Flick of a switch

“Sometimes you do the sweetest, most thoughtful things and other times you seem so cold and detached.”

There it is, one of my least favourite descriptions that people use to describe my personality.

It’s a statement I’ve heard on several occasions during the course of my life.

Acquaintances use it during the “getting to know me” stage, to try to understand who I am really am. (Good luck with that!) Depending on how committed I am to that relationship, I either do my best to give them an explanation of why it may sometimes feel that way or they get a shallow explanation and I move on. My philosophy for personal relationships is simple, accept who I am, as I am, or walk away. No hard feelings, trust me!!! You can expect the same from me in return. I have no interest in changing who I am and/or forcing anyone else to change who they are.

It’s not often that this will come from someone I consider a friend, but here it is. He’s sitting across the table from me, “sometimes you do the sweetest, most thoughtful things and other times you seem so cold and detached.”

There is a sadness in his eyes that make his words feel like a smack in the face. When coming from someone I care about, no other statement makes me feel more misunderstood. No words hurt me quite as much.

I can feel the flicking of a switch inside me that immediately takes me to my defensive line. I’m sitting on the fence that divides two very strong emotions, sadness and anger. I stay there for a second, trying not to fall to either side of that fence. I process what explanation this conversation requires. He recognizes where I am and I can see that he regrets his words.

But it’s too late to take them back now.

I take my relationships seriously, and my loyalty knows no bounds. There is little I wouldn’t do for someone I love. My relationships last a long time, and anyone who I consider a good friend knows this about me. There is never a question about my love and reliability. Never.

While I may unplug for a while to focus on myself, all of my friends/family know I am just a phone call away if I’m needed. Always. You send out the bat signal, I’m at your door with two coffees and the biggest hug you’ve ever had. Ask anyone.

People often tell me how lucky I am to be able to detach from a situation like it’s a strength. I’m not sure how lucky that really is. Sometimes it feels like a curse. When someone I care about makes this statement, it stings. Bad.

My need to detach comes from a dark place, these moments are reminders that those places continue to shape me. Everyday. Every action. No matter how far I’ve come from that world.

It’s a cold world I live in sometimes.

Still, I make no apologies for how I chose to survive.

He knows this.

There is no explanation needed and we move on to the next topic.

Dreams

Some days my dreams are HUGE…climb mountains, run the world, learn to fly using only my arms.  Other days, I dream about not being a grandmother in my 30s.  I’m here, there and everywhere today.

Minimum Wage, Maximum Life

Growing up with very little, teaches you a lot.

A lot about life.  A lot about love.  Money.  Power.  Respect.  Time.  Value.  What’s important and what isn’t.

Character.  Poverty builds character.  Characters.  I have seen many.

Fair or unfair, we are all a product of the life we are given.  We are not born with a choice.  We are just born.  The circumstances around that are out of our control.

Who we become, some of those decisions are taken from us too.

I’m not sure who I would have been if I hadn’t been broken so early.  If I had ever known what it felt like to be whole.  If I hadn’t experienced so much shortage.  Pain.  Anger.  Violence.  Hurt.  Loss.  If the external influences in my life were more positive than negative.  If I knew what love was supposed to feel like.  Who knows what that Sandra would have looked like today?!?  Not me.

Still, I have never been concerned with who I might have been.  I’ve never been uncomfortable with who I am.  I’ve never been afraid to find out who I will become next.

I may not have been born with choices, but I’ve made many since.

One of the most important choices I made, was in the design of my career.  That choice was built around experiences.  Feelings.  Having felt poverty.  Having felt hunger.  Having felt homelessness.  Having felt a dependence on various systems.  I have felt what having nothing feels like and therefore, I have no fear of it.

Not being afraid doesn’t mean I want to ever experience it again.  I don’t!  It just means that I know what I am able to survive, regardless of how much, or how little I have.  It means that I understand the value of something, and the lesson in nothing.

Growing up with little left me with the belief that I had 3 options in life…

1. Continue with nothing.  Be content with shortage.  Struggle.

2. Search for something different.  Something more.  Be bigger.  Be better.  Hustle.  Strive for money and power.  Live a life of material wealth.  Forget what shortage ever felt like.

3. To find a balance.  To find comfort.  To find true happiness outside of money.  Outside of luxury.  Satisfaction without concern for the expectation of others.

I chose option 3.  Again.  Always option 3.  The happy medium.  Never too little.  Never too much.  Good enough for me.  Plenty.

I built my life around that.  Balance.  Money would never be my motivation.  Power would never be my motivation.  Luxury, I didn’t need that.  I still don’t.  My goal was simple, if I were to rise, it would be without regret.  I was content with simplicity.

Minimum wage, maximum life.

Balance.

I’ve lived that reality for most of my life and I’ve loved every minute of it.

When I started my current job, it was part of my journey.  A natural progression for the career path I’ve chosen to walk.  It came with more money and more power but it also came with much personal sacrifice.  It paid more, but I made less. It meant working long hours. Evenings. Weekends. More time away from my family. Less time with friends. Less time for the gym. Less time for school. Less time for recreational activities. Hobbies. Painting. Writing. Less time for all the things that made me, me.  Still, I loved it.  I loved the possibility of it.  How it provided an opportunity for me to work on so many of my different personal passions.  How it combined the ability to learn, grow, be creative, be active, be flexible, affect change where it really mattered.  It was perfect.  The trade-off was worth it.  It was just me, happily rising without regret.

As a baby, I was given the nickname “estrelhinha”, meaning “little star” in Portuguese.  Told that I’ve always been able to light up a room, I have been known for my smile.  It’s the one thing you will never see me without.  My smile.  Even with nothing, I’ve always had something.

The last few weeks at work have become increasingly difficult.  An internal struggle between the love I have for the position/people I serve/the possibilities, and the dislike I have for the egos of some of the people I have to work with.  Today was a reminder of the option I chose so many years ago.  Happiness.

Somewhere along this path, I seem to have lost my balance.  Somewhere along this path, my smile has begun to fade.  I needed the reminder.  I’m not sure where my path will take me next.  I don’t know what choices I will make in order to find that balance again.

When I was in Sierra Leone, