This is Not a Love Story

This is not a love story.

But he will tell you it is.

He will tell you that he had never loved anyone the way he loved me.

How he would have left everything he knew to be able to call me his.

He will tell you how close we were;  how much we valued and respected one another.

How some of his best moments were spent with our naked bodies tangled up in each other.

Everything he will tell you is true, but this is not a love story.

And I was never his to love.

No one has ever really known what happened that night.  That Christmas. In that bathroom. On that floor.

But I remember everything.

The alcohol. The music. The lyrics. The scent of fresh vomit.  Mine.

It had been more than 5 years since we met. 5 years of friendship. Years of working together. He and I spent more time with each other than we did with most other people in our lives.  We shared laughs. Meals. Memories. Epic conversations into the late hours of the night. There was very little we didn’t share; including a bed, before long.

He knew I wasn’t available for love; I reminded him of that regularly. He hated that. It bothered him that I didn’t believe he was in control of his feelings. He wasn’t though, I knew it with every part of me. I should have listened to that, that feeling, my gut, intuition.  Whatever you choose to call it.

Mentally, spiritually, emotionally, I. Was. Not. Available. He shouldn’t have been either.

And then he fell in love.

And he fell hard.

I loved him enough to respect his feelings. But I also loved him enough to not allow them to go any further.  More than anything, I valued our friendship.

About a year into our sexual relationship, I ended it.

The rules were simple; if we were to remain friends, there would be:

No more touching.
No more kissing.
No more sex.
No more intimacy beyond our friendship.

It killed him. And it killed me to watch him hurt.

He had convinced himself that my decision was made to protect myself from my feelings. To save my own heart from breaking.

He was wrong.

He offered me the world. His.

I didn’t want it.

The further I got from him, the deeper in his pain he found himself.

He told me he was ok, but there was an emptiness in his eyes now when he looked at me.

His smile, the smile that once lit up an entire room, now dim. Forced.

He knew that I couldn’t bare to be the cause of his pain, and so he hid it in order to maintain whatever relationship we could salvage from this wreck.  He drank.  He cried. Never before had anyone made him feel such a complete loss of control over his feelings.  Over his mind. His heart.  He was powerless over the situation, and he was not used to it.

Love. Fuck!

I hate to even attach the word to this.  For him, there was no other word to describe it.

It took almost a year for him to be near me without wanting to touch me. Hold me. Kiss me. It took a year of me pulling away. Saying no. One fucking year.

But time heals all.

We were finally able to get back to a solid place.  Or so I thought.

It had been a couple years of us just being friends again.

And we were friends.

Good friends. Great friends. We were back in a place where our friendship was one of envy by many.  It wasn’t unusual for us to be at social functions together, this night was no different.

Until it was.

It had been an especially rough period at work, for all of us. This night was one that we all needed. A break. A celebration.  An escape.  A reason to just let go and enjoy.  I needed it more than anyone, and he knew that.

I trusted him.

I trusted everyone in that room.

I trust even now that if they knew what happened, they would have stopped it. I really do.

But they trusted him too.

They trusted him to take care of me, because they knew he would have taken a bullet for me. He wouldn’t have ever let anyone hurt me.  He wouldn’t.

Love.

It was in that moment that I learned just how painful love could feel.

This is not a love story.

But he will tell you it is.

I drank a lot that night. We all did. It wasn’t unlike him to make sure everyone’s glass was full; he knew how to entertain. How to keep people smiling.  He was always the life of the party. Always.  This night was no exception. There was nothing out of the ordinary, it was just another night.

I had learned the consequences of not being in control of my drug and alcohol intake early in life.  Drinking is a rare occurrence for me and I never lose track of how much I drink.  But when your glass is never empty, you can’t count how many you have finished.  Or have not finished.  I was not in control.

Everything was spinning.

I found myself in the washroom, sick.

So fucking sick.

