Fighting the Tide

I was challenged to give an alternative spin to this post and I thought it would be an interesting thing to attempt. So, I'm taking up the challenge...seeing how these things affected me, who it led me to meet, what it taught me, how it made me what I am today. But because that original post contained a lot of info, I am breaking it down into separate bits.

• I took a puppy home from this lady with a free sign, and a sad look in her eyes, which I took as foreboding, without asking my mother. Though originally reluctant, my mother gave in. We called him Sully (short for Sullen) and I fed him with a bottle, and he slept in my lap with a ticking clock...the only way he would sleep. He was my best friend, and we went everywhere together and experienced a million adventures. He was the only one around when my mother suffered her strokes, and he whined and barked until he managed to rouse her, saving her life. He lived 12 happy years.

• I grabbed a metal toaster with both hands before I understood that it would burn me badly. I learned to tread cautiously, instead of rushing headlong into things. My hands eventually healed, and my dad eventually stopped panicking.

•  I watched a pit bull destroy an entire hutch of rabbits.Hard to find the good in this one really...but I instinctively understood that not all dogs would behave this way. And there is a possibility that as I gazed at the brutal mess that my interest in animals and animal behaviour only grew.

•  I stood feet away from a rabid red fox that stumbled close to the farmhouse while my mother screamed my name. I wasn’t afraid standing there with it. I felt awed and sad, and while I knew enough not to approach it, I somehow knew that with the vacant look in its eyes, and the way it stumbled, I could outrun it should it decide to attack. It didn’t. Later I would have the opportunity to help stop the spread of rabies.

• I took out my aggression by joining in a group of bullies that terrorized one poor kid. We gave him wedgies and hung him on the fence by his underwear. His name was Paul. He struggled very badly with ADHD, and it was as though he wore a big bullseye on his chest. Every single day, he’d be swarmed by 8 or 9 kids. He never really gave in to what was going on. He was proud, and never gave up. Later, when I would realize how much of an ass I was being, I would apologize to him. Instantaneously he forgave me, this extraordinary kid. I learned then what courage really was; and the strength in both asking for forgiveness, and in forgiving.

• At age 11, when my nana was dying, I whispered to the stars that it was okay for her to let go now, so she could stop hurting. I wasn't surprised that she died later that night. I never went to her funeral. 

  My Nana was my favourite person in my life. She had a special soft spot for me because I was named after a friend of hers back in Scotland. She’d buy this huge bag of cheesies and make up little ziplock bags for each of her great grandchildren whenever she would come to visit. Every single time. She never really got sick, though she was a chain smoking tough little scotch woman. I gloried in her accent. When she was 91, she fell and injured herself. Shortly after that things got bad fairly fast. Her body just did not want to heal, she developed pneumonia and was in a lot of pain. When my mom went to visit her, she told me that Nana had been like a different person so she was glad that I hadn’t come to visit (also my choice). She was on high levels of Morphine and in a lot of pain. No one could understand why she was still alive. No one. Except I knew that she was waiting for me to say goodbye to her. I knew it. And so I stood at my bedroom window and whispered out into the dark starry night that it was okay for her to let go, so she could stop hurting, and that we would all be okay. She died shortly after that. I didn’t need to go to the funeral because I had already said  goodbye to my Nana.

Last night, the rains came. If you live on the West Coast, you will understand what this means without me having to elaborate. All through the night I listened to it pound against the roof. Under the soft glare of the streetlamp, it bounced and ricocheted off the ground, flooded the street, ran in swirling rivers. All day it continued to pour, bringing with it heavy winds. You cannot escape the water, the flooded roads, massive puddles. There is a damp chill in the air, and in the layers of clothing you wear, because no matter how hard you try, it is impossible to stay dry. It is supposed to continue all week long. It means that winter is officially here.

Right now, just now, it is beautiful. In the terrible torrents and howling winds, there is a grace. It won't always be like this. The rains will continue, and the damp clothing, and the chill that seems to settle into your very bones. And always the unyielding darkness. And as the days, weeks, months pass it will grow tiresome, and the weariness will settle into your soul. But just now, in the soft glow of the streetlamp outside my window, it is awesome, and powerful and breath-taking to watch. It is everything and more. 

I am slowly drowning in a transparent sea.

