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As much as I adore words, playing with them, manipulating them, learning about them, and feeling them roll off my tongue, sometimes I get frustrated with the english language. When I seek a way to explain something, and the words or meaning just don't fit. Take pain for example. You see the word pain and it immediately conjures up a response...perhaps you tie it to a certain experience you personally dealt with in the past. But there are so many varieties of pain, and how to sum them all up with this one word?  There is the pain of an injury: a broken bone, dislocations, torn ligaments, tendons, pulled muscles, cuts. These alone offer such an arrangement of pain. And then there is emotional pain: the agony of grief, fear, loneliness, disapproval. There is the anguish that accompanies mental illness. There is the pain that comes with extreme temperatures. There is the exquisitely torturous pain of a tattoo, as it sets your nerves dancing. There is the pain of yearning, and the pain of disappointment.

For the last month I have felt the sweet pain of being alive. I go to bed with a gentle ache in my thighs, my stomach, my arms. When I wake, I am greeted warmly by it. Each day as I push myself to work out just a little harder, to walk just a little faster, a little further, each day I long for that ache. It is a beautiful thing, this constant gnawing at my muscles. It is keeping me sane, on a calm and even steady keel. I am even willing to say that I am episode free for the first time in over a year. On the track, I am whipped by the ferocious wind as it rages against me, until I am warmed inside my layers and peel off to welcome the rush of air while I laugh into the sky. There is much laughter, these days. I marvel at the changes I see when I stand in front of the mirror. My body is changing; everything I see is new. And I feel it, this newness. I feel it stretch from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I am enveloped in its strength and wonder; I hug it tightly to me like a coat. This pain, this reminder that I am alive, this is a beautiful thing.  

I am dreaming of babies. I wake with an ache deep in my womb, throbbing to remind me of the emptiness left instead.

In that sleep-wake world, I feel your lips encircle my nipple, your tiny fingers curling and uncurling in ecstasy alongside my breast, the heavy warm weight of you in my arms. I feel your body relax, your eyes gently closing. I watch you, smell you, breathe you in. All in the knowing that you are mine. You who came silent one year ago, performed miracles inside of me. I felt the stirrings of you, as you began to grow. I knew the exact moment you decided to make yourself known to me, little one. Oh how my body responded to you, and I gloried in every moment of it. And then, one day, just as silently as you came, you left. I knew the moment you let go. My heart stopped beating, my body searched for you, reaching, and found no response. I wished it away, believed that you were there still, until the blood flowed. I was bereft. I ached for you, I mourned for you, I released you.

And now you return to sleep in my dreams. To nuzzle softly at my breast, entangle my hair in your fingers, sigh contentedly. Is it because you know I loved you, right from the start? That I did, I do, I always will little one?

You are safe here, in my dreams. Sleep softly my love. 

Today, the Sun shone. This brilliant illuminescent orb that filled the corners of this dark space; it left the shadows retreating in defeat, those that loomed large. It pulled me from the darkness and thrust me towards it's warmth. I am looking to find the good in things I accomplished today: tonight the dogs made me laugh so hard I nearly fell over, I braved the telephone and called a good friend up for a chat, I went OUTSIDE where the sun shone. It's back to tiny steps. This week....has been amongst one of my worst. On record. As a note to my future self, should I happen to re-read this entry at a later date:

Do Not, under any circumstances, schedule an extremely triggering Doctors appointment when you are in a stage of depression where getting out of bed is impossible. Really, it is a bad idea, as much as you may want to push yourself, to prove to yourself that you are okay, and overcome the obstacles you face...don't. Just don't. Do however plan it, and set up all of the safety precautions, and then go back over the safety precautions, and re-plan, and continue to do so until you have something that is fool proof. This is vital. Only then should you proceed with caution. With much caution.

Because, if you don't, you will be doomed to repeat this week. A week where the time was swallowed up by darkness, and your feet barely touched the floor. A week where you drank yourself into an oblivion and woke to the mass destruction you created. Mass destruction. In time it will heal, and the scars will fade...but the fact that it happened? You are above that. You are. You have survived much worse. And you have been free of this ridiculous destructive coping mechanism for so long. But now you get to begin again. Deep breath's, let it go, clean slate and start fresh. Not nearly as easy as it sounds future self. But you have done it before, and you will certainly do it again. Forgive. 

It is so odd to wake one morning with the knowledge that the world has been swallowed in a vast dark hole. And just the same, to wake, days, weeks, months later to find that the light has infiltrated the darkness, even with just the tiniest of rays. It only takes one of those rays to change it all. Just one. Hang on to that ray that lingers through the shadows, because just as the sun sets every night future self, it rises again in the morning. Behind all of the blackness, it is there just waiting to be discovered.

