The Machine

 I remember when my mother got diagnosed with obstructive sleep apnea. She came home with this Machine. It roared like a white noise maker, sometimes "bubbled" - and she put on this mask every night. The first time I saw her with it on, I took one look at the mouth-mask that changed the shape of her profile, together with the black velvet-like straps that held it on, and I couldn't help but think of Bessie the cow with her halter on, waiting to be milked.

 I burst out laughing. I laughed until tears started spilling out of my eyes.

So when I went to the doctor at the end of summer this year, and mentioned to the doctor how tired I was all the time and how I never seemed to get much real deep sleep, he ordered blood tests for me to rule out thyroid and organ function problems, and he also referred me to the local sleep clinic. He informed me that it was likely that I had sleep apnea - and that those people who got treatment noticed an increase in their alertness level, and many of them lost weight because the stress was less during the night from trying to get enough oxygen. 

The blood tests came back normal. I took my sleep study home on September 11, a weird contraption that was a band around my upper chest, a nasal tube like you see in hospitals and an oxygen monitor that you clip on your finger for the night. (The thought crossed my mind, regarding the date, that my own "twin towers" might get hit - that my laughter so many years ago was coming back to bite me!!) To my surprise, I was able to sleep that night. (Preconceived notion of a machine being too intrusive? Gone.)

When I took the diagnostic machine back to the clinic, I picked up a brochure with all the models they had in it, as well as some information about what CPAP is (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) and how the new generation of machines is so quiet. (Another preconception dismissed.) 

A week later I got a call from the clinic with my results. Yes, I had obstructive sleep apnea (OSA), and could I come in on November 27, 2025 to pick up a CPAP machine? I made the appointment and put it on my calendar. Two. Whole. Months? 

The same day, I got a call from my doctor's assistant, who had received my test results and wanted to know if I had any questions. I wanted to know more details. So, I learned that my OSA was moderate, with 24 episodes of apnea and/or hypopnea (there's a word - it means snoring!) per HOUR.

Blink. Blink. Processing.

That night, I  put my diagnosis on Facebook and a dear friend of mine, who also has OSA, commented, "Welcome to the Snuffleupagus club!" I laughed - at least she didn't say the Bessie club... 

Yesterday, after 2 months of counting off the weeks, then the days, I picked up my machine. (Technically it's not mine yet; I have it on a 30-day trial). My appointment lasted an hour. Laura Lee (not Secord) went through my results, asked questions, let me ask questions, and then brought out the Machine - in a smart, black, canvas-looking case. She showed me how to put it together and what to do with each part. The mask was made of medical-grade silicone (so no acne or skin irritation!) and the air supply hooks to a strap that goes over my head; the hose hooks to a 360 degree elbow-joint (made of hard plastic) that allows me to turn over in bed with no problem, and the whole thing is held on my head by a strap that goes under my hair at the back of my head. She turned the Machine on after she fitted me for the mask, and there was no sound. NONE. My tongue went automatically to the roof of my mouth as I breathed normally through my nose, just like babies do! Laura Lee had to tell me the machine was on. I didn't know.

Huh.

I didn't feel suffocated.

Huh. 

I learned that I have to use distilled water in the machine to humidify the air that goes through the mask because the air by itself would dry out my nasal passages and my throat. 

Huh. 

(Note to self - those big bottles of distilled water are soft-sided, so be careful when putting water in the reservoir. I won't say how I found out...)

Finally, bedtime! I kissed hubby goodnight  . . . 

And I turned the Machine on and found a comfortable position. 

Free image from Pixabay!

The next thing I knew, it was 1:00 and I'd been asleep for an hour and a half! I unhooked the hose, went to the washroom, and got back in bed and reattached the hose. Aside from turning over in bed, I slept.

I usually wake up around 10 or 11 in the morning.

This morning I woke up at 7. SEVEN!!  More refreshed than usual (which is NOT refreshed!) And I laid awake with the Machine still on, until about 8 o'clock. 

And I got up.

Huh.

When I checked the sleep summary on the Machine, it told me that I averaged 13 apnea / hypopnea events per hour last night. (Down from 24 in my diagnostic test.)  When I checked my Garmin app (which measures stress levels and heart rate etc., through my watch) my stress levels had gone down significantly from all the previous nights. My heart rate was in the 60s (not the 80s) ... 

Huh! 

My jaw dropped. 

Blink. Blink. Processing.... 

And so begins my journey with the Machine. It's much easier than I thought to adjust to, and I like the results so far! Could this be ... part of self-care?

Huh. 

I go back in a week to get my machine read, and to adjust the flow of the air, as well as to make sure the mask still fits properly. 

But for today, I think I'll go do something else that is good for my self ... maybe get a haircut.

 

Worthy of Love and Belonging*

 * - Brené Brown

Most of my readers probably know that I'm a psychotherapist (aka a counsellor). My practice includes adults age 16 and up, individuals and couples. 

What some might not know is that in training, student counsellors are taught that it is considered necessary for every counsellor to HAVE a counsellor. So yes, I have one. My therapist helps me stay on track personally, holds me accountable for important things I often forget when I am busy. In particular, such things include self-care, which is written into the Code of Ethics of my certifying body. In fact, it's in the very first article of that Code! 