I know it to be true because the world around me carries on, unaware. Sunrise beckons, the dogs nudge me gently, outside the air is crisp and there is a scent of rain whispering in the wind. I go about my day as I am supposed to. The schedule, always keep to the schedule. Breakfast and lunch are bypassed in exchange for lack of appetite. I go to the gym, or to a power walking group, depending on the day. I exercise until I am soaked with sweat, my stomach heaving with exertion, my heart pounding. It is only in these moments that I am okay. When I know that I am alive, and I am okay, listening to the blood pounding in my ears, and for that hour, with the adrenaline coursing through my body, I am neither manic, hypomanic, or depressed. I simply am.

It is when I stop that the ride begins. This last week I hit a brick wall so hard that I almost broke my left hand, and still dont know the extent of the damage. I don't remember it, didn't feel it, have no idea why it happened. The next day my heart jumped into my throat and my body seized with panic at the sight of my credit card, lying there unassumingly on the table; racked up with things I couldn't afford, in the blink of...how long this time? An hour, more?  And a bill that made my stomach knot. Yesterday I spent three hours sobbing in the bathroom, where I had run the hottest bath that I could possibly physically stand. Sobbing for what? I don't know. Overcome with such grief and remorse and utter desperation, a tsunami of emotion that no amount of heat could boil and wash away clean.

At the clinic, with the kids, I fill their bellies, and listen to their troubles. They are so much more than mine. Addictions, pregnancies, homelessness, mental illness, abuse. All bundled into children, really. Amazing individuals that inspire. They are brave, and strong. To survive on the streets you must be strong. It manifests in so many ways, this pretense of strength. I do not tell them that I see the raw cowering child behind their bravado. That I know it because mine looks the same. Malnourished, vacant eyes, huddled and shivering. One youth asks why I have to visit the Dr. so frequently. I fix her eyes with a stare, laugh carelessly and proclaim "Well, I'm nuts." She looks back, shrugs her shoulders and answers "You don't look crazy to me." And I know that she is right. The world carries on, unaware, and I? 

I am drowning in a transparent sea.

I kind of liked this list over at Schmutzie's. And I felt sort of compelled to write my own. It was scary and hard, but here's to airing everything in public.

I took a puppy home from this lady with a free sign, and a sad look in her eyes, which I took as foreboding, without asking my mother. I grabbed a metal toaster with both hands before I understood that it would burn me badly. I watched a pit bull destroy an entire hutch of rabbits. I stood feet away from a rabid red fox that stumbled close to the farmhouse while my mother screamed my name. I took out my aggression by joining in a group of bullies that terrorized one poor kid. We gave him wedgies and hung him on the fence by his underwear. At age 11, when my nana was dying, I whispered to the stars that it was okay for her to let go now, so she could stop hurting. I wasn't surprised that she died later that night. I never went to her funeral.  I swam in the wrong part of the river that ran through my grandma's farm and came out covered in leeches. I went on a stealing jag, and only stopped after I stole a picture book from a church, and too afraid to give it back, I threw it in the trash. I disappeared down this overgrown trail and stepped on a colony of red ants that stung my sandaled feet and legs so that I could barely walk. I caught a huge snapping turtle out of our river and watched my uncle cut it's head off, it's mouth continuing to open and shut long after it had been decapitated. I walked down a highway with my brother and stepbrother cracking jokes, while we waited for the cops to come and arrest his mother on Christmas Eve. I held my grandma's dog as she suffered her first grand mal seizure when she was 16. I was in a convoy of cars going to a cast party after a succesful drama production, young teens driving way too fast hyped on adrenaline. I watched the car in front of me completely miss the turn, drive straight into the ditch and flip end to end 4 times. Miraculously no one died, but I will never forget the blood that streamed down one's face, while his older brother who'd been driving wept openly. Or the hundreds of stitches it took to close all of the gashes. Or the terribly blank stare of another who sat pale and confused, and the three weeks he then suffered amnesia. Giving in to peer pressure I jumped off a cliff to impress co-workers, landed horribly wrong in the water and nearly drowned. I pithed a frog.  I bashed in the head of a grey squirrel that was dying and in terrible agony. I finished my college valedictorian speech 5 minutes before delivering it, and felt like a fraud the whole time. I held my dog and stroked him and felt his life drain quickly from him, in my arms. I vaccinated a coyote against rabies, and took pictures when I released it. When it turned and stopped to meet my eyes, I held my breath and listened to it howl. I euthanized skunks for a scienific study. I got sprayed directly in the face and eyes while doing so. I fell down the Niagara Escarpment and almost rolled onto the highway. I accidently helped spread canine distemper through a huge population of raccoons. I sobbed relentlessly and almost quit my job when I released staggering raccoon babies that I knew would die. I chased an opposum mother through the woods to re-attach a baby she had dropped. I made my best friend say she loved me, when she first discovered her bi-sexuality, knowing that I was the first person she was coming out to, instead of helping her say it, even though I already knew. I crashed my car into not one but two barricades on a stretch of the Trans Canada at 4 am on a patch of black ice. Somehow, the metal that sliced through the driver's door, did not slice me in half.  I packed up and moved across Canada 3 times. I didn't stay in touch with so many friends along the way on purpose, hoping they would forget me. I gave my heart and soul to two wonderful beautiful children. I never asked the first guy that I truly loved whether he felt the same way, and have always regretted it. I never attended his wedding, though he desperately wanted me to be there. I bought a car so my dad would feel as though he'd done something to help my depression. I gave in and listened to the graphic images playing in my head and injured myself. I sat in a sand box and screamed at the sky. I threw rocks into the ocean until I fell into an exhausted heap. I worked with severely mentally and physically handicapped adults and felt unconditional love, and acceptance.  I broke down in a panic attack after being unable to comply with the moons demands that I fly there (manic). I got a tattoo and several piercings while manic. I had the tattoo redone by the same guy after I came down and realized he'd been high at the time he did it. I never told anyone what was going on when we were kids. I bought a puppy to replace the baby I miscarried. I didn't tell my mom or dad that I was locked up in the psyche ward for 2 months. I swallowed a bottle of pills and refused to tell paramedics what they were. When I woke to find I was still alive, I only felt regret that I was. 

