The Power and the Price of Love

 "Mom. They took Tux off the shelter site." She was crestfallen.

"Really?" I tried to look surprised and concerned at the same time. 

"I'm really glad I went to meet him in person."

"So am I sweetie. So am I."

What she didn't know was that I had gone to the site and put in an adoption form for this cat she fell in love with from his picture and his story on the site, right after we went in to see him, "to prove to myself," she had told me, "that there won't be a connection with me in person."

But there was.

He was about 4 months old, and he had been at the shelter for two months. He was so shy and fearful that nobody wanted him. But my cat-whisperer daughter saw something in him. And we had just lost our older cat - perhaps to an eagle, we couldn't be sure.

His back story was heartbreaking. He had gotten stuck in the fan-belt of the engine of a summering snowmobile ... at just eight weeks old. His mom couldn't get him out so she abandoned him there. A neighbor was out walking and heard his cries, so she set about trying to get him out. The rescue process was long and tedious, and many hours later, the woman called the PEI Humane Society. An Animal Protection Officer came and helped free him from the belt. But the damage was already done: with so many hands coming down from above, the pain of being stuck, and the sight of work boots and sound of raised voices, he was traumatized and was a black and white bundle of hissing and spitting. 

They put him in a crate to transport him to the shelter. Then they transferred him into a cage in the receiving area, where they assessed him. After his quarantine, they transferred him to another crate to go to the vet to be neutered. Another crate to get back to the shelter. Then transferred into his cage, then to another cage to be available for adoption. Nope. A foster family took him in (more crates to and from) as well as another kitten about his age. He and his foster brother lived with a couple of large dogs and a couple of cats; he liked another cat that was there. When he was four months old, they took him back to the shelter (yet another crate). No method of transferring him to a crate worked. It just added more things to be afraid of: blankets, towels, clothing, you name it. 

But then my daughter saw his pic and read his story. And she fell head over heels for him. We went to see him (as I mentioned, above) and she had resigned herself to leaving him there. So unknown to her, I got the adoption ball rolling, and the conversation happened, the one I shared at the first of this post.

A few hours later, she got an email. She opened it and started to read. It was from a friend of hers at the shelter, who was thrilled that this cat would go to her and who was congratulating her! When the realization came that he was coming to live with us, and that was the reason they took his profile off the website, she was so happy that she cried.

We picked him up the next day. Poor kitty - still another crate experience.  My daughter took him to her room, where she had set up a litter box and a feeding station, and spent the next few weeks doing nothing else but teaching him that people were okay, that it was safe here, that he would be fine, that he was loved and that it felt good to get petted.

We all changed his name to Callum - which means peace - and it soon got shortened to Cal.

I remember the first time she allowed me into her room to give Cal someone else to interact with, to teach him that it wasn't just ONE human he could trust. She told me how to sit, what to do, and how to talk. Within minutes, his terror ebbed away, and I had a tuxedo-clad kitty rubbing up against me and purring. He drooled, but we figured that he had been rewarded with food for letting people handle him, so he associated being stroked with receiving food. He never got over that habit. After a while, it was one of the endearing things about him, as he got to know us all, including the other cats and eventually, last year, the dog. (Well, okay, he never really enjoyed the dog, but you can't have everything.)

There was a one-sided 'bromance' between him and our black cat Loki, who was about six months older than he was. The first time he saw Loki, he ran right up to him and head-butted him so hard it knocked Loki into the wall!! Loki was taken aback, and gave one short hiss - out of surprise more than anything else! 

He never knew his own strength. The largest of our cats, he was the resident scaredy-cat. So he let Loki rule the roost. And he and Eris (our female cat, around his age) played together. They'd play chase, take turns running after each other, and sometimes Loki would join in. When he finally stood up to Loki (after Loki had been picking on him too much), the fur flew, but Loki respected him more after that. 

And so did the dog - he had to swat at Bullet a few times before the dog got the message.

Cal at about a year old, 2015

Cal was a big fella. He was gangly and big-boned, clumsy and a little lumbering, but his heart was as big as all Texas, as the saying goes. 

His favorite piece of furniture was our bed. He would sprawl out on the bed and lay on his side and his older (adopted) brother Loki would lay within three feet of him. They would stay there all day. And when they weren't there, they were on the cat tree (the ledge of which he is laying down on in the picture provided.) Being up high increased his confidence. He learned that he had a right to take up space, and we saw him slowly heal from his traumatic kittenhood. It was so inspiring to watch! "This," we would mutter, "is what love can do. So powerful. Just love. Pure and simple." 

Last Friday, he started to have a hard time breathing. We thought he was trying to cough up a hairball, but he was doing it more and more often. By yesterday morning, we knew we had to call the emergency room vet. They took us right away. Apparently (we had no idea) breathing problems are equivalent to an animal being hit by a car when it comes to deciding which cases are most urgent.

They calmed him with medications, did an X-ray, and then showed us what the problem was. His chest cavity was filled with fluid, which was compressing his lungs and making it really hard for him to breathe. We saw two little black blobs on the X-ray ... the size and appearance of prunes. The vet explained. "Those are his lungs. All this white stuff in the rest of the chest cavity is fluid. It's pressing in on his lungs and there's not enough room for him to get a full breath." So she recommended taking a good bit of that fluid out to make his breathing easier, and testing the fluid to see what the cause of his problem might be. Not all of it, she said, because the risk of a collapsed lung was more if they took it all out. So we consented. They gave him some intravenous liquids and put in some anti-nausea medication. We brought him back home around 4 pm. Dr. Marlene is AMAZING. Just saying.

That night, after he had found a hiding spot under my side of the bed, Cal managed to eat some tuna (his favorite), and drink a little water. He stayed there all night. The family gathered in the living room and talked. We all knew it was just a matter of time. If he got worse, we couldn't keep subjecting him to that crate and to the interventions of strangers.

There were many tears. Nobody got much sleep that night.

I checked on him in the morning. He had stopped panting, so I thought he was doing better. I petted him; he purred. His breathing was still too fast, but I went forward with my plans for the day, which included meeting a friend for an early-afternoon coffee nearby. I took my phone with me "just in case you guys need to go back to the vet with him." I made it clear that I wanted to be there too. All they had to do was call.