Blossoms - free image from Pixabay

Since seeing this particular therapist, I've been taking more time to do some of the things I let slide before. I spend more time out in Nature, marvelling at the handiwork I see. I reach out to friends and to people that have touched my life in some way, even if just to say thank you (those are powerful words, just saying). I look after my emotional needs. I tell people that I care about how I feel about them. I spend time thinking about any unresolved feelings about past events that may be hindering me, and I work to clear those things the same way I help my clients do the same. (How can I help them to heal, unless I first heal myself?)  I take time to enjoy the relationships I have in my life.

The other day, I was outside on our property. Our pink weigelas are in a riot of bloom, and there is a honeybee hive not far from here. Coming in close to the bush, I could smell the gentle but heady scent of the flowers. And then I saw her. A honeybee had crawled into one of the weigela blossoms. I could only see the back half of her as the flowers are trumpet-shaped. As I watched, I could see her hind end rhythmically going up and down as she drank deeply the nectar that was inside of that flower. Time seemed to stand still. There was only the bee in the flower. And I marvelled at how bees have two stomachs: one for nectar and one for pollen. And I considered in my soul how the bee takes only what she needs to feed her body, and gives the rest to the hive to feed the colony. In so doing, she is nourished to be able to contribute to the good of all, and she tastes the sweetness of what she will give to her sisters at the hive. What a beautiful picture of self-care in the context of a natural care-giver! 

I've carried that picture with me ever since, in my mind's eye. It's okay to gain strength as I give to those who need some of that same strength. It's okay to look after me on a regular basis - it helps me to better help others. 

The secret - and I think the bee knows this instinctively without having to be taught (unlike us humans) - is in adopting and believing in a phrase that Brené Brown uses often: "[I am] worthy of love and belonging." The bee is a crucial member of the hive and knows instinctively her role and her worth. She is listened to when she returns to the hive to tell the others where to find nectar. She is believed. She is respected. She belongs. And ... just so ... in my new and renewed relationships with those who are my equals, I belong as well. I am valued. I am worthy of love ... and respect ... and friendship ... and belonging. That reality brings me such gratitude. 

These are thoughts that have been percolating in my mind lately. And these thoughts are the reasons why I have been reaching out to people who are in my life, letting them know how much I appreciate them, spending time with them, sending a note to connect with them, and realizing more and more that I grow in attachment with others. Not necessarily in a crowd (because that's not my style) but in individual connections with one or two people at a time. As I do so, I get to remember how very rich (not in dollars, but in the depth of those individual relationships) I am. I'm so thankful! 

Always Something

 Life has a way of unfolding in ways we don't expect most times. It seems there's "always something" that happens or that surprises us. 

This time, after two and a half years of being so careful, getting vaccines, wearing masks, and washing hands when others were just not wearing their masks or washing hands, it happened.

My husband tested positive for COVID-19. Almost immediately my daughter and I did rapid tests and tested negative. However, it means that because I am in a position of trust, I must also isolate for 14 days to make sure that I have not caught the virus. And if I have, I must reset the clock and start my 14-day isolation. (I know that's not what the current guidelines say, but my daughter is immuno-compromised and so are some of my clients.)

The busy-ness that I noted rising in my office calendar last week is now put on hold as I contact my clients and reschedule their appointments OR offer them a video session instead of in-person. That's okay; I'm prepared for that.  

Life will always throw things, people, and circumstances at us and the best we can do is to accept, live in the moment and the day, and keep our priorities straight. Priority for me right now is looking after myself and my loves at home. It's all good.

On My Way

 I've been on this journey for a while now. And now, I'm one course away from finishing this program. I'm within sight of beginning a career in counselling. 

After I get my credentials from the soon-to-be-opened College of Counselling Therapists of PEI (CCT-PEI), I will be able to call myself a Counselling Therapist. Until then, I will be finishing my studies, applying to obtain my credentials, and searching for an appropriate office from where to provide services.

I feel as though I have started the last leg of my graduate studies journey, and at some point, that last leg becomes the first leg of my second career. 

I have no rose-coloured glasses here. I know it will be difficult. I know I will struggle at first. Most new business owners do. However, I have my training, I have a few people who want me to contact them in the fall of this year (after I get my credentials) and who will be happy to come and see me as paying clients. And I have word of mouth, which in this province is a powerful thing, for good or ... not. 

Plus, I also have the support of family, friends, colleagues, professors, and the most amazing supervisor. That means that if I have a question about anything to do with the counselling business OR about getting myself unstuck as a therapist, I have someone to mentor me. 

Thinking back to when I first started this blog, little did I know then where that journey would lead me. Random events converged to funnel me in to a decision that I initially made as a back-up plan in case I got fired. (At the time Stephen Harper was the prime minister and public servants were in his cross-hairs!) That back-up plan quickly became my ultimate goal, something I lined up for me to walk into after I retired. 

I retired near the end of September 2020, after the pandemic had ravaged the world and we were heading into the second wave. However, since the Emergency Measures Organization had identified counselling as an essential service, I was able to do my practicum at a local church (thanks to Grace Baptist and Pastor Jeff Eastwood and the elders' board!) for the past 7.5 months. The day after tomorrow, I will see my last client as a student.

It all seems so surreal to me. The idea that in six months, I will likely have my own practice and be seeing clients there ... boggles my mind. Six months! 

I have very little idea what lies ahead. The stepping stones of this journey lead to the other side, but what that shore will look like is a mystery to me. All I know is that this is what I was meant to do, what I was made to do. 

And I will relish every moment. Even if I get my feet wet. :D

 

Releasing

Since I last posted, I put a notice in a local Facebook group and within 48 hours I had 25 clients lined up to see me. Today, I have 31. 

I've been seeing some of these folks the last week and a half. At times I feel like a green rookie; at other times I feel confident and calm. But always I strive to be present for my clients. And if I could pick a theme for the last ten days, it would be Releasing.

There is such freedom in realizing that I am not put on this earth to save the world, to rescue the people that I care about, or to protect people from the consequences of their own choices. When I release the weight of all of those duties (which don't belong to me) and decide to show up for my own life, when I decide to simply be present for people who ask me for help, and to let go of the burden of taking responsibility for other people's outcomes, I experience peace, and I can sleep at night. 

It sounds selfish to put it that way. However, by releasing my grip on things that are not mine to fix, I gain the energy that I need to look after my own needs, and then reach out to help someone else look after their needs.  I remember saying to someone this week that it's like what the flight attendants say in their safety presentation about when the oxygen masks fall from the ceiling of the cabin. They instruct us to put on our own masks first, before helping someone else put theirs on. The reason for this is simple: you can't help someone else unless you have what you need to stay safe - otherwise you'll pass out and both people are in trouble. 

Free pic from www.pexels.com

I've been cultivating this lifestyle of letting go or releasing since I first became aware that the opposite was happening in my life, and that it was driving the people I cared about further and further away from me. I held onto the people in my life with a tight-fisted grip that didn't allow them to feel free or comfortable around me.  When I stopped trying to rescue them, and when I let go of the reins of control over their thoughts and behaviors, I gained a new sense of freedom, and that releasing saved those relationships.  In essence, I allowed them to be who they were instead of trying to make them into copies of me. Rather than feel threatened by their differences from me, I began to celebrate those differences and be grateful for the opportunity to grow as I got to know them better. 

It's an endless journey. I can't say that I have arrived, but I'm better than I was then, and I expect to continue to grow and to show up in my own life, so that I can be there for others.  I'm committed to this process of growth in my own life, and I hope to be able to convey to others how it has changed me for the better, and continues to change me into who I am becoming.  

Quiet

It's quiet in the house. The dog is sleeping, and the only sound is the faint whirring of fans as they cool the room, our computers, and occasionally, the fridge. Plus the sound of my typing. And of course my ever-present tinnitus.

When it's quiet, sometimes my thoughts race as I wonder or even worry about what is to come. Sometimes I do something to fill the void: write a grocery list, play music, anything but be silent in my own thoughts. Other times, though, like this time, I tune into what I'm thinking about and set it aside in favor of experiencing this moment, this one fleeting experience, and enjoying it. I feel the rhythm of my breathing, and I remain present in that rhythm, being grateful for the breath of life. I see patches of sunshine come in their brilliance, and pass behind clouds, hiding the sun's rays in a cloak of water droplets. I marvel at how everything seems so still when the Earth is actually hurtling through space at thousands of miles per hour; it is a miracle that we do not fly off the face of the planet. I tune into my spirit and notice that today, it is content. I am grateful for that contentment.

Photo "Sun Ray Behind Dark Clouds"
by Sura Nualpradid at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Sometimes my husband will comment on something that he has seen or learned, and we discuss it. Time with him, when he is truly present (like now) brings such peace and joy to me. I enjoy his company, which, although it sounds trite, rarely has need for words, but we talk anyway.

I hear the footfalls of my daughter as she awakens to another day. I wonder if she will be in more or in less pain than she was yesterday. She is never totally without it. Once, that realization troubled me deeply, because I had an unhealthy need to fix it; now, I am amazed and inspired by her courage and tenacity. She has taught me about so many things just by living them in her life: acceptance, tolerance, maturity, friendship, and more. I am grateful for her quiet, indomitable and yet vulnerable spirit.

I think about my friends. I am amazed by their patience with me as I have been so busy juggling career and school that I have rarely had enough (sometimes not any) time to spend with them as I would like. I know they support me in my chosen path - which means a great deal to me - and I hope to have a bit more time to spend with them as my work life comes to a close and I can concentrate more on school without that added burden of making a living. I have missed our times of fellowship together. With COVID-19 restricting our movements the last few months, I have become acutely aware of the effects of prolonged isolation even on a confirmed introvert like me. How awful it must be for those who need social contact to feel complete! They must feel like they are running on empty all the time! It firms my resolve to reconnect with my friends, one at a time, even though the chief health officer has deemed that it must be at a distance... so no hugging. 😞

The puppy has awakened now, and is letting us know there is a delivery person at a neighbour's house. The silence is broken, but I am left with a sense of calm and peace that remains with me.

I like that feeling.