I yearn for silence. I spend my minutes, hours, days, constantly searching for a stillness that I don't possess. If I listen closely enough, I can capture it for a moment. When I watch the trees sway, at a drum circle, where my head naturally cocks to one side and I pick out the different rhythms, the tones, the pitches being played. It stills me. But in the interim, I am like a hummingbird, wings beating so fast it appears as if I am standing still. I am this contrast; a turbulent tranquility.

I watched this film called The Blue Butterfly. It's based on a true story. A terminally ill 10 year old boy convinces his hero (an entomologist) to take him into the rainforest in search of the elusive Blue Morpho. He is convinced that if he catches this magnificent specimen, that it will hold all the answers, and it will be his miracle. He searches desperately, and more than once, is thwarted by it. In the end, his epic journey to capture it fails. Instead, a young girl, sitting quietly, silently, still, discovers one for him.

I have been on an epic quest in search of my own miracle, my stillnes, a sense of understanding. And when I approach it softly, positive it is within reach, it flies swiftly away, only this time thwarting me by flying farther, higher; over more dangers. It is a treacherous path, this journey. And I haven't yet begun to comprehend that what I am in search of, I may never grasp. I am not naive in thinking that I am the only person who is in search of something they simply cannot, and will not ever capture. I think perhaps, that we are all stumbling along in search of something, although our somethings vary. It makes me wonder about actors. When they play pretend and lose themselves in a character, do they find what they are seeking? And in having found it, does it change them? How do they return to the person they are...how do they even know who they are, if they have been so many people.

I have been missing out on the vital parts of me. The ones that are, the bad and the good. I have not been taking the time to just be. Who I am, as I am, here and now. I am a turbulent tranquility, I am contrast. This is what I know, have known, and will always know. This is who I am.

At the age of eight I was a freakish bookworm. I spent long hours immersed in other places, magical lands, other times. It brought with it surges of emotion, sometimes longing, sometimes disgust. And then one day I stumbled across a book about the holocaust. I read accounts of horror and terror and destruction that i couldn't comprehend. I became obsessed with World War II. I read tales of survivors from the camps, work camps, and extermination camps. Dachau, Auschwitz-Birkenau, Buchenwald, Bergen-Belsen...the list is endless. I read of mothers being ripped away from their children. People dying of starvation. Women, men and children of all ages being massacred. I read of the "scientific" experiments carried out; children and twins in particular. How Josef Mengele took a set of 4 year old twins at Auschwitz, and proceeded to turn them into Siamese twins, sewing them back to back, until the pain of it drove them mad and they were destroyed. How handicapped and mentally challenged people were castrated. I tried to comprehend the workings behind such madness. I needed to understand how one man could convince so many people to commit such atrocity. I read Mein Kampf to try and understand the workings of a mind that could do something like that. And I came up with nothing.