He knocked, I opened the door to let him in. He told everyone I wasn’t well and that he would take care of me.  That was enough to keep everyone away.  He did at first take care of me; I remember that clearly.

But then he started crying.

I said no.

He started to fix my hair. Kissed my forehead.

I said no.

Everything was spinning.

And then everything went black.

From then, I remember only flickers. Moments. Flashes of my coming to, and then blacking out again.

I remember knocks on the door of friends checking to make sure I was okay. His playful responses letting them know I was fine.

His naked body was on top of mine.  I couldn’t move.

I said no.

It felt like hours and then everyone was gone.  Or passed out. It was just the two of us.

He cleaned me up and got me dressed again.  He cleaned the vomit off the floor.  Off of me.  He wiped my face with a wet cloth. He took care of me in the way he should have, in the way he would have when we were together.

But his eyes were different now.

The sadness had been replaced with this look of hope.

Love.

He looked at me like he used to when we made love.  Gentle. Caring. The smile I hadn’t seen in years, was back. It was like life was restored in him. Being with me in that moment. A glimmer of hope that we could return to where we once were.

Love.

But this is not a love story.

It wasn’t the first time I had stared into the face of a monster. But he wasn’t a monster.

He was the only person I spoke to about it, the following day.  I was desperately trying to make sense of what happened.  What the fuck happened?

What

The

Fuck

Happened?

The physical pain, I could handle. I had handled worse. But he hurt me in the most violent way I could have imagined.  Mentally.  My fucking mind.

It took me years before I could even process what he had done; what had happened.  Years.

What happened that night was not love.

Rape.

It changed me.

It changed how I saw love. How I felt love. How I chose to love. How closely I allowed myself to be loved.

It showed me how fucking powerful an emotion “love” can be for someone.

But this is not a love story.

Foxfire

It’s been 9 solid days since I’ve been alone. Really alone.

24 hours a day for the last 9 days, I’ve been responsible for an outreach team of staff. Wildfires continued to burn around us as we worked to provide emergency assistance to those who have already evacuated from the previous wildfires.

9 days attached to my phone; preparing my team for an emergency evacuation, if and when needed. Monitoring the status of almost 20 wildfires as I watched our “escape route” shrink by the hour. 9 days of frequent situation and status reports to head office, located over 5 hours away. Checking in with my team constantly to make sure they were ok, as they struggled during the quiet periods and the directives that seemed to change by the minute.

It’s been 9 solid days since I’ve been alone. Really alone. And I seriously need to recharge.

The situation has calmed down where we were stationed, and today, I was finally able to leave my team and start the journey back. One of my team members dropped me off at the bus terminal at 6:30am for my 7am departure to Edmonton. It was a tearless, yet very emotional, goodbye.

Relief washes over me as the bus pulls into the station and I prepare myself for the next 6 hours.

ALONE!

There are only about 10 of us on a large Greyhound, so I’m happy to know I will be able to somewhat isolate myself from the rest of them. I board the bus and head straight to the back.

These moments always make me think back to the first day of my Social Psychology 101 class, 17 years ago. My professor stood at the podium and said hello to everyone who walked in. He would make eye contact with each person, lower his head to write something, and repeated that until the class was full. I was the 3rd one in and I sat quietly, curiously watching what he was doing. When we were ready to start, he projected a seating chart onto the wall. Each desk had a number, no one knew at the time what it reflected. I recognized it immediately as our classroom and realized that he had been tracking our seat choices. He asked the class what we thought it was and I put up my hand. He was demonstrating the social behaviours of humans in unfamiliar territory. Each person left a “safe” space between themselves and the other people in the room, until it was no longer an option. Then they thought longer about the choice as they scanned the people next to the empty seats. 17 years later, I still watch people choose their seats at meetings, lectures, classes, and even busses. Today was no different.

I put my headphones on and my hood over my head. I turned to face the window and put on my best “do NOT talk to me” face.