I got that call around 2:30, while I was finishing up coffee with my friend. "I'll meet you there," I told my daughter. 

When we got inside, I checked on him inside the crate (again with the crate!!)  He was in clear distress, panting open-mouthed and slavering. Strings of drool hung from the sides of his mouth. I saw panic in his eyes. The vet met us shortly and immediately took him back into ICU. They started an IV and put him on oxygen. 

That's when we had the "quality of life" conversation with the vet. 

The next hour or so was a blur. Lots of waiting for medications to kick in so he would be more calm. Long minutes of petting him and saying our goodbyes. Tears. Hugs. More pets. Then the vet came in with the needles - 3 of them (sedation, an agent to stop the heart, and saline solution to go into the vein after the deed was done to avoid blood leaking out when they took out the IV.) Everything was designed for maximum comfort, minimum stress for both us and him. The vet was great: respectful, compassionate, and knowledgeable.

While we were waiting for them to do the paw-print, the vet from the previous day, who had dropped by because she had 'forgotten' her notes, came in to see us and express her sadness at how things turned out. What a blessing! We had the unique opportunity to thank her for everything she did to ease his discomfort and make him as calm as possible. She had been his vet when he was younger, and that made it easier to talk to her about him, and to share memories ... the scene reminded me of a funeral home in a way. 

Yes. Yes, she cried. It meant a lot to her for us to thank her. I'm so glad we got a chance to do that. Vets don't get a lot of thanks. They should.

Summer Daze

 I passed in my last assignment (revised per my prof's instructions) on August 6, 2021. Four hours later, she emailed me and told me that I was done and congratulations, and to enjoy my summer!  Just like that!

It took quite a while for the fact to sink in that I was done my Masters degree. Done homework. Done writing papers for marks. Done. It's still sinking in that I can enjoy a vacation for what feels like the first time in a very long time. Not an enforced one, or taking time off to do self-care, but a real, honest-to-goodness vacation! I had almost forgotten what it felt like ... so for the last week or so, I've been enjoying that feeling.

But I'm not done learning. That never ends.

The summer has been muggy, and the last two or three weeks has been super hot for this part of the country. One day the "feels like" temperature, or humidex, was 41 degrees Celsius (about 103º Fahrenheit). That was brutal. Plus, the mosquitoes! We have been so grateful for any breeze strong enough to blow those little suckers away ... pun intended. 

The garden has grown in leaps and bounds, with regular watering from the sky or from the garden hose if there's no rain in a week. I have harvested peas and radishes, and watched corn, winter squash, and cucumbers grow. Beets? Beans? Not so much... A few came up but the beets are scrawny and the beans are few. We have potato plants, but I think the high heat really scorched them. Plus there were some caterpillars helping themselves to the leaves. No blossoms yet. But all in all, it's coming. And oh yes - one of our young apple trees actually is growing an apple! It's maybe 3 years old so we weren't expecting any fruit this year. So in September, we'll be able to harvest this one lone apple from our Red Nova tree. 

Free pic by Jessica Bolander at Pixabay:
Cucumber growing

Right now, it's really easy for me to stress out about the future. I sent in my application to the Canadian Counselling and Psychotherapy Association (CCPA) for a designation as a Canadian Certified Counsellor (CCC), but these things take time. (I hate waiting, just in case you forgot.) So it's been an exercise in self-care to let go of my obsession with getting everything done and getting moving on opening an office, because I really can't do that before being certified. So, I take one step at a time. One day at a time. I've even made an agreement with myself to NOT check the status of my application this weekend, but to enjoy what is, in the present moment, and not to fret about things I cannot change. 

So, I have been spending time in my veggie garden, learning from Nature, reminding myself to be patient and let things happen, and doing things I enjoy doing. Like blogging for example. ;) And feeling free enough to watch a movie on Netflix with the family from time to time. 

Part of me feels like I'm in a daze ... in limbo ... on hold, and I rail against it, wanting the next part of my journey to kick in. And another part of me says to myself, "So...this is what it feels like to be on vacation. It feels kinda good!" Well, I suppose that within a few weeks or so, I'll be busy enough ... so I guess I had better enjoy these summer days while they last. One daze - er - one day at a time.

That "new car" smell

 You know that experience where you go to a car dealership and they have a nice model in the showroom, and you open the door and sit in the driver's seat? You remember that smell? That new car smell? 

I remember it. It makes me want to drive the car. It's new vinyl, new leather (if you're that rich), clean air conditioning vents, no dust, no smudges, clear windshield ... and the list goes on.

Now, translate that into the experience of a person who is almost at the end of her Masters degree, itching to get out in the world and help people. 

That's me.

Yesterday, as an example of my impatience, I went to see three different spaces that could serve as good offices for a counsellor. Well ... they LOOKED like good spaces. Two out of the three were pretty well duds. But one ... it showed promise. I told the lady that I couldn't  make a decision for at least a month. So if someone came in before she heard back to me, it wasn't fair to make her wait for me. "Go ahead and rent it to that person who gives you the first deposit," I told her. 

Free image by RitaE at Pixabay

Well, at least that scratched my "new car smell" itch. I get it once in a while, mostly when I am impatient or tired of waiting for the next thing to happen. God knows I have this tendency ... and so does my family. I had strict instructions from my daughter NOT to make up my mind that day, that this was just a dry run for the real thing.  

I am so glad I had that thought as I went looking. It took the pressure off. I was able to ask my questions, and hold a mild curiosity instead of an all-encompassing inner push to get it all done in one go. 

I guess I just needed to take my fact-finding skills out for a test drive. And what I found is that there are a number of offices out there that are unsuitable spaces, but you do find that odd gem. If it's still available next month, it would be really nice to practice there. 

However, I'm not in that position quite yet. I still have to finish my degree (2 more weeks and then another 2 until I get my marks!) and then, I will have to apply for  my CCC designation at the same time as I apply for my registration from the soon-to-be-opened College of Counselling Therapists in PEI. One step at a time. 

Part of me still wants to order business cards and such, but I know that I will need a business address and phone number before doing that. I guess that I will be opening sometime in October, not sure exactly when. I will put a rush on my application for my Canadian certified counsellor designation (CCC) so I can at least practice. And I have an action plan for when I receive that. 

It's all laid out, but I'm just waiting for someone in authority to press "Go" ... and at that point, I'll just have one thing to say: 

I'm Open! 

