeks or months at a time. Eventually, your devastation, your heartbreak, your sorrow turns into a hardened bitterness of what should have been. You become just as hollow as they are. Your sleeplessness becomes chronic. You are drowning in dreams that haunt you.
Imagery complete. This is what it is like to be in a relationship with a recovering addict who suddenly becomes "not so recovered." A relapsing addict is not a pretty sight. What might make my story - this story - unique from other similar stories lies in the severity of the transition between sober and not sober. Going from having employment, living with me, and weighing in at 225lbs to living on the streets, smoking crack and injecting other choice drugs, and weighing in approximately 70lbs less took about four to five weeks in total, with very little in between. Living on the streets was immediate, as was the drug use; the weight loss took a little longer. Think back to an episode of COPS - one where it showed the mug shot of a crack addict coming in off the streets. That's basically what I was dealing with. And I did not deal with it well.
As an aside, I figure you might be wondering what in the hell all this blabbering has to do with Africa. It is significant in the sense that this experience contributed to changes that would come later on in life, which had a direct impact on turning Africa from a dream into a reality that's happening in less than a year. Prior to this relationship, I had done a lot of damage to myself as a individual; however, I can honestly say that I had never experienced that much damage from being with another person. I'm sure there are other women out there who would have handled it differently, better than I did. I am not those women and I dealt with it in the only way I knew how - survival.
I remember my wonderful women colleagues (and friends) asking me how it was possible that I was at work with all of this stuff going on. If I wasn't at work, I was in my apartment, lying in my bed, sobbing; therefore, work seemed like the more productive option. One thing I hugely regret from this time was how absent I became in my job - not just physically, but mentally. I can recall a certain female youth I was working with telling me something about me had changed and that I wasn't the same person anymore. This was confusing and frightening for her, as the therapist should be human, but more importantly reliable and attentive. I was neither. And that feeling, or lack thereof, stayed with me (on and off, but mostly on) for a very long time.
I tried going to see my own therapist during those couple of years. It was pointless. He was wonderful, a social worker like me, but I was unable to engage in the process due to being too lost within myself. I didn't know myself any more and I wasn't in a place where he could help me find that missing person. I cancelled a lot of sessions before finally giving up and letting myself try (in futility) to forget. In trying to forget, something I know from my line of work isn't effective, I forgot who I was. And, in doing that, Africa got forgotten as well. In fact, it was grieved and then forgotten, as were most things that once held endless possibilities. Ultimately, at some point I had to move on and face the reality that we (him and I) would not be working together, him building things and me working with children, youth and adults living in poverty with HIV/AIDS. That dream was ooooooover with a capital O.
What followed was "radio silence," a virtual lapse in dreaming of anything, especially Africa.
A Long Hiatus
~ Georgia Harkness (Christian Theologian).
After confirmation, there was what I refer to as a "religious silence" for a long period of time. As mentioned, the parental expectation of attending church regularly lessened and as a family, we gradually drifted towards "C & E" status. With the pressure of being forced to believe in god off of me, my incessant questioning ceased and I simply stopping thinking about it so damn hard. Somewhere within that, within that time where I could reflect on my own thoughts without the influence or burden of adult judgement and persuasion, I found comfort in believing that there just might be something out there bigger than the rest of us. That there might be someone or something that watched over us and cared about our existence and success. Over time, I came to the conclusion that it was, in fact, easier to not think about it and to "just simply believe." Arriving at this place was not momentous at the time (as many things of that nature are not for teenagers); however, reflecting upon it at certain times later in life forced me to explore how significant simply believing was. A lot of frontal lobe development was necessary for such critical thinking.
After that, when I went to church, I prayed. If grace was being said around the supper table, I participated. And sometimes, in my head, I had conversations with who-knows-what that started out with,"dear god..." It did not feel symbolic, nor did it feel consequential. It just was. It was what my family did and what I did and what many of the people I grew up with did. As an adult, I do not regret this time; rather, I am happy for it. And, I am happy for the times that came after it where I was more devout, as it served to strengthen me. And, at present, I grateful that I am now in a different place, where I understand these things on a level that did not exist before.
"It's evolution baby."
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