Our first stop is only about an hour away. It’s at the bus terminal located in Valleyview, a small town where only days ago they set up an evacuation centre for one of the new wildfires. We only have 5 minutes at this stop and there is nothing around, so I just stay boarded. I need a coffee, but it’ll have to wait.

A young woman gets on and I watch as she walks slowly down the aisle. She’s carrying a small backpack and a cup of coffee, looking around at the various empty seats. She’s beautiful; with a fresh faced look of innocence straight from a magazine ad. I know exactly what she’s doing as she scans the bus for the right seat. More than half my life ago now, I was her.

She looks at me, a smile lights up her whole face. I smile back and she sits in the row next to me. Neither one of us says a word. I know she’s just found her safe place amongst strangers and I’m happy to be that for her.

I can only imagine where she is going but I’m not yet in the mood to talk.

It’s raining. I’ve never been more excited to see rain in my life. Heavy rains are exactly what’s needed to stop the wildfires from spreading. It’s not enough rain, but it’s a bit of a relief anyway.

I listen to music and reflect on my time here. On all my missions before this. I look over at the young girl next to me and think about how it felt to embark on this crazy adventure so many years ago. I was just a kid. Only two and a half years older than my oldest son is now and I was on my own. I reflect on my path, my journey. On everything I’ve been able to see and do in my 35 years. The laughter. The tears. The pleasure. The pain. I have no regrets.

We pull in to our next stop and coffee is no longer optional. I get up and I can see her watching me. I take my wallet and leave my bag, she does the same. We are all teachers, even when we aren’t trying to be. I tuck my bag in a bit, she tucks hers in. I smile at her, “are you coming out?” She smiles back “I’m new at this, is it really ok to just leave your bag?”

“It is today!”

She follows me off the bus and into the store. I grab my coffee, stretch my body a bit and head back in. She’s happy to see her bag exactly where she left it and tells me that she was secretly worried. I smile “that’s good! Be trusting but never get too comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings.” Most adults dismiss unsolicited advice. Most adults think they know everything there is to know. She takes it in and I can see her processing what I just told her.

This is the start of her journey. I don’t ask where she’s going; it doesn’t matter. I still couldn’t tell you where my journey will take me.

Next stop: Edmonton.

Inside of Her

One thumb up, one thumb down.

I was in the middle of co-facilitating an all day training about a week ago. There were about 50 people in the room, watching me. I stood up from the chair I was sitting on to answer some questions. I had a microphone in my left hand and I used my right to pull the chair back so I could walk around it.

My thumb dislocated and popped back into place. I wanted to cry because it hurt so bad. It always does.

It happens on occasion but it’s becoming more frequent now. This was the second time in a month.

The swelling is immediate but the pain, it hurts like hell. As much as I want to scream, I have to stay focused on what I’m saying. I can’t let the audience know what just happened. The topic is a serious one.

The first day is always the most painful, then it gradually eases off over the next week. I have no idea what kind of damage I’ve done to it but I know exactly when it started.

New Years Eve 2003.

I was out celebrating with about 25 of my cousins and friends. We were at a hip hop club in the west end of the city, where we spent every Saturday night before that. It was a small, intimate club that was filled with regulars every weekend. New Year’s Eve brought a different crowd, unfamiliar faces to a familiar place.

We had our usual seating area blocked off and we were all scattered at the time. I was on the dance floor with my boyfriend, my sister, and my 16 year old cousin, who we brought in despite her not being of legal drinking age. Knowing the owners had its perks. There was a group of about 3 men, one was obnoxiously drunk. He had his back to me on the dance floor but kept crashing into my side. I let it go a couple times but when he almost knocked me over, I pushed him off with my arm. He immediately turned around and got in my face. He was looking for a fight.

Fuck you.

That’s all I said to him. He stepped closer towards me and with his face now right in mine, he says…

Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

My boyfriend was the only male I was with at the time. It took only seconds for this guy to realize that. Before he even had a chance to react, the guy turns to him and punches him in the face.