Being Colorblind

I used to say it. I used to think it. I never EVER ONCE, in all my growing-up years and even into adulthood, considered that I might be part of a mindset that unknowingly promotes racism. But I was. And I said it, and thought it.

What did I say? I said that I was colorblind. I said that I didn't see color.

But of course I did. I'd have to be blind not to see color. And what I thought and said about NOT seeing it only further alienated me from the very people I thought I was allying myself with. Because guess what... THEY see it. They see it when they get up in the morning and look at themselves in the mirror. They see it when they try to wait for a bus, reflected in the eyes of those who notice them standing there. They see it when they are outside taking a walk and decide to stand in a building's overhang and wait for a friend to come out.

And for me to say that I don't see color ... discounts and dismisses their experience of the world. It makes them invisible, and let's face it - everyone wants to be seen, to be acknowledged for their existence. The color of their skin is just as much a part of them as having fingers and toes. And their skin color dictates how the world treats them, what kinds of choices they make about everyday things, how they feel about their society, and how they interact with people who are outside of their circle. It is like an insult to them when I say I don't see color.

Photo courtesy of
Alec White at Pixabay

I have learned instead to say, "I see you." I have learned to say, "Teach me about your experience of your culture." I have learned to honestly ask people what it is like to BE them. I have learned to honor the existence and the history of those who are different from me, and to be curious about it, and to celebrate what is different and unique about each individual. I have learned not to assume that just because a person has a particular skin color, that all people who have that skin color feel this or that way, or think this or that way, or act this or that way. They don't. They don't in the same way that not all white people have similar beliefs or lifestyles or political leanings. It does a disservice to everyone to pigeon-hole people based on anything they might hold in common.

While it is true that we all bleed red, that we are all the same underneath, that every life matters, the reality of our society is that people of color are treated and viewed by so many in society as less-than. The reality is that racism is rampant and it runs amok in our world. The fact of the matter is that white people, like myself, have a societal privilege in our western culture that people of color do not. And it is for this reason that I join with thousands and millions of others in saying, "Black Lives Matter."  I don't say "All Lives Matter" because that silences those whose lives don't matter in today's society.

I saw an illustration of equality versus equity a few years ago that has stuck with me. It is a three-part cartoon depicting three people: a tall person, an average-sized person, and a little person, who are trying to watch a ball game from behind a five-foot wall. In the first illustration, the tall person can easily see over the wall. The average person can see but just barely. And the little person cannot see at all. Then there were two illustrations under that one. The one on the left put an equal-sized box under each person. In this illustration, the little person could just barely see over the fence, and the taller ones had an even better view from equally higher-up. This one was labelled "Equality." On the right, in the illustration labelled "Equity," the tall person who did not need a box, was not given one. The average-sized person was given a box tall enough so that he could reach the same height as the tall person, and the little person was also given an even taller box so he could enjoy the game from the same height of the tall person. In this way, each of them could enjoy the game to the same degree.

This is a wonderful illustration of why I believe that those in the dominant culture do not need to be stroked and given special consideration. They already have the privilege of seeing the world without assistance. Those who need help and recognition should get it to the degree that they have been disadvantaged. And the history of white culture has many, many examples of the oppression of other races, especially black people (and yes, this is documented!) throughout the history of our interactions with other people who don't look like us.

From the time I was a little girl of ten years old, when I met a black man for the first time, I have been intrigued by people of color. But what I didn't know then, and what I still didn't know even as recently as ten years ago, was how difficult it was (and is) for those who are not white. We don't even think about the same things as people of color when we think of everyday activities that most of us take for granted. Going for a walk in a quiet neighborhood after dark ... going into a store in broad daylight ... walking the dog ... driving a car with tinted windows ... paying for an item by check ... waiting in the park for a friend ... all of these things we take for granted and never once think that we might not make it home alive. But people of color, and especially black people, do. Every. Day.

If recent events have not highlighted these facts for you, then it might be time to honestly investigate how best to honor people who are targets of racism in your city, in your province or state, in your country. Look for stories told by the actual people themselves, and not by white people telling their story for them.

Listen. And say it with me. Black Lives Matter.

#BLM #ISeeYou

The Long Dark

Ever since I was a child, I have been afraid of the dark. It held unknown things, monsters, the bogey-man, and shapes that in the daylight would never have bothered me. In the dark, though, those familiar shapes transmuted into my deepest fears: being eaten, being buried, being hurt or killed. My dreams haunted me, and when I awoke there was nothing in the dark but those fears. My heart thumped in my chest like a caged animal trying to get out. 

The band-aid solution when I was a child was to leave one of the lights on outside my room (usually the bathroom light), with the door ajar to let everyone else sleep. Yet the fear of the dark followed me into adulthood. 

As I have been "growing up on the inside" the last year or so, one of the things that has been coming to the fore is this fear. I'm finding that somehow, unbidden, it is less than it was. I awaken in the middle of the night and listen - not for monsters anymore, but for the gentle sound of people sleeping, for the furnace coming on to warm up the water in the pipes, and other 'normal' noises in the house. 

Free Image "Northern Lights Aurora"
by Hans Braxmeier at Pixabay

Plus, I am beginning to notice the things that can only be seen in the dark. The stars, the moon, the Northern Lights, these are all invisible at noon in full sun. Slowly I am arriving - I know not how - at the notion that instead of running from or railing at the darkness, I can appreciate the gifts that are available to me at night: the heavenly lights, the odd meteor shower, even the space station if it is overhead. 

I can remind myself that the morning comes. It always comes - whether gray and misty or bright and sunny - the day follows the night.  Being in an atmosphere of acceptance and love, as I have been lately, has a way of bringing with it clarity, purpose, and confidence. And the dark ... doesn't seem so bad now, even if (in the winter) it lasts longer than I would like. I just settle myself down and focus on some small thing - the ticking of the clock, the sound of my husband's breathing as he sleeps, or even my own breath - and before I know it, I'm waking up again, morning has come and the sun is not far from rising. 

Such an attitude helps me when I am waiting for some much-anticipated thing, or when I am undergoing some difficult experience, or when I am sick or lonely. The morning always comes. There is hope. There is something positive even IN the experience, even if I don't know what that is at the time. And I focus on my breath, and I am grateful for the things and the people that are in my life, and the darkness passes. It just does. 