I read of the men, women and children who were destroyed by bombing, gunfire, gas. Long nights and days spent in bomb shelters. Thousands upon thousands of displaced persons, displaced families. Evacuee's: children sent into the country or abroad to complete strangers, some who were kind and willing, some, who would ultimately abuse their charges. Many of these children would never see their families again. And I didn't understand.

I would learn later that my grandfather had flown POW's back to their native lands. He was haunted by the images of sunken gaunt human beings. Many sick, some, mad from it all. He never spoke much about it, but I know he never forgot. And he couldn't understand.

And then I immersed myself in World War 1. The war to end all wars. I learned of the battles fought, the thousands killed. I visited the monument at Vimy Ridge. Walked through the trenches. Saw the chaos and destruction that has been preserved. And none of it made any sense. So many deaths, so much destruction, and pain and hatred. I was overcome, and still, I couldn't understand.

And it still goes on. Today, wars are fought everywhere, conflict, pain, terrible, horrible things. And there will never be a war to end all wars. We strive too much on conflict, power, dominance.

But today, I remember, I remember all of it. And though I will never be able to understand it, I will never forget. I will pass on the message to as many people as I can along the way. And I will hope, that enough people remember so that it never happens again.  

I always believed you would stay this amazing complex little child that I would never quite be able to understand, but today, on your fourteenth birthday, I am forced to admit that you are no longer a fledgeling. You never were the type to cautiously step towards the edge of that nest in hopes of taking flight. Instead you made great leaps, more often than not into dangerous territory. It only made me love you all the more. You baffle me with your ability to love so strongly, and hurt so deeply, all at the same time. And you scare me with your raw anger, your sadness, your despair. Such strong and desperate emotion bottled up in one so small. But the joy and happiness that radiates from your very soul shines through in golden light. You are beautiful Michaela, both inside and out.

I miss the little things you do, tiny little surprises meant to show your love and compassion for everyone around you. I miss your laughter, and the way your smile lights up your entire face. I miss cooking with you, and our special brief moments together. I miss the way we would wrestle, and the hugs and the way you would share your stories with me. But mostly, I just miss you. I sometimes wonder if you have forgotten me. And sometimes, I wish that you would, so that if it hurts you to think of me, then that hurt could vanish. But I pay attention to your world. I cry when I see your pain, and I rejoice in your victories. You will always be my little sister. You will always be my family whether our parents are together anymore, or not. I miss you, and I love you. I hope that I told you that enough times while I had the chance.

I hope that you are okay, in this big wide world. You are learning, little lovely that there is much sorrow to endure. You are learning that life can be harsh, and it can be cruel. But oh Kayla, it is filled with such beauty and wonder. And I know that you, you will do great things. You will find that place that brings you joy and happiness, and you will excel there. You have always amazed me, in so many ways. I have always been, and I will always be, so very proud of you. And so, you brilliant, amazing, wonderful woman, spread your wings and follow your dreams. If you fall, it's okay. Your dreams are still there to reach for. And I know you will soar. Strong, and beautiful and free. 

Happy Birthday Michaela, I love you with all of my heart.

They have (very recently) slashed the budget for mental health care in BC by such a huge margin it is insane (no pun intended).  Here on the island, they have closed down one entire psychiatric ward in the ONLY psyche hospital in Victoria. They have terminated seven (SEVEN!) counsellors at USTAT (Urgent Short Term Assessment and Treatment), among other people including Occupational Therapists, nurses, outreach workers and many more. Programs have been abolished. And to top it all off, they are attempting to take all of the Islands crisis lines (which number 6 in total, for the entire Island) and create just one line, to serve all of the communities. I want to have a conference with the people who have decided that this is a good idea, and ask them how much research they really did. I want to sit down with the figures, and ask them, by taking away these services, just how do you actually expect to save any money. Here on the Island, it costs $1200.00 a day to hospitalize someone in the psychiatric ward. A day. If a patient shows up at emergency in a state of crisis and is in danger of harming themselves (or others) there is a mandatory 72 hour stay (minimum). Without a crisis line to call, and with minimalized marginalized care, they most certianly will be showing up....in droves. So, a quick slash will in turn cost the Government thousands, upon thousands, of dollars. It always makes me shake my head when I see these attempts to cut the budget considerably, and how, in just a few short years, the terrible repercussions that follow. There is much head shaking going on in this place tonight.