Everything went black with a rage I didn’t know existed inside me. The entire club erupted into a fight and I saw nothing but this guy’s face in front of me. I started punching. I don’t remember how many times my hand made contact with his face. I don’t remember anything before another man grabbed me from behind and picked me up off the ground. He carried me away kicking and screaming and all he kept saying was “stop, just relax, stop!” I couldn’t see him but I thought it was my cousin. I was screaming for him to put me down because I could see my entire family involved in the fight now. He put me down and my boyfriend grabbed me and pulled me into his arms.

I came back in that moment. Terrified. I had no idea where I had just gone.

The fight ended shortly afterwards and the group of men were taken out by security and undercover police. The owner brought us all a round of drinks, the DJ started playing music again, we hit the dance floor and rung in the New Year 20 minutes later.

But the damage had been done; physically and mentally.

I had rediscovered a darkness I didn’t know I was still living with and it would take almost a year for my hand to heal, though it would never be same again.

People often comment about my laid back, relaxed attitude towards life. About my ability to remain stable in times of crisis. How I always seem to be the level headed one when others cannot be. This has served me well.

While it is true that I am a very consistently steady individual, I was not always this way.

I’m steady because I know what I’m capable of. I’m laid back because the result of my escalation is something I never again want to see. It took that moment for me to finally admit to myself how much anger lived inside me. How much pain I held onto for so long. It was only a matter of time before that anger came out, and I’m grateful that it didn’t end worse than that.

My thumb is a reminder of that darkness.

For the last 13 years, I’ve used it as such. Every time it dislocates, I check my anger. I see where I’m at mentally and make sure I’m in a good place. It’s been a very long time since I haven’t been, and yet, my thumb keeps getting hurt.

The reminder has served me well. It really has. However, as I get older, I realize that maybe it’s trying to tell me something else now. Maybe, just maybe, I should finally see a doctor about it. My fighting days are over, I’m more concerned about arthritis.

I’ll make an appointment on Monday.

Basketball WAS life

If you knew me when I was younger, you know I played basketball.

All.

The.

Time.

I loved ball.

I loved it so much that not playing it was what I chose to punish myself with when I was sexually assaulted at 14.

I healed though.

And I went back to it.

If you met me in the last 5 years, you probably have no idea that it was such a significant part of my life. I’ve kept it that way because it’s one of the very few things I’ve struggled to admit and accept.

But here it is.

4 concussions and 2 rounds of post concussion syndrome caused havoc on my physical and psychological state. My memory is what I’m most open about; it’s a difficult symptom to hide. I could barely retain any new information for the first few months after concussion number 4. It was awful.

Over time, I made some massive improvements and I continue to be hopeful for more.

In between concussions, I was very limited on the amount of physical activity I could participate in. Contact sports were out of the question, team sports were risky and not at all advised, even running solo wasn’t recommended for a while. I had to ease myself back into my active lifestyle, one baby step at a time.

I accepted that.

I had felt the effects of pushing myself too hard, it wasn’t worth the pain. I paced myself and followed doctor’s orders.

When I finally felt ready to try ball again, I joined a co-ed recreational team. It shouldn’t have been a problem, but it was a shock to every part of my system.

There were two additional symptoms that I hadn’t noticed.

1. I now “played scared”. I was afraid that I would get hit, so I both avoided the ball and stayed out of the plays.

2. I had lost a lot of the coordination in my left side. For whatever reason, the brain signals to my left had a delayed response. I couldn’t dribble well with my left hand. I could no longer do layups on the left. I couldn’t shoot with my left hand. I could barely function on the left side of the court.

The more I concentrated on doing it, the more psychological it became for me. It got to a point where even if I could, I wouldn’t. It was a devastating blow at an already low period of my life.

So, I stopped playing.

Completely.

My oldest son played ball for years. I coached him in his first year and practically lived on the court. That was no longer an option, I became a spectator and supporter. A basketball mom.