Funny how that happens.

September green

Looking out the window, I see our largest maple tree dancing in the wind, its green leaves reflecting the sunlight and casting shimmers of verdure toward all who watch. Patches of sunlight on the green lawn celebrate the wind and the trees with a shadow puppet show, ever changing with the wind speed and direction. 

In the final days of summer, there is a crispness to the air and a sense of waiting, of hesitation, as if the world of green is not quite ready to admit to the changing of the seasons. My soul echoes that hesitation with a sense of urgency: I want to get out in the sunshine and experience its warmth before the world leans into winter. 

Free Image by PublicDomainPictures
at Pixabay.com

I do so love the autumn (fewer bugs and more colours!), but these last valiant days of summer inspire me to be true to myself to the end, to give of myself and to enjoy each day as a gift - the present, as someone said once - and I find myself reflecting on how to best let that enjoyment play out. 

Truly, I don't know what the next season in my life will hold. However, I can hold onto the image of September green in my mind as I make each choice each day. I can be grateful and make music in my heart for the wonderful gifts the Great Maestro has allowed me to experience: love, friendship, and so much more. I can enjoy those gifts and invest myself in them even more deeply. I can spend quality time with loved ones. I can calm my soul and relax in the goodness of the Creator. I can be inspired to pay forward to the world the light I have received. 

In tender moments like this, I perceive a sense of real communion with creation and with the Creator who has given to me all things to enjoy. It quiets me. I feel peaceful, grateful, blessed, and rejuvenated. 

And somehow, today, I wanted to share that with you.
 

Time To Retire

I have a countdown on my computer. Currently, it says 414 days until I retire. And I remember a time when that number was over double that ... not all that long ago. 

As the weeks and months wind down toward that magical date, I am working hard at keeping my stress in check, because that day also marks for me a day when I can devote more time toward my second career. From the looks of the way things are going right now, that second career may be starting only eight short months after that.  

Free Image by Mabel Amber from Pixabay

And then I might have more say over when I take days off, or how much (or little) I work. I will be able to schedule time for things that - until then - will have been on hold for a very long time. Too long, actually. Horseback riding, golfing, traveling for fun, reading for pleasure, and (best of all) spending time with family and friends will all be possible again. That's the dream, at least. I've missed all of those things, and those who know love me have been very patient with me. VERY. PATIENT. Sometimes I am not sure how they put up with me always looking to dive into my next assignment for school, or with me having to work when their schedule frees up time for them, or with me nodding off when we do occasionally have a visit. What amazing people I have in my life!

It's getting within sight now, this finish line. But it's not really a finish line ... it's more of a starting line where I can walk (or ride, haha) and not run. That will be nice!! 

In the meantime, I need to remind myself frequently that it is time to retire: that is, it is time to schedule regular rest stops on my journey. I have been going at such a break-neck pace, especially since 2013, that burnout is never very far off, and perhaps I need to slow down a bit more. Sometimes, it takes the harsh reality of circumstance to bring me to that place of rest and re-creation.  I hope that I can learn to take the hint sooner rather than later that I need to make time for me and for the things (and people) that/who are important to me. I'm not thirty anymore. Nearly twice that now!!  I need to cut myself some slack!! 

I am so grateful for the ones who know me best and who love me anyway, who take the time to gently suggest that I take the time to look after myself and not run myself ragged. Such friends are hard to come by; I am very blessed to have more than one. 

So - in this time between semesters, I may be looking to reconnect with a few people, and take the time to do things that I like doing. After all, I am the only me that I have. :) 

That first dip

I have aquaphobia. I've had it ever since I almost drowned in a pool incident when I was 13. The feeling of panic of those moments was something I am highly motivated not to repeat. It was the loss of control, the feeling I could do nothing to save myself, that made the experience so terrifying. I have since learned to go into a pool, and although I don't call myself a swimmer, I can at least go into the water - even though I don't volunteer to go.

Photo free, CC0 Commons license from Pexels

It took me many years to realize that I had the same kind of traumatic experience (although much more drawn out over years) growing up in the home that I did. My mother's temper was like this giant wave of unpredictable outcomes for me, and I learned a deeply-ingrained belief that people were going to hurt me. I therefore began to fear them. Especially women. 

So now I am in therapy for the trauma that those years brought into my thinking and feeling, affecting the way I interact with people, how I think about my role and the role of other people in my daily life. And a couple of weeks ago, I took my first dip off the side of that pool into the traumatic memory that has become the signature experience of my childhood, the one that represents all the other traumas I went through. 

I will not lie. It was intense. It was scary. It was uncomfortable. It was a whole host of other things that I can't even begin to name. But my therapist walked me through it and allowed me to keep control of the experience at all times. And I was able to go into that memory and interact with the people in it, especially my child-self, in a way that was healing for me. 

I'm not saying that this one time was a cure-all. It wasn't. But it was a good first step, a way to know that I could bring myself into other incidents, other traumas, and process those things over time with self-compassion and self-care. 

And it was a reminder that change can and does happen. Slowly. 

Whenever I need reminding of that in the every-day, I look at our feral rescue cat, Callum. Cal came to us after having been caught inside the fan-belt of a snowmobile as it sat in someone's field during the summer. That traumatic incident, as well as the traumatizing efforts to rescue him from it, happened to him when he was only about 8 weeks old. He came to us at about 4 months old, after having spent some time at a foster-home. He was still very skittish, sometimes hissing, mostly running away at the first sign that we wanted to touch him or go near him when we were wearing footwear of any kind (especially boots). That was in October 2014. Today, baby step by baby step, he has been learning to trust. And earlier today, for the first time, I saw him close his eyes and lean into my husband petting his head - a huge difference from when he first came to us.

It gives me hope. Hope is such a powerful thing.

My counsellor tells me that as I bring these traumas to the surface and deal with them, I may experience times when the memories come back to me between visits to her office. My job, she tells me, is to be kind to myself when that happens, to use my breathing exercises and my other self-care tools so that I can get myself through these moments, and to not try to go farther on my own.

I can get behind that. I like it that she hasn't thrown me into the deep end of the pool, but has taken it in small steps so that I am more comfortable with the process as we get deeper and deeper in. That's a positive for me. 