Musings from Above the Clouds

(*I initially wrote this post on the plane on July 16, 2019.*) 

So here I am at 34,000 feet somewhere over Manitoba, on my way to Calgary to participate in a 5-day intensive, face-to-face training in Solution Focused Brief Therapy. My classmates are all gathering there, as is my professor, and my first order of business will be to get from the airport to the place where I will be staying – a fifty-dollar taxi ride. Friends have advised me to download UBER to my phone so I have done that. That turns the $50 into something like $30. Not bad! Plus, you pre-pay so there’s no meter running in rush hour traffic, a bonus for me!

I also choose not to avail myself of the Internet on the flight because it costs. So, I am doing this blog off-line, and because I am using a new laptop, I will have to wait until I get back home to upload it. 

Oh well. At least it gives me something to do.

My university is virtual, so it contracts with other places to provide space for their students’ face-to-face requirements. My destination in Calgary is one I’ve stayed at twice before; it is a lovely place with rolling gentle hills, and a garden with a man-made waterfall next to a gazebo. The last time I was there, two years ago, I thought I would not be visiting it again. However, as it turns out, this special studies course became available with a summer institute at the same campus and … here I am, sitting on an ever-increasingly numb bottom and trying to keep my mind active! 

The challenges of traveling to a university campus, three thousand miles away and three thousand feet higher than I’m used to, were daunting at first. But this is something I have done twice before, and I am getting to know how to navigate the airports, taxis, and so forth. I am even thinking of trying out the transit system to shop for groceries! In the meantime, I am saving airplane food to tide me over until I get to a store. As Crocodile Dundee said, “Well, you can live on it, but it tastes like s#*t.”

Image free from Pexels.com

My mind is flitting all over the place as the plane speeds at 550 miles per hour. I wonder what I will learn and whether I will do well at this type of therapy I’m studying in this course, I wonder whether I will like my fellow-students (probably), and I cannot help thinking about my youngest daughter, who passed away almost 6 years ago now. Today, July 16, 2019, would have been her 27^th birthday. She is proud of me for getting my degree, I am sure of it. And I’m only a little over a year away from getting my parchment! But today, my thoughts keep returning to how much I would love to feel her arms around me in one of her big bear hugs, when she’d lift me off the floor – no small feat – in her go-big-or-go-home way. She is my inspiration for continuing this journey.

It’s been a journey for sure, these last few years working toward a career in counselling while finishing up my current career in the federal public service. Working for Canadians behind the scenes has enhanced my desire to help people and to see the good that I do, so I look forward to being able to do that in person after I graduate! Moreover, it’s been a journey in the sense of personal growth. I have learned so much about myself, good and not so good, and I’m working on the not so good parts. I have found an amazing therapist and she and I are working through some family-of-origin issues together. I am so thankful for her kindness and her faith in me. 

I would have given up in discouragement long ago, if not for the support and love my husband and daughter have shown me. They take up the slack, run errands, share in the cooking and cleaning, and tell me on a regular basis that I will nail this and be a great counselor! What a great blessing they both are! 

My friends and colleagues also have been nothing but supportive. Aside from one close friend who told me I would have to grow a thick skin (haha, he knows me well!) everyone has been amazing. My sensitivity to people’s feelings has stood me in good stead so far, and I have learned how to take constructive criticism and also to recognize when someone is being domineering. I’m learning how to stand up for myself without getting angry and flustered. I have learned simple tasks I never learned as a child: how to apologize, how to make conversation with people, and how to accept people who are different from me and who hold different views than I do. Those are important lessons, learned (as usual) the hard way. The road has been steep at times. However, I think I am beginning to come into my own, as they say. Confidence is starting to grow again, and I trust that it will do so even more as I get closer to graduation! 

As I look past the next hurdle (passing this course!) and to September, I realize that my first day of my 8-month practicum is only a little over seven weeks away, and I am both eager and nervous to start it! I think, though, that the nervousness is only natural, given that there is a great big “unknown” out there in practicum-land. I’ll be working three days a week (unpaid of course) as a counseling intern at a local church. That in itself does not seem strange, but I must chuckle at the irony of me having a practicum at a church, when I left the formalized church five years ago and have been pursuing fellowship with other believers on an individual basis (not in a church building) ever since, no looking back. So, part of the situation feels a little weird. The other thing is that my supervisor is an external supervisor to meet the requirements of the university (a Master’s degree in a counseling-related field with at least four years of post-Master’s experience in counseling) as there is no one at the church who meets those requirements. And to top it all off, she self-identifies as an agnostic … and the majority of my clients will be church people! (Oh yeah, the Almighty has a really cute sense of humor!) That said, neither she nor the pastor have expressed any hesitation about working with each other (or with me) for my benefit. Bonus! 

At the same time, starting in September, I will also be working two days a week at my job. It will be … interesting juggling the two.  It will definitely be a charged schedule, as I also take a practicum course (with readings and homework and all that) during the same time frame. So, I can foresee needing to spend lots of time doing self-care! I might even blog once in a while… aren’t you lucky! 

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.

Echoes in Time

They come back to haunt me at the most inopportune times. The words I heard in childhood sabotage my present, insidiously creeping in and making me believe that I am "unworthy of love and belonging", as Brené Brown describes shame. 

Shame was an almost constant companion for me when I was growing up. Almost everyone chimed in. My brothers, my teachers, my peers, and my mother - especially my mother - used shame as a teaching tool. 