Basketball simply became something I used to do, for those that knew I did it.

Many of the adults in my personal and professional life played ball too. Quite a few still do. I used to tell people I played if they asked, but I stopped doing that too. Having a good sense of humour, friends would often joke around about my ability, or inability, to play. They would challenge me to a game and when I didn’t accept the challenge, they made the assumption that I was lying. If I couldn’t prove it, then it wasn’t true. They would tease me about it, try to test my knowledge of positions, rules, calls, etc.

I wouldn’t answer questions and I refused to pick up a ball. Instead, I laughed it off. Everytime.

I laughed it off because it was extremely difficult for me to talk about. If people believed I didn’t play, they would just leave me alone. It was a win-win for me.

Recently, I made the decision to start training again. To re-develop my left side.

No expectations. No pressure.

I registered in a development/house league for recreational players. Today was my first day. There were 12 of us there. I raised my hand with the other 11 participants when the instructor asked who used to play. The skills in the room ranged from basic to intermediate. I tried to stay in between.

No expectations. No pressure.

Trying to balance the skill with my right and the beginner level of my left was challenging in itself but it was a lot of fun being in a room with strangers.

No expectations. No pressure.

We worked through a variety of drills…dribbling, passes, layups. I didn’t do one left layup properly, but I kept trying anyway. It started to become obvious to the group that I more than just “used to play as a kid”.

We were playing full court, one on one, until someone scored. I was paired with a woman who hadn’t played in about 15 years. Her defense consisted of her slapping my arms everytime I went to shoot, so I couldn’t score. I’d let her run the ball for a bit before stealing it back but then she would slap my arms again to get it back. It was like playing with a kid but it was hilarious and so much fun. We repeated it so many times, we were both exhausted. Finally, I looked at her and said “here, let me put both of us out of our misery” and I shot the three in her net. Everyone started laughing but once I got back to the baseline, the “What was that? You play, don’t you?” questions came out.

No expectations. No pressure.

Strangers are supportive in a way friends sometimes are not. People who knew me as a player think they are doing me a favour by asking me to play a pick up game. By pushing me to pick up a ball when I’m not ready because they know how happy it used to make me. They believe that if I just do it, it’ll come back to me in no time. While I know they mean well, it’s not as simple as they believe it to be. I wish it were. I really do.

Training like a beginner is both depressing and exciting for me right now. Although I cried all the way home, it felt amazing to be back on the court; even at that capacity. 2 hours with a ball in my hand.

No expectations. No pressure.

I’m already looking forward to next week.

 

I wish I could

I am battered

I am broken

I have weathered many storms

I am tired

I am restless

You have suffered alone too long

I wish I could feel

I have to

I’ve waited weeks for this moment
it’s just he and I
spending hours together
laying side by side
his naked body
is tangled up in mine
he kisses me
and I look into his eyes

and I see you
no matter how hard I try
I feel you
your arms wrapped around mine

I close my eyes
as tightly as I can
and I open them
to see his face again
but I hear you
when he’s calling my name
whispering words I love to hear
but it doesn’t sound the same

I can’t get you off my mind
it’s getting hard just to breathe
I feel restless
and I try to fall asleep

I have to keep believing
it’s wrong though it feels right
I have to keep on leaving
when I want to spend the night
I have to keep from feeling
if it’s the last thing I do
I have to keep telling myself
not to fall in love with you

The next six weeks.

Two weeks ago, I overheard a conversation between two people. They were discussing how quickly the year had passed. How fast their whole life seemed to be flying by. How there were only 8 weeks left before the end of 2015.

The. World. Just. Stopped.

8 WEEKS!!!!

I quickly pulled out my phone and opened up the calendar.

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

Holy hell, how did this happen?!

I didn’t hear anything after that. I couldn’t tell you what the rest of that conversation looked like. I don’t even know what happened around me in that moment. I was completely immersed in the thought of having 8 weeks left in 2015.