I'm even sort of looking forward to my next dip, in that nervous, half-panicked way, because I know she'll be there to steady me. That's a good feeling. 

A Moving Target

Back in 2009 when I first got into therapy and I was learning a whole new (well, new to ME) way of living, I'm afraid I was a little arrogant about it. I thought that I had arrived. How very wrong I was. I had a LOT to learn!

And when my husband and I decided in 2015 to leave the organized church and seek relationships with God and others without the structure of a church family, again, I was pretty "my way or the highway" about it... at least for a while. One would think I would have learned by that time. But no.

Now that I'm in therapy again for something I thought was dealt with (aka buried), I'm not so cocky. Things I thought I knew, I am learning that I have only paid lip service to (plus there were some things that I was completely oblivious to!) And when it comes right down to it, when push comes to shove (so to speak), I revert to the old way of reacting to things that happen, and then I wonder why some people feel uncomfortable around me (or I feel uncomfortable around them). According to my therapist, that's common with people who have experienced trauma such as long-standing child abuse. (Huh. Who knew.)

I want to put that trauma in its proper place instead of being trapped in the patterns of behavior that the trauma has caused. I will need to not only address the abuse, but I will need to learn new skills, like (for example) how to behave in a normal social setting (!!) without appearing aloof, ungrateful, insecure, or not completely present. Old habits will have to die. New ones will have to form.

Clip-art free from http://clipart-library.com/clipart/8c6ozLEri.htm

But the "normal" I thought I was in 2009 and again in 2015 isn't the normal that I hope to be now. 

And more and more I am realizing that normal, as I used to tell my kids, is just a setting on the washing machine. The real "normal" is a moving target. It changes with the situation and with one's level of emotional maturity, which can be at different levels in different situations. Quite confusing! In many ways I feel like poor Wile E. Coyote, trying to catch the Road Runner. There's no catching him. He comes out of nowhere, disappears in a flash of flames, and leaves Wile E. Coyote slack-jawed (and usually injured.) Many times, I am bewildered and overwhelmed by the sheer size of the task ahead.

What is so confusing is the idea that in order to move on, I must "integrate" my experience of abuse into me, make it a part of me, but not be overcome or overwhelmed by it. It seems impossible. All those hurtful words and blows ... well, they are not going to go away. But somehow I need to make meaning (to use a psychotherapy term) out of those experiences and use them and the lessons learned from them to not only get some closure, but also to be able to use them to help others to heal. And that is my goal in this process.

And even though I know a lot about therapy as a grad student studying counseling, I find that as a client, I am just as vulnerable and just as fearful as any client would be about that process. Going through this really gives me an appreciation of how there absolutely needs to be an atmosphere of trust between client and therapist before progress can happen. This is private stuff ... and if I don't feel totally accepted, there is no way I can open up the starting gate and get into specifics. 

But my therapist is doing all the right things to create that atmosphere, to help me look after myself, and to help me find ways to ground myself when I'm stressed. And the next time I see her, she tells me, we will start opening that gate. It won't be for another couple of weeks... but that's okay. Slow and steady is the best way. Which makes me think that if just I sit still and accept what comes, maybe the Road Runner will stop running so fast and come pay me a visit.

Slow leak

A few years back, our car went over an object somewhere and developed a leak in one of the tires. We were not aware of this, but one evening we drove home and parked the car. The next morning we got up and got ready to leave the house, and one of the tires was flat. Just like that.

Further investigation revealed that there was a slow leak in that tire from a sharp object. It hadn't appeared right away after the object went in, but over the course of a few hours, the air just went out of the tire. 

And fortunately, the nice folks at the garage were able to repair the leak. 

I guess I've been going through something similar in my mental health. I thought I was okay. And then I hit this bump in the road and it was rough, but I kept going and thought I could weather it. 

I was wrong. My emotions leaked out until I either felt the wrong ones for the circumstance, or I just couldn't feel anything at all.

Photo by Georgi Petrov from Pexels

It kind of dawned on me last night when I was watching a movie with my family. It was a really good movie, one I had never seen before, and I knew that I should have been moved to tears by it in a couple of places because the story was so compelling and the emotions in it were raw and passionate. 

But that's not what happened with me. It was like the depth of emotion I knew was there (or should be there) had lost its edge and felt blunt or weak. It was the equivalent of an emotional flat tire. 

Psychologists call emotions "affect" (pronounced AFF-ect). And one symptom of depression is what they call "flat affect". Nothing flickers the emotional needle. No joy, no sadness, no anger, no nothing! Life becomes one long monotone. It's flat! Motivation is gone. The silence is unending. The loneliness is real - but even that seems like just a fact and not a tragedy to be mourned. Depressed people can laugh at funny things - but there is rarely any real happiness behind it. We isolate from people because we don't feel like being around them. We don't see the point; why bother?  Everything - even eating or showering - is an effort. It's like driving on a flat tire. It's possible to get from A to B ... but everything feels skewed, the ride is bumpier ... and it hurts the tire even more. Some of us are in quite a mess before we realize (or admit) that we need help.

And there is no easy fix, no patch for the tire, no instant cure-all. Medications can help with the physical part of things, but that is only part of it. The leak has to be found before it can be repaired, and sometimes, the internal damage is too severe, and we need a whole new tire, a whole new way to look at life. And that kind of change doesn't happen overnight. It took a long time to get into this state, and it will take longer than we want to heal from it. And sometimes we need to call a professional, someone who knows how to listen and help us heal.

I wish I could give three easy steps to get rid of clinical depression. I can't. All I can try to focus on is to maintain regular routines in my life that focus on looking after myself, and look for outlets that get me outside of myself, doing things for others. And I take one day at a time. Corny as that sounds, it is helpful because when I stay in the now, it is harder for the mistakes of the past and the worries about the future to jump all over me and give me a hard time. 

I don't know how long this process will take. It will take however long it takes. But I am committed to walking through it and coming out the other side. And in the meantime, I see a professional and I take my medication, and I practice self-care. And most of all, I take the advice of a former manager I had once, and I will be gentle with myself.

Light Enough

It's been about six weeks since my plans for the future hit a major snag (which I talked about a couple of posts ago) and I realized that I needed some help to deal with it all. With my doctor's assistance, I've taken steps toward getting a therapist to help me deal with my childhood issues, and I have also started to take a medication that gives me more energy during the day. 