It worked. It worked to make me ashamed of who I was. It worked to make me feel bad for existing. It made me doubt my abilities, change who I was to make someone - anyone - like me, and lowered my standards on who I hung around with. I didn't feel as though I was worth anything more than to be with people who would use me. So that's who I attracted. 

I found this pic on pixabay.com
for free!

The echoes haunt me in my dreams - usually in my mother's voice.  

"Come over here, stand up and show us all the height of laziness."  (She usually said this when we had company.)
"What in the world were you thinking? don't you know ANYTHING?"  
"Don't you DARE say that - they'll think we're poor!" (We WERE poor). 
"How do you expect to clean those dishes in cold water?" (The water was as hot as my tender child hands could stand). 
(After I cleaned the dishes and wiped and put them away) "You didn't wash off the table."
"No you may NOT climb that tree! Nice girls don't do that!"
"What are you doing still eating? You should have been done five minutes ago! Get over here RIGHT NOW and help me with the dishes!"
"Take that red shirt off and go put something decent on you! You look like a streetwalker!" 
"Don't wear black like that - it makes you look like a witch!" 
"What do you have on your face? Powder and paint make you look what you ain't..."
"Just wait until I get my hands on you! I'll beat you within an inch of your life!"

As a child, my dreams were filled with images of monsters lurking in the dark, coming to devour me; I could not escape them. I woke in panic often, and the familiar shapes of clothing hanging up in my room - in the dark - seemed transformed into horrific faces ready to jump at me if I approached. It took all my courage to walk the twenty feet to my parents' room and stand there in the doorway waiting for permission to enter. When she acknowledged my presence and I said, "Bad dreams" ... she always wanted me to climb over behind my father. "You kick the stars off the moon."  Pinned between my father and the wall, in spite of his snoring, I felt safe and I was able to sleep until morning.

It wasn't until many years later that I realized where the dreams came from, and that I had actually awakened from the monsters in my dreams and walked to their source in the waking world to ask her for help. I was one messed-up adult. Clearly I needed someone to mother me. I had spent nearly thirty years of my adult life looking for such a person. I would "overshare" constantly, looking for validation, acceptance, acknowledgement that I was worthy.  So many people turned away from me during those years. It was too much for them, and rightly so. Still others took advantage of that dependence and tried to control my life. They did not care about me, but only wanted to feel powerful. I wondered if I would ever be free of those echoes - the ones that told me that I would never amount to anything, the ones full of self-doubt and self-condemnation. I thought that I could find someone eventually who would love me the way a mother should love her daughter. Unconditionally.

I also found this pic on pixabay.com - for free!

Little did I know that the person I had been seeking this whole time was - to my great surprise - myself. When I was ready to face the monsters (and believe me, THAT took decades!), and got some help from a counsellor, I discovered that I could tell myself the words I needed to hear echoing in my mind instead of the ones that had followed me since childhood. 

I needed to hear those good words, those kind words, spoken gently to the small frightened child still within me. 
"You are worthy."  
"People can like you for exactly who you are; you don't have to change for them."  
"You can do this. You can do anything you set your mind to doing. You are smart, and loyal, and caring, and you are worth getting to know."  
"What happened all those years ago was not your fault."  
"What matters is that you try. You don't have to be perfect at everything."
"I believe in you."
"Here, let me hold you close - no reason - just that I love you."
"It's okay to take your time and eat. The dishes can wait. They are not going to sprout legs and walk away."  
"It's okay to ask for help if you need it. People who love you won't mind helping you if you get stuck." 

Occasionally, I still have to remind myself of those new words, and let them echo in my heart and mind to drown out the voices of the monsters. Fortunately, I have the tools I need to do that, and the support of my best friend in life and love, and the encouragement of the lady who made me a mom. I also have some pretty amazing friends, more than I ever thought possible.  

I am so blessed.  I am so loved.  And I have learned - as difficult as it's been - to start to love me too.

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.

I got this image free from Pixabay! Check them out at
https://www.pixabay.com

 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.

The Last Person

I started a transformation journey in 2009. Part of that journey was learning that other people (and that I) had boundaries, and that nobody had the right to cross those. Nobody. And, that in some cases, even with the other person's permission to do just that, it's not a good idea.

But one of the hardest facets about this journey - and it has many facets, like any jewel - has been learning self-care and self-compassion.  I tend to be way harder on myself than I am on others.  As my expectations of other people have lowered to reasonable levels, you'd expect that my expectations of myself would also decrease.  Mmmm, not so much.  If I hit anything less than perfection, I am the first to criticize myself and beat myself up inside over not living up to how well I wanted to do something. So learning self-compassion has been ... shall we say ... a process rather than a destination. I get better at it, then slip back, have to learn the same lessons over and over, and eventually, the marker for "normal" moves a millimeter.  It's progress, but to me it seems glacially slow! 

So, sometimes I have to force myself to do things for myself that I would not hesitate to do for a friend. In fact, Dr. Kristen Neff said something in a video I saw this past summer that stuck with me. She said something like this : if you wouldn't treat someone you loved and respected a certain way, then why would you treat yourself that way? Being compassionate toward yourself, she said, connects you with humanity because as you give yourself a break when you make mistakes, you can be more compassionate toward others when they mess up. (For more information on this, visit www.self-compassion.com ... somewhere on the site are the videos I watched; each one is about 10 minutes. 