2015 was going to be huge; I had spent the last 17 years waiting for it. I didn’t start the year with any specific major plans, but I knew it would be a life changing one for me. I felt it. All signs pointed to it. If you’ve been following along, you know exactly what I mean when I say that this was the start of a new 17.

I felt empty. Unaccomplished. I sat alone in my car, wondering how I had wasted an entire year without even realizing it. I scrolled frantically through blog entries in an attempt to remember the goals I had set for myself. Checklists. Plans. Lists. Anything. But there was nothing there.
I didn’t make any!!!

I knew I wanted to write more. To create.

I knew I wanted to explore my professional world. To grow.

I knew I wanted to travel. To explore.

I knew I wanted to take classes. To learn.

I knew there were certain things that I wanted, but for the first time in my life, I hadn’t mapped out any concrete path to any of it.

I spent the next few days in what I can only describe as the worst PMS I’ve ever experienced. I was moody. Emotional. Anxious. Miserable. I didn’t feel like I had the energy, or desire, to do anything. I tried to make sense of my world. My relationships. My career. I felt like I was spiraling and I could barely breathe.

This happened to coincide with many of my friends feeling similarly, but for their own individual reasons. I questioned our age. I questioned the season. I questioned everything. As the friend who is often the one helping others to float, this time we were all drowning.

There were changes at work that added to the weight I felt I was carrying. Changes that made me feel differently about my current career.

There were changes at home that added to the weight I felt I was carrying. Changes that made me question whether or not I was making the right choices for myself and my children.

There were changes in my personal life that added to the weight I felt I was carrying. Changes that made me revaluate the things, and people, that I did and did not want in my future.

I wondered if I was in the right place.

I asked myself a hundred times, how the hell I got to the end of 2015 without even noticing.

Finally, I pulled it together. I thought about all that could be accomplished in the remaining 8 weeks. 2 months is a long time; maybe not enough to do everything but a good amount of time to get things started. In order to figure out the next 8 weeks, I had to figure out the last 10 months; Those 40 weeks that had flown by without my noticing. I sat down with a piece of paper, a calendar and a pen.

And an amazing thing happened.

The page began to fill as I looked back at each month. At what I had done. The places I had seen. The things I had learned. The people that I met. The love. The laughs. The tears.

40. Epic. Weeks.

I spent a week in Geneva, Switzerland, learning everything I needed to know about Ebola and exploring the beautiful city.

I travelled to Sierra Leone to provide Psychosocial supports at the Ebola Treatment Centre in Kenema.

I celebrated 17 years since my suicide attempt. 17 years on borrowed time.

My current full time position became permanent.

My international work was featured in two newspapers and a video piece for CTV.

I was invited to be the keynote speaker at a national awards conference, and delivered my speech/presentation with amazing feedback.

I represented the Canadian Red Cross in a documentary about the response following Typhoon Haiyan in the Philippines. The documentary was completed a few weeks ago and has now been submitted for 2016 film festivals.

I completed multiple presentations on my international work.

I participated in a national magazine feature on what it means to be a woman; which is scheduled to be released at the end of December.

I took a trip to Cuba with only my mother and sister; a trip we had always wanted to take but never before had the opportunity.

I wrote over 100 blog entries that were read thousands of times by readers from over 20 different countries around the world.

I met some wonderful people and built the foundation for several lasting personal and professional relationships.

I watched my oldest son become a teenager and attended high school open houses with him.

I cheered on my two youngest sons as their collection of sports trophies and medals grew.

I was accepted for a management position/training that will allow me to expand my current international portfolio and overall resume.

I watched my friends grow, become mothers/fathers, start new jobs, get married, buy houses, travel, end relationships, start new relationships, etc, etc, etc.