During that time, I've moved back to my home province, back into my own home with my husband and daughter, and have arranged an updated work-from-home routine that has me going into the office one day a week. I must say that it felt good to go to a work environment where people smiled when they saw me coming, where I felt (and feel) welcome, and where there was a sense of recognition and respect for my talents. 

Photo "Blooming Snowdrops In The Spring" by radnatt at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I'm also looking forward to my upcoming volunteer activities, which I have scheduled to start this coming Wednesday, at a local non-profit organization aimed at helping pregnant and new mothers who are facing challenges (financial mostly, and mostly single moms). Hopefully I will be able to get outside of myself and gain some much-needed face-to-face experience with people in need at the same time. The director of the organization is someone I feel that I can "click" with - she has never been anything less than kind and approachable - an ideal mentor for me. Although it seems a crazy time of year to start such a venture, as the Christmas season seems to highlight the great need of people at risk, I believe that it will give me a sense of doing something that will make a difference to people's lives. And I need that tangible sense of purpose and accomplishment in my life, especially in the beginning of a season that for me is so depressing because it's so cold and dead outside and will remain so for many months. Who knows? maybe I'll even find some Christmas spirit laying around somewhere. ;)

As I think about my future goals, all I feel is confusion. Six months ago, I had it all planned out. I knew what I was going to do, when it was going to happen, and how I was going to get there. Now, I am questioning everything. So finding one thing that I can do gives me a light in a dark place in my life. It's like lighting a candle when the electricity goes off at night. It gives you just enough light to see the next step or two, nothing more. And you need to go slowly or you'll put out the light. But there is light enough for that one or two steps. 

I still have a lot of things to sort out. Having the time to do that without the extra burden of assignments and other school-work has been helpful. I have been doing a LOT of thinking, reflecting, meditating, and just resting. There is much that I just don't know yet. I don't know how long this process will take, or what I will end up doing with my life. All I know is that I need to use these next few months wisely. There have been opportunities for me to consider, and I am weighing these as well. But no major decisions set in stone. 

After all, I still only have light enough for the next step. Once I take it, I might be able to see where the next one will be.

New Pathways

I am treading the last few yards of a familiar pathway. I know this pathway; I have been on it for decades. And ahead, I see all that is not familiar, all those things I have dreamed of but have never dared to imagine could be real. 

It is getting closer and closer the more I step forward. The fear of the unknown is mounting. And then I see signs of safety and security as I move ahead. There is a bridge over a boggy place. It is a sturdy bridge - if narrow - with handrails to guard me and support me in case I slip. 

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The view in the distance is peaceful and inviting, even though I cannot see every step ahead of me. I hear the voices of those who will be my guides into this new territory. Their voices give me strength. I hear behind me the encouraging voices of those who have been with me for years, people whom I trust and who will be supporting me emotionally - even if they won't be there physically. 

My trembling heart steadies itself. Even though I will be alone physically in some ways, I will never be alone in spirit. This fact gives me courage, like the handrail on the bridge, an assurance that my steps will not falter.

I cannot see what the path looks like beyond the next bend. But ... I have solid shoes from my mentors, and a backpack full of training to sustain me, and I know that I will have what I need when I need it, and someone to watch over me in case I stumble. I am ever so grateful for that, because in the path ahead, there will be many opportunities to make mistakes. Just knowing that I will have a guide close by me is comforting. 

I know that I will have some important steps to take in my own personal journey. Part of that journey will be the alone part, learning how to stand on my own two feet and not let others do for me what I can do for myself. A big part of it will also be shedding the baggage of the past, throwing off the coping mechanisms that served me well as long as I was in danger from people who held power over me. Now that I am aiming to be someone to whom people will come for help, I need to get rid of all of those old left-over attitudes and behaviors like the rest of Lazarus' grave clothes. I need to "not be trapped in the patterns my life has set for me" anymore, as Russ Taff sang many years ago. (Okay I just listened to that song on YouTube and ended up in tears - it's been years since I heard it and wow, was it just what I needed!) 

The path ahead will not be easy at times. I know that. However, I believe that it will lead me to a better place, to more secure footing, and to a position where - instead of feeling helpless and dependent on others - I can come alongside and help them instead.

The Empty Cup

It happened so slowly. By millimeters. Over time, the responsibilities piled on, and the stress mounted. Little by little, I would pour myself out into first one project, then the other, and then ... the toll started to get heavier and heavier. 

My body noticed it first; however, my mind had other things to attend to, and I missed those warning signs. Lost sleep, inability to stay asleep. I would wake up tired, sometimes two hours before my usual waking time, sometimes three. More and more often this would happen. My back and legs felt heavy, achy, tired. My feet hurt. I had headaches more frequently. My chemical sensitivities started acting up more. 

As the stress increased, my ability to maintain my weight - or to lose weight - vanished. Oh, not all at once, to be sure, but it became more and more difficult to lose. And incrementally, I started to gain. It was discouraging. But I didn't make the connection. I took on more and more. Life got way more stressful and I couldn't figure out how stuff just piled on.

As it progressed, I became less and less tolerant, more and more impatient. My filter - that little internal monitor that keeps me from saying or doing things to offend people - started to erode, to slip away from me. I couldn't concentrate. My motivation was shrinking. I procrastinated on crucial tasks. I isolated from other people and convinced myself I was too busy to spend time with them. Things got worse. 

And then the work doubled, tripled, overnight. Something I thought I could do, suddenly became a lot harder. I started feeling my age - and beyond. 

I started dreading going to work because it took time away from doing things I no longer had enough time to do. Like homework. The course I am taking in University is the hardest I have ever taken by far - and I feel unequal to the task.

And this morning, I finally broke. On the way to work, I started crying. I was overwhelmed. And I reached out to the only person around my age that I absolutely KNEW had my back: my husband. As I described my symptoms, he became alarmed. He knew - as I had begun to suspect - that I was well on my way to burnout. 

He was right.

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 The saying goes, "You can't pour from an empty cup." My cup had been evaporating so slowly that I didn't even see it was getting low. And now I was looking at the dregs. 