It also means that one of the programs I was meant to be involved in no longer exists. And the possibility of me being referred to a counsellor...chances are slim to nil. However...there is a counsellor that comes in once a week at the Youth Clinic, and the doctors and nurses there had a mini conference and decided I should at least meet her, and see if I felt comfortable, etc with her. So tonight, I did. She's a very nice woman, and a very good listener. She wants me to come back every week for a little while, if I think it'll be helpful. I think that it will be. She gave me some good suggestions, and helped me to talk about some incredibly difficult things.

Who could ever have thought that just talking would be so difficult? That it could be so emotionally trying, and leave me drained and even more exhausted (which I honestly didn't think possible) then before? But, it's all tiny minute steps towards accepting myself...and I'm not going to give up on that one. It's just far too important.  

I am working so hard on patience. Patience and acceptance and understanding are such difficult concepts when you apply them to yourself. Even when they are second nature to you in terms of everyone else. It's like suddenly being thrust into a foreign country where you understand none of the language being spoken, but all the same, being bombarded by questions in an unfamiliar dialect, and expected to answer.

How easy it is to become overwhelmed/frustrated/angry, when you feel as though your body, your mind, is betraying you. I spent Wednesday through Sunday rapid cycling. Soaring to the highest highs...and dropping into the dangerous lows. Why? I don't know. I have stopped looking for triggers that set me off...it is a never ending journey that more often then not becomes futile, and only succeeds in exasperating me. There are too many complications in life to try and unravel all of the mysteries. Just too many.

Since then, and today especially, my mood has dropped. Really dropped, to the point that leaving the house this morning seemed an impossibility. What an unreasonable thing, the mind, with an ability to convince me that the exhaustion I am experiencing, the loss of appetite, the lack of interest in the things I enjoy, the conviction that curling up in bed and not going outside is the best option, and not only that, but that it is valid. In a fairly isolated state, can you imagine wanting even to isolate from two dogs? Yes, really...I know it is bizarre. It is something I keep repeating to myself. This is just another cycle. It will come to pass. You must bear with it, and try hard to stick to your routine. No matter what, stick to your routine.

Wednesdays are the day of the week that I look forward to. For an hour I can lose myself in a drum circle, perhaps learn a new rhythm, or practice a well known one (I had the added benefit of a drum workshop this evening). It is also one of the days that I volunteer at the youth clinic. It took so much self talk to convince myself that going to drumming was a good idea. That going into the clinic (which I love) was really such a good plan. That attending the much anticipated workshop was worth it. And for a long time, I waivered.

And then I gathered all of my strength, and said "Brain (yes, sometimes if you talk to things that can't hear you, it works) F@$* off." And I dragged myself out of the house, and I went about my routine. And tonight, finally home, I still feel exhausted, and severely depressed. And when the dogs rushed up to greet me with love (and all of that energy), even though I wanted to shrink away from it, instead I sat down and cuddled them and murmured soothing words until they relaxed into sleep. And even though getting through the day was incredibly difficult, it was not impossible. Even though the feelings, emotions and mood hasn't changed, I still chalk it up to a win. So take that Bipolar Disorder.

Maybe I will wake tomorrow, and the day won't seem quite so terrible. Or maybe it will, and I will face the same struggles and decisions as today. I don't know what will happen...then again, neither does anyone else know what tomorrow will bring. But whatever happens, I will wake and I will take a deep breath, and I will fight on in my never ending war. Maybe I will succeed, and then again, maybe I won't, but I will try. I might not always win every battle...but I think that maybe I am making headway. I really do. And at this stage, that is a very huge deal. I dream of the day (nothing more than a pipedream I know) when I won't have to battle with myself over the merits of getting out of bed. But for now, just being courageous enough to do so, against every single fibre of my being is enough. And I accept that.