I’ve stayed up all night, I’ve dried tears, I’ve cried tears, I’ve laughed, I’ve loved, I’ve been sick, I’ve been healthy, I’ve danced, I’ve spent time doing the things I enjoy most with the people I care most about and I’ve been grateful for all the love I’ve been blessed with.

Additionally, in the remaining 6 weeks, I will celebrate 17 years of sobriety and 9 years working for the City of Toronto.

Without even realizing it, 2015 turned into that epic year I had been waiting for. A year that has taught me some very valuable life lessons. I’ve learned that beautiful things happen with, or without, concrete plans. I’ve learned that when you focus so much on the bigger picture, you miss the details that really matter.

Two weeks ago, I thought I had 8 weeks to do everything. Today, I’m happy to spend the next 6 weeks doing nothing.

Death

Less than 5 months ago, I sat in a graveyard surrounded by freshly dug graves. In those graves were the bodies of hundreds of Ebola victims. In those bodies, lived beautiful souls.

Death is so final.

Not including war and HIV/AIDS, I’ve now worked disasters that led to the total death of over 20, 000 people. That is only my international experience. An experience I don’t often discuss. How can you even begin to describe what that feels like? How can you even want to explain what that looks like?

Death ends a life and destroys so many others.

It’s an interesting thing for me though, death. Being faced with so much of it, I’ve spent a lot of time processing what it means to die. And what it means to watch someone die. And what it means to be the one that gets to live.

I’ve seen some of the most violent deaths you can imagine. In my field, death is rarely peaceful. I’ve heard countless stories of the same. I’ve seen the scars; physical, mental and emotional. I’ve wiped the tears. I’ve held children that were now left completely alone in this world. Sometimes I wonder how I can be so numb to it all.

But I am numb.

You go through periods where you question how you can do what you do. How you can watch everyone around you fall apart completely, and you don’t even shed a tear. That’s often spoken of as a strength, but the truth is, it scares the hell out of me sometimes. In the moment and shortly afterwards.

But I am only numb because I have to be.

There is no weakness in feeling. There is no shame in crying. But I have to play a role that involves allowing everyone else to do that, without turning to that myself. In the moment, I have to be numb to keep moving. To keep working. To keep my focus.

It scares me but I understand it.

You don’t bounce back from this work. You don’t heal. You don’t forget. But you get to survive. Sometimes, even that can feel like you drew the short straw. But I am grateful. Always.

You go numb and you do whatever you have to do to feel again. My self care routine is strong. So strong, that sometimes it looks selfish to those who don’t understand. I don’t fault them for their feelings, but I don’t care either. I take my time to myself. I work out. I travel alone. I speak about it when I need to. I write. I do what I have to do to process my feelings. To feel again. To remember that my numbness isn’t as permanent as the death that causes it.

5 months ago, I returned from Sierra Leone, after working at the Ebola Treatment Centre. I left death and arrived home, to the news of another death. A more personal one. I thought I was ready for the funeral. I was still numb.

Standing in that graveyard, the whole world was spinning around me. I was surrounded by people who were feeling something. So much of something. So much of everything. People that I loved.

I stood there and all I could see was death. I couldn’t hear anything. I couldn’t breathe. In a graveyard, so close to home. I saw names. I saw graves. I saw Sierra Leone. Africa. The Ebola Treatment Centre. Death. I could feel the vomit coming. I couldn’t stop the tears. I had to leave.

It was in that moment that I came back to me.

I always do and I always will. This is the cycle I live.

Until my dying day.

The Past.

No matter how hard you try to run from your past, you can’t. It finds you. It finds you when you least expect it. Finds you in the most random place. It leaves you completely unprepared. Vulnerable.

I accepted that a long time ago and have long since stopped trying to run. Still, I’ve found that there is no way to be prepared for the flood of certain memories when it finds you.

The past requires explanations. Apologies. Uncomfortable balancing of the processing of memories and emotions with small talk and excited laughter. Hugs. Kisses. Holy Shit, how long has it been(s)?!?! The past requires being present when you’re not ready to be.