So again, I reached out. I see a doctor tomorrow, and will see a psychologist before the end of next week, hopefully. I approached my boss, who was awesome by the way, and asked for some time off to regroup. I was able to free up some time to look after myself, and to concentrate on my studies for a little while. How long, I'm not sure - but at least now I have options. When I started the day, I didn't think I had any.

Now I can turn my attention to my cup - to start to clean out the sticky crud at the bottom and to fill it with cool, clear water instead.

Now I can get some rest ... and focus on what matters most. To my surprise, I found out that it was ... me.

BE that person!

For many years, I have dreaded Mothers Day. MANY years. I have viewed it as a quintessential guilt trip, an excuse for members of the previous generation to lord it over the younger one and for others to jump on board and make a person feel five times guiltier because she doesn't gush platitudes about her own mother. 

And really, with the kind of upbringing I had - which can only be described as violent - who can blame me? Yet - since having children of my own, I have 'allowed' the celebration of the second Sunday of May ... for their sake. I always felt like a hypocrite about it though, knowing how much I detest the approach of that day and having to wade through all the gushy, mushy stuff on store shelves, social media, and even store flyers.

But my view is changing a little lately.  Maybe it's happened partly as a result of losing one of my children (October 2013). Or maybe it's because I realize that I have been punishing my present self for having had a rotten past.  And guess what? That's not fair.

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I saw a little sign posted in one of the bathroom stalls at work, and its message has been haunting me the last little while, especially with the approach of Mothers Day.  It says, "A great future does not require a great past." 

And as I ponder the approach of yet another Mothers Day ... perhaps my focus is starting to change. As a result, the dread I normally feel is slowly being replaced by ... something else I cannot quite identify yet. What I do know is that I cannot change what happened in my past. I cannot change the fact that I cannot feel what many women my age feel about their mothers, because I did not have that kind of close, trusting relationship with her that my friends had with theirs. 

But I can BE that mother. I can BE that person who engenders trust, love, and loyalty in people, especially in my only remaining offspring. I can BE her because I HAD to BE her for MYSELF. In the last nine years or so, I have had to literally re-parent myself and tell myself all the things she would never have dreamed of saying: that I was worthy, that I was good at things, that I was appreciated, that I was loved simply for being myself.  And I can tell those things to my own daughter - because they're true, and because in the telling of them, I am not diminished, but rather, I grow.

So this year, I am saying this - Happy Mothers Day to my daughter. Happy Mothers Day even if you are NEVER a mother yourself; I hope I have given you the best present I could give you: my love, and my self, in a way that you could understand and take into yourself.

Because I want to BE that person, my dear. Because YOU are WORTH IT.

New Vistas

In my last post, I was about to go to a couple of interviews for practicum placements, and I said that I might have an offer on the table by the end of that interview day.

I did. And I accepted without hesitation!

My university, once I had informed them of the details, was very quick to accept my practicum proposal (12 minutes, no kidding!) and now I am looking at being an intern starting in September 2018. For real. Me.

There is still a lot of work to do before I can get to the first day of my internship, and it will take a lot of hard slogging in between, but in this moment, as I have crested the hill I have been climbing so arduously the last few months, I can see a new landscape opening up to me. I see some of the road ahead. I can almost see what some of the journey will look like. 

Photo "Double Rainbow" courtesy of evgeni deniv at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

One friend mentioned to me, when I was chatting with him the other day,  that after one man climbed Mount Everest for the first time and stood on the summit, he realized that at some point he would have to climb back down again. And that is part of what I'm experiencing as well ... but I also know that I will have help. 

I won't have to go it alone. I will have the assistance of a great practicum supervisor, my professor and practicum advisor, my classmates, my employer, and my family and friends.  Even though I will be living alone for the first time in my life, doing things I have never done before, I will have a support network that I know will come alongside / beneath me and help me to adjust. I'm not worried in the least. 

Funny isn't it.

Next week I will be attending a workshop on the kind of work that I will be doing as a practicum student and the clientele with which I will be working. And then, in the weeks that follow, I will be working with my practicum supervisor to formulate my learning plan so that I can submit it to the university in early June.  After that, I will be taking care of some details that have more to do with accommodations, work arrangements, and transportation, so that I am settled in my "new place" before I show up to my first day at the practicum site. But all that will unfold as it needs to. There is the overwhelming sense that I am doing what I was meant to do - and that events will play out the way they are meant to play out. 

For the moment, I am enjoying the view. And the view, if I may say so, is spectacular...  

Hating Waiting

I hate waiting.

That's probably why I spend so much time doing it, I joke. But the joking is wearing thin right about now. It seems that the last few years, all I have been doing is waiting: waiting for the next university course, the next blood test, the next phone call, the next email. 

It wears me down. Especially lately, now that I am waiting for any word of any agency that is willing to work with me for my counselling practicum this coming September - and while I wait, my university's non-negotiable deadline (for submission of a practicum proposal) of April 30 ticks away. 

It was less irritating as long as I was doing something (like sending out literally dozens of feelers since my best option pulled out two months ago), but I've exhausted every option, receiving rejection after rejection, and all there is left to me is the waiting. And of course there is the "not knowing"... and all that implies. It is hard to get motivated to do much of anything with that hanging over my head. And by "that" ... I mean whether or not I will be even DOING a practicum this year, or postponing it yet another year while the mental health care system in my province tries to figure out what to go do with itself. They (whoever "they" are) say they are crying out for counsellors, but they want trained ones, people who already have their certification. They don't have the space or time to invest in someone who is perfectly willing to help them - because they want pre-qualified people. It's supremely frustrating. 

I have pretty much exhausted all possibilities in my province. I know it is the smallest one in Canada, but still!! Anyway, to that end, I have expanded my search to include sites that are out of province, yet still close enough to allow for relatively easy visiting. I have been looking at apartments for rent in some of these places, thinking that I will need to move away - if temporarily - to make my dream come true. That it has come to this is rather upsetting, but I see no other way for it. 

My friends and co-workers have been very supportive and I have had many suggestions from a lot of people, and I have followed up on each one. However, it has all been to no avail. Either the sites don't have enough work for me (they themselves are part-time), they disagree with my university's requirement to allow recording of some of my sessions for evaluation purposes, or they just don't have the space to put me.