Photo "Mirror" courtesy of Arvind Balaraman
at www.freedigitalphotos.net

And self-compassion goes hand-in-hand with another similar term that I've been learning about too: self-care.  Self-care can be just as much doing nice things for myself as it is in not doing (or saying) bad things to myself. So it can include staying away from individuals, groups or situations that are bad for my (mental and/or physical) health, but it can also mean taking steps to look after my needs for sleep, nutrition, and activity, among other things. Lately, I have been taking time out for myself - not to "do" anything in particular, but just to recharge and to follow that old McDonald's slogan: "You deserve a break today..." I don't always practice this, but I find that if I don't, I end up being more irritable and more overwhelmed by the basic day-to-day of life. I cannot give away what I don't have. And so, I need to cultivate a friendship with the last person I expected ... me. I need to be my own friend.

That flies in the face of everything my own culture drummed into me when I was a child. Others first. Self-sacrifice. And as noble as those things sound, I have found them to be fundamentally flawed, because I used to live like that. I was the last person to eat, the last person in line at the store because I would let others go first, the last person to speak up or to speak out.  And by the time I got around to looking after myself, there was nothing left, and there was no energy left in me ... and I just didn't. Or I took the leftovers of what everyone else didn't want. And I got more and more stressed, resentful, and burnt out. 

When I started giving myself permission to look after me first, lo and behold, I had more energy to give to others, and my stress and resentment went way down! It amazed me how that worked. Instead of becoming more selfish, I became more able to be there for someone who really needed me when the time came, less distracted by my own needs and more able to concentrate on theirs. (Huh. How 'bout that.) 

Moreover, I found that I was better able to accept others' care for me instead of brushing it off and saying I didn't need it. Quite effectively, that gave my loved ones the gift of being able to pour into my life, a gift I had been denying them by trying to be too self-sufficient. And I've been learning that when I accept their care for me, and say "Thank you," I give them the added gift of feeling pleased because they had made a difference in my life. Because they love me. And that is so amazing to the last person who would have expected it: me.

Quiet

It's quiet. But this time, the silence feels different than at other times.

I remember other times, other moments, even other places. For example, a week ago, as I was sitting in my dormitory room in Calgary, Alberta, with my roommates gone for the day and me finishing up breakfast, the quiet was deafening. I felt isolated, alone, trapped. I was thousands of miles from everyone I held dear, eating breakfast alone without their company, without their laughter and conversation, making do with my keyboard tray and my laptop as a makeshift table, and feeling incredibly homesick. Tears began to sting my eyes as they rose to the surface. 

Of course, it wasn't as bad as one time (one very LONG time) when I felt so very alone. My youngest child had died and the funeral was over, and the sympathies from well-wishers had tapered off, and I was (yes) surrounded by my closest family and closest friends ... but knowing that the tick, tick, tick of the clock would never again be interrupted by her raucous laughter or her crazy antics ... made the quiet an open sore.  I wanted to play the last video she sent to me just to hear her voice again, but it made my family sad, so I sat in the quiet - the cruel, taunting quiet - and suffered loss that no parent should suffer. 

A few days previous to the breakfast incident in Calgary, a classmate took me to "see the Rockies" - we drove up to Canmore, Alberta, (see my previous post) and I was increasingly in awe of the indescribable vastness of these wondrous creations, the closer we got to "The Three Sisters" peaks. Even though most of the time my classmate chattered away, in the core of me there settled a blissful quiet, where I was able to commune with my baby girl because she had seen the Rockies this close too, about a month before she died. It was somehow a shared experience, and in the inner quiet ... I felt close to her in a way I had not felt for a long time. And I knew she knew it, and that she was deliriously blissful and at Home, more than she ever could have felt here. I knew that she was okay, that her restless, anxious days were done. Happy tears slipped their way past my lower eyelids and slipped unhindered down my cheeks.  The quiet healed me, soothed me, comforted me. 

A black squirrel - July 19, 2017,
on the Mt. Royal U "Lincoln Park"
campus,Calgary, AB.
It nearly blended in
to the tree trunk...

A hare munching on fragrant white
clover, July 20, 2017

In Calgary this year, there were also times during the ordinary hustle and bustle of the day, when I sought out the quiet and made it part of my day; there, I could recharge my emotional batteries and gain strength to face whatever task was ahead. There was a lovely park on campus where I would linger either on my way to or from class, and sometimes both... being there seemed to restore my soul. Perhaps it was because it was so beautiful. I watched the water from the man-made waterfall tumble over the rocks and land in a little pool, close to an arbour with a little park bench inside; I smelled the roses and drank in their striking fuchsia, bold musical tones that sang to my eyes and caressed my nostrils in the breeze.

I was particularly drawn to the wildlife in Alberta. I got to see some amazing creatures there; to the locals they were a dime a dozen, but to me, they were remarkable: magpies, gophers, and hares abounded. Even the squirrels were different than at home: larger, and black instead of reddish-brown. They were fast too, so I was pleased to get a photo of one (see above, left). The quiet they produced in me was tender, almost a communal feeling. I felt somehow at one with my surroundings. It made being far away from home not quite so lonely. 