I have been putting it off for a week and a half. It shouldn't be so hard. This is something I do, for me. Ensure my health is optimum, that my reproductive health is good. But it is hard. God it is so hard. It is harder than anything else I could possibly imagine. I know the doctor. I have worked with her, literally, for 4 months. She is amazing. She has given me time, so much time. She asks me to chat quickly, just to touch base. I tell her of my concerns. Of my fears that it will spark memories of my childhood trauma's, like it has in the past. That I dont want to slip into negative coping mechanisms...it is so easy to lose yourself in negative coping skills. Too easy. I work hard at setting up precautions. I know what is going to happen. I know what might follow, afterwards. I know.

I put off the exam. First Monday, then Wednesday, then Monday. And now, here we are again. Wednesday. She catches my eye as I pass out grilled cheese sandwiches to fill hungry bellies. There is no pressure. "Whenever you are ready." she mouths across the busy clinic. My heart seizes with panic, and my pulse quickens, and I know I am going to bail again. She see's my panic, steps back...lets me breathe. She is a good Dr. She is a good Dr. And so I stop. I get my chart pulled, I breathe. And I breathe again, and again and again and again. We go into a room. My fists have clenched involuntarily. She asks me whether I want to do the exam. I have to. I have to do it now. There is no other choice. There is no other time. Time has stopped. It doesn't exist, there is only now. She leaves me in peace to undress. And somehow, I do. Somehow, I do.

When she comes back, she asks me if I want anything. She is talking Ativan, I know. I shake my head vehemently. No Ativan. There is the blood pressure check, and the breast exam. All goes well. And then we move on. She is such a good Dr. She talks me through it. Through all of it. She asks me if I am okay. Over and over she asks me if I am okay, not proceeding any farther until she hears my answer. Until she is sure. I close my eyes against the memories, against the pain. She is a good Dr. I tell myself. It is true. She really is. It is not her fault, all of this. It is not her fault that I am here with clenched jaw, and fist, fighting back the tears and nausea that overwhelms me. No, it is not her fault.

And finally it is done. She does her best to console me. Her touch on my shoulder makes me ill, and I beg her to stop. She does. She is a good Dr. She gives me privacy to dress, and I do. I am betrayed by this body. This body that I work to reintroduce as mine. It is mine. Whatever happened, it is mine. But I fight back the tears, and the bulbous of vomit that has risen in the back of my throat. She asks me to stay. To check in with her before I leave the building. She is a good Dr. She really is. I throw on my clothing, promise I will, escape the room.

And when I get home, there are the dogs. They are happy and wiggly, and smiling from ear to ear. They are present. I feed them, and pet them, and walk them hoping to drive away the demons that grin and wreak havoc in my mind. They are good dogs, I tell myself. They really are. Kodi especially, snuggles up to me, placing his head in my hand hoping to ground me. They are good dogs. But they don't stop the memories, and they don't stop the pain. And I try to push it away. It is all in the past. You are safe here. You are safe. But it is too late, and the precauions don't help. They don't help. And it is all in vain. 

025

I am hopeful. I have dreams, I have goals. The night will end. The dawn will come. The nightmares will fade into calm reality. No one can hurt me. I am safe. I am safe.

I am tired. I am scared. I am lonely. I am sad. I am broken. I hate you, I love you, I miss you, please go away. 

the boys

The wind outside is wailing so hard that the windows are humming. It sounds as though this place is under demonic possession, and here in the wee hours of a November morning, I am haunted by ghosts. November will always be a difficult month for me. A week ago should have been the first anniversary of our marriage. It should have been. But it was not. I search through the pictures compiled here, the brief moments and memories that vanished so quickly. I remember the day you took off in a plane, and how my heart soared to watch you co-pilot, realizing what it meant to you, and being proud that I could help actualize that lifelong dream. I remember the way you held my guitar, played it, stroked it almost. How I could sit there and listen to you play for hours, though you'd never quite allow that to happen. I remember how we talked of anything, of everything; and feeling so incredibly safe in your arms. I remember how my body fit to yours, how you told me you loved me, and how I knew it without being told. I remember glorying in the presence and essence that you were, whether it was simply sitting side by side reading books, being outside on a walk, watching a movie together. I remember the way you sang to Kodi.

And I remember the hard things. Illness, poverty, hospitalization. I remember harsh words, flung in anger and pain and frustration. I remember the sharp, bitter, sting of it. I remember fear. I remember the shattering moments when I said goodbye to you. I remember the exact moment when my heart stopped beating, when the world crashed to a standstill.

 It saddens me to be so unsure which part plays the most in my memory. I would like to think it is the good things. I would like to believe that these moments won't be so hard; that maybe as the years progress, the pain of it will fade a little more. But I know that will never be the case. I know it with a sense that terrifies me.   

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.