Photo "Opening Door Knob" courtesy of
sixninepixels at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Hopefully, I will be able to navigate these rough waters and come out the other side at least holding onto a life-buoy. it is hard to hold my head above water - and the sense of panic is very real at times. There have been times this last month when I have been so close to giving up and dropping out.

My professors tell me I will rock this counselling world - but they are not here with me to see the state of affairs. My family and friends tell me that they believe in me, and I appreciate that, but my fate lies in the hands of those people who are (pardon the expression) looking for their pound of flesh too. 

I am expecting a call from a couple of prospects (out of province) sometime this coming week. Whether that will result in me obtaining a placement is anyone's guess. I have learned that I need to be flexible, and i have the loving support of my amazing husband and daughter for whatever I will need to do to make this work. I have begun to consider options I never thought I would have to consider, options that scare me half to death. Yet here we are.

So for now, I take a deep breath, take one step at a time, and put one foot in front of the other. I have come too far along this path to stop now ... but it's just that .... I hate waiting.

Unspoken

A year ago today, my world got rocked. 

No, I don't mean in the way that someone made my day or anything like that. I mean, it was rocked. It was hit by rocks, knocked off its moorings, blindsided, and so much so that for weeks, even months, I was unsure of anything anymore. 

I have thought about the experience often since then, painful as it is to do so, and all I can figure out is that I was a victim of - or more likely a participant in - a miscommunication that destroyed a promising friendship. And it all came down to expectations. UNSPOKEN expectations. 

You see, I had planned to stay a few weeks with this person while I was out of town. I was willing to pay for the cost of the groceries I would be using, and I was so grateful for their generosity in offering me a place to stay at less than I would have paid for regular accommodations. 

But, well in advance, every time I would mention or even ask what this person expected to receive, that person changed the subject.   They preferred to joke around - and I could take so much of that ... and then it became so much that I had to just make an excuse and go do something else. And this was before I even got there.

We should have talked. We should have talked about EVERYTHING. 

This person's idea of friendly banter was teasing. I hate teasing. Teasing was always malicious when I was growing up, and I grew to detest it. So when this person started doing this, laughing at me, twitting me about my height and telling me to keep up, and making fun of my Maritime expressions, it didn't feel like friendly banter to me. It felt like criticism at best and persecution at worst. 

So one evening this was happening and I started to react. And I reacted badly. And I said things that were, in fact, malicious. And this person was hurt. That was the first mistake... unspoken expectations. Not talking about what things meant to us, where the boundaries were. 

That night before bed, I apologized for losing my cool and then proceeded to explain where I had been coming from. All this person heard was someone who pretended to apologize and then justified her position. Resentment grew, unknown to me. I thought things would be better. But they weren't. They got cold. Real cold. Real quick. The teasing stopped, but it was replaced by stony silence. And I assumed that the person just needed time to recover. But that wasn't it at all. The individual had made a judgement of me and my motivations based on that person's upbringing ... and not mine.

You see, this person was brought up in a home where if you screwed up, you apologized without excuses, you took all of the blame for everything, and then you moved on, letting everyone be the way they were beforehand.  In my upbringing, nobody ever apologized that way; if there were apologies at all, they happened in the midst of people trying to understand why the other person did what they did. So to this person, my apology (which would have been accepted with open arms in my own family) was suspect, and not to be trusted.

But there was something else, too.  There were other unspoken expectations, and rather than talk about them, this person never even considered that I might come from a different perspective. It had to do with the rules surrounding house guests. In this person's home, everyone - even guests - pulled their weight, and nothing was free. The unspoken rule was that you cleaned up your own mess, you paid your way, and you did it without being asked and without expecting any thanks. To do any less was just plain rude and selfish.

Photo "Girls Looking At Each Other" by Stuart Miles.
Courtesy of www.freedigitalphotos.net

I, on the other hand, grew up in a home where, whenever anyone came to visit, they would offer to help out, and my mom would shoo them away from the kitchen and say, "No, you are guests here. You don't need to do that." If they offered money, it was, "Keep your money. Your money is no good here." So I had the unspoken expectation that hosts waited on guests hand and foot. And if a guest insisted on helping, they were profusely thanked (unlike the family members, who never received a thank you, not. even. once. ... but I digress.) If I (as their daughter) tried to do something on my own, my help was not appreciated, and I was often criticized for not doing it right. So I learned to only help when I was given explicit instructions, because to do otherwise would invite parental anger.

So, back to a year ago.  It only took a few days of staying with this person after the initial misunderstanding when things really fell apart. I was not feeling well, for various reasons, but yet the task of carrying this person's things fell to me and I was never thanked. Not. even. once.  I felt as though I was treated like a slave.  All the while, I felt hesitant to do things like wash dishes and put them away, and I was keenly aware that this was someone else's kitchen and not mine. I didn't feel free to move around, and I was kind of scared of the dishwasher - had never used one of the more modern ones, and wasn't even sure how it opened, or where to put things in it. So I stayed away.  

So of course, this person thought I was an ingrate.  

I didn't know how to pay for things; at the grocery store, they would whip out their bank card before I could even speak - and all the time, resentment built on both sides. 

Each of us felt put-upon. So when the blow-up happened, it happened BIG. 

I won't go into the gory details, but when this person finally confronted me, three days later, there was a list of things that took 20 minutes to deliver... and I was not used to confrontation. I apologized; my apology was not accepted and the person accused me of justifying my behavior because I mentioned not knowing how to help and not knowing what the rules were. I paid the person twice what they had already spent on me in groceries. I did not receive any kind of comment or even a statement that it was too much.

Unspoken expectations.

That evening and the next morning, I tried to chip in and show that I was trying to follow the rules this person had laid out, but it was too late. The cold shoulder persisted. I no longer felt welcome. I was on the verge of tears the whole time - partly because of the experience and partly from lack of sleep. Finally, when they left to do something with their family, I arranged to move out and pay strangers to live elsewhere, like I should have done in the beginning. 

The relationship never recovered.  It took a long time for me to recover from the experience. I was not used to not being believed, not used to essentially being called a lazy, selfish liar, even though those words were never used exactly. It rankled that this person could feel this way about me. And to this day, the memory of how things happened and thoughts about what I could have done differently plague me. And all I can figure out from all of it is that if we had just talked about things without judging each other - if we had just listened to each other without making assumptions - our friendship might have survived.