But the quiet today is different still.  It is a calmness, an assurance that all is right, that I am where I am supposed to be, that my family is not far away, and that I can rest and relax without worrying. I can close my eyes and know that when I open them, I will see the familiar - the jumble of cat toys and pillows, my books and papers, and the occasional cat walking across the floor or playing in an empty cardboard box. 

I like this quiet best of all.

The View from Behind the Mask

I don't know if it's that people are just tired of winter and want something to pick them up emotionally, or whether they are wearing less bulky clothing on some days and are wanting to celebrate, but lately I have been wearing my mask a lot more. Those of you who follow my blog know that I have multiple chemical sensitivities (MCS) and that my sensitivities (not allergies: worse) are to the kinds of petrochemicals that exist in all sorts of scented products from shampoo to antiperspirant to laundry detergent to room deodorizers. I could go on and on about what scent is, and repeat myself (ad nauseum) that it's not the "smell" but the "chemical" that I am sensitive to ... but I'll spare you that rant today.

Today, I am just pondering and interpreting the looks I have been receiving just because I refuse to be made sick any more by the invisible clouds left behind by people who have no clue of the havoc their cleaning / cleansing / moisturizing products cause. 

For example, I went to a meeting yesterday with a bunch of people, most of whom respect the scent-free policy at work.  Then this one person walked in and sat across from me.  Within seconds, the tissues in my eyes started to swell up, I started to get a headache and lose concentration, and I would have had disorientation and memory loss if things had continued. So, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my trusty mask and put it on, fitting the upper metal band to the bridge of my nose. I had to sit for the entire meeting (over 30 minutes) breathing through this thing, which filtered most (but not all) of the chemical out. It was rather amusing (but not really) when I saw the looks on people's faces. 

My manager was there, and since she and I had talked about this problem before, she just minded her own business.  But others were rather unprepared and most averted their eyes, as if I had some sort of big zit on my face and people were too polite to point it out.  A couple of people were shocked; however, nobody said a word or asked me why.  The lady whose chemicals had made it necessary for me to use the mask did not offer to move, but looked decidedly uncomfortable. But instead of leaving to go to my desk and phone into the teleconference, I persisted in this overt display of self-care, and at the first opportunity to leave after the meeting was done, I left. Once across the hall, I could remove the mask and all was well. Well, sort of.  I was "off" - feeling not quite myself - for the rest of the day, so much so that one of my team members told me four hours later that I looked like I wasn't feeling well. (Sighh.)

Image "Female Doctor Wearing Surgical Mask"
courtesy of stockimages at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The mask is a stop-gap measure until I can leave whatever situation is causing me distress. It is not a perfect solution.  A perfect solution would be for people to educate themselves about fragrance-free options ... but I digress.

I thought about people's perceptions to my mask again this morning as I sat in a walk-in clinic waiting room, waiting to have some blood work done.  Someone was in the lineup with me who was "using product" as I call it, leaving behind pockets of scent. Out came the mask.  Once I had my turn and sat down, every patient who came around the corner into the waiting room saw me wearing the mask.  The reactions were anything from alarm (she has H1N1 or something), to pity, to double-takes and then confusion when I turned out to NOT be Asian. (Where I live, many Asians wear masks in public to protect themselves from others' germs.)  The best reaction, though, was from a little girl.  She was perhaps 5 years old, and came in with her mother, standing in line beside her to see the receptionist.  She caught sight of me, and stared at my face, unashamed, curious, with a questioning look on her face.  I met her gaze and smiled under my mask, and she could see my eyes crinkle.  She relaxed, gave a little half-smile back to me, and amused herself with other things.  

She could see the humanity behind the mask.  Many others could not.  If we had been alone, with nobody else around, she probably would have asked me why I was wearing a mask.  I don't mind that question; I welcome it.  What bothers me is the fear and the ignorance combined with suspicion and sometimes even disgust. That is uncomfortable for me (and no doubt for others too!) 

I wish I could tell or show people what it is like to have MCS.  I don't like having to wear my mask.  I don't like being a public spectacle.  I don't like the moist, sweaty feeling inside the mask when I am forced to wear it just to be able to breathe without getting sick.  But I like being sick even less.  And maybe, someday, that mask will open a discussion with someone who will finally understand how debilitating this disease is and who will be motivated to do whatever is necessary to allow me to NOT wear it. 

I have been given a lot of advice about this illness. Go to this naturopath. Take that allergy medication.  Allergy medications do no good; in fact, they open my nasal passages so that more toxin enters my bloodstream and causes neurological symptoms (headache / migraine, brain fog, disorientation, dizziness, muscle weakness, even an inability to speak more than a couple of words at a time, etc.)  And while I understand that naturopathic doctors can help, I am taking a supplement, prescribed by a specialist, that acts as a bounty hunter in my bloodstream, taking those free radicals captive and delivering them to my bladder to be eliminated.  The only problem is, they keep getting put into my bloodstream by those chemicals people use to make themselves (or their clothes or their houses) smell good or to keep themselves from smelling bad.  And it's not like there aren't fragrance-free options out there.  (Hint: choose "fragrance free" and NOT "unscented." It's not the "smell", it's the CHEMICAL. Plus, not everything that says it is "pure" is fragrance-free. Just saying.)