Today I walked into the past at a Starbucks downtown. I walked into it unprepared and came face to face with the Sandra I ran away from so long ago.

I had an appointment and I was early. Finding a place to enjoy coffee and get some work done is easy downtown, you go to Starbucks. I wanted an Americano and a muffin.

In 1999, I celebrated one year of sobriety.

I was 18 years old and had just experienced a miscarrage. Sober minds allow you to feel and I was feeling. I had been with my boyfriend for a few years, I loved him. We loved each other. We lived for each other. When I made the decision to stop using and enter rehab, I gave him the option of getting sober with me or I would leave. I’m not the type for ultamatums, but this was about saving my life; our lives. He chose me. I knew he would.

In 1999, we were both celerating one year of sobriety.

The miscarrage was painful. It allowed me to slow down and process the direction of my life; our life. I knew he only stopped using for me. He still spoke about drugs and his desire to use. Always reminding me that he would never “do that to me”. I couldn’t live like that. I never wanted to be in a relationship where decisions were made by one person and followed by the other out of love or fear of losing them. So, I left. I gave him room to breathe. To live. It killed both of us. He started using again that night, I’ve been sober since.

In 1999, I celebrated one year of sobriety.

I was 18 years old, working 70 hours a week and maintaining my own apartment. One of my jobs was the gym, the other was at a Starbucks downtown.

I loved working at Starbucks. I started there because I needed health benefits, what I found there was way more than I ever expected. Shortly after I started, I met my future roomate (who I would move to British Columbia with), made wonderful friendships (that I still have now), and I met my boyfriend (who would later become the father of my first child).

1999 was a great year.

Celebrating sobriety meant a new love and appreciation for partying without drugs. I would go to the Guvernment every weekend and just dance. I enjoyed the freedom and energy that my new life brought. I had just trained a new staff member at Starbucks, who happened to be dating a member of the gym I worked at. She was a dancer and we hit it off quickly. She instantly became my weekend clubbing partner and we had a lot of fun together. Me, sober. Her, not. It didn’t matter, I was strong enough to be around it without needing it.

I had stopped selling drugs when I stopped using, but it was hard to escape a life that people knew you for. Being downtown meant being recognized often. Being recognized often meant being asked for product. Being asked for product meant being forced to face my past regularly. I was no longer that Sandra. But I was strong enough to to be around it without needing it.

One night at the Guvernment, I bumped into an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in years. She was looking for drugs and smiled when she saw me. I told her I didn’t sell anymore but she knew I knew everyone there who did. She didn’t trust anyone but me, so she begged me to get her some. I agreed. Didn’t think anything of it, one transaction, no big deal.

As soon as those pills were in my hand, they were in my mouth.

I thought I was stronger than I was. I was strong because I had stayed away. The past found me when I was unprepared and I was weak.

I spit out the pills and left. That was the night I decided I needed to move. To get away. To run as far as I could from the past.

My roomate, my boyfriend and I packed up our apartment and moved across the country. We started a new life in Victoria, British Columbia.

I left to save my life.

With that, I left a lot of people behind. Some understood, some never forgave me for not saying goodbye.

The past requires explanations. Apologies. Uncomfortable balancing of the processing of memories and emotions with small talk and excited laughter. Hugs. Kisses. Holy Shit, how long has it been(s)?!?! The past requires being present when you’re not ready to be.

Today I walked into the past at a Starbucks downtown. I walked into it unprepared and came face to face with the Sandra I ran away from so long ago.

That friend. The one I spent every weekend dancing the nights away with. There she was. On the other side of the counter, holding my americano in her hand as we made eye contact. Floods of memories. Emotions. She handed me my drink and we smiled with recognition. Excited laughter. Holy shit, how have you beens!?!?!

It’s been 15 years since I’ve looked into those eyes. She is exactly where I last saw her.

The past found me and I wasn’t ready.