The view from behind the mask sucks, really.  I would love nothing better than to be rid of the need to wear it.  However, I know people who are way worse off than I am, people whose symptoms are far more severe than mine, who suffer from MCS.  If my mask helps to raise awareness so that even one person refrains from wearing or using chemically-scented products, then I'll wear it ... because it will have all been worth it.

The right to take up space

Some time ago, I was watching a comedian on television do his routine.  Comedians are sometimes the only people who can get away with telling truth because they tell it in a funny way (they hope). This comedian's name was Greg Rogell, and the line I remember most is when he started talking about golf and golf caddies. "Golf is the only sport that comes with a slave." He then started to demonstrate. He held his microphone like it was a golf club, made the classic golf swing with it, and then dropped the mike on the floor and walked away.

While that was funny, Mr. Rogell was also highlighting an attitude that exists not only in golf, but in everyday life.  Some people, for reasons that still mystify me, have a really hard time with the simple concepts of saying Please and Thank you.  If someone puts themselves out to help them, especially if that putting out is physically or psychologically hard for them, you'd think that "thank you" might be on the list of things to say.  Treating people with courtesy, respecting their personhood, would seem to be a basic skill.

But no. Instead, such people are more likely to find fault with something else that same person is NOT doing, but which they never said they expected. Since different people have different priorities, it is impossible to read minds; expectations need to be stated at the outset, even if it might seem like a no-brainer.  For example, I'm more of a sit-and-visit kind of person; the housework can wait.  For others, housework is this huge thing and they can't sit and visit until it's out of the way. So my sitting and visiting is like laziness to them, perhaps even inconsideration. Yet their refusal to sit and visit until the housework is done tells me that things and appearances are more important to them than friendship and spending time with people. Dishes don't have feelings. People do.  

And yet, who is it that apologizes when the topic comes up? Typically it has been me - because no matter which way you slice it, for whatever reason, I usually end up looking like the one in the wrong... and I have been cow-towing to guilt trips my whole life.

All of my life, I have been fighting for the right - taken for granted by most - to take up space in the world, to be appreciated, and to own my own feelings and opinions without being told (verbally or non-verbally) that they are insignificant. Or wrong.  Or whatever other negative adjective you might want to use.  I'm uncomfortable with confrontation, and my natural response is to withdraw or feel bad for friction existing between people - even if I'm not one of those people. The fact that it exists makes me feel and act guilty.  I lose sleep. I get far more upset for far longer than I need to. Often, I feel like if I screamed at the top of my lungs to be heard, nobody would listen anyway; even if I have something important to say, a large part of me doesn't believe anyone will pay attention to it. 

Photo "Businesswoman Asking To Stop" by imagerymajestic at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Maybe (and I know that this is a rather big logical jump for some) maybe a big part of it has to do with the fact that I'm under five feet tall. Not being taken seriously because of my height, not having my short legs taken into consideration when doing tasks that take an average-sized person about half the number of steps it takes me, and being twitted (or laughed at) for something over which I have no control, is one of those sore spots with me, because I've had to put up with it all of my life.  

People do it without thinking of the consequences, and they think that by doing so they are funny, or somehow superior.  As if it is by some accomplishment of theirs that things are easier for them (when it is simply a fluke of DNA), they criticize (or laugh) and tell me to keep up. (By the way, these are the people who treat me like a slave without saying thank you...)  Or they laugh and tell me to stand up (when I'm already standing.) Or they worry out loud (like someone did once), when I drop a few pounds, that I'll "disappear."  One person even looked past me and asked where I was ... pretended he couldn't see me.

Ouch!  That behavior and those kinds of statements convey dismissal of my existence and (knowingly or not) they are an attack on my worth.  They reduce all that I am down to what I look like on the outside, and they fail to acknowledge accomplishments that a regular-sized person would be proud of and never would expect to have called into question. Yet it happens to me all the time! Because of that patronizing "I'm better than you, and you don't even have the right to exist" mentality, this kind of belittlement (no pun intended) really hurts. 

In the past, I wouldn't say anything when people treated me this way (or worse yet, I would try to laugh it off), but all that succeeded in doing was (a) send the message that I was okay with it, and (b) make my resentment grow and grow so that finally, I would explode - and not in a nice way.  Someone would invariably get hurt.  And then I would end up looking like the bad guy.  After all, they were "only having fun." Or worse yet, they considered their fun-loving nature (read here: cruelty) to be part of their personality, and took my affront to their unthinking behavior as a personal attack against them.  Suddenly they were the injured party.

Wow. What is worse, I would beat myself up for weeks, months, sometimes even years, for something that at the source, had more to do with someone else's thoughtlessness and insecurity than it did about my reaction to it. It's what kept me in abusive relationships with some people for far too long.

So I'm looking at things a little differently now.  I am telling myself that I have a right to take up space, that my feelings and opinions matter and are valid, and that I have the right to tell someone who is behaving like a jerk toward me that they're behaving like a jerk.  I have the right to expect an apology from them, (not the other way around) and I have the right to require them to be accountable for their actions, to realize that they can't just say any old thing they want to and to blazes with the consequences.  I have the right to be angry when that happens, to work through that anger and to take the time that I need to do that fully before moving past it and on with my life, with - or without - them.  

Maybe someday soon, I might even act on those new ways of thinking. 

Stranger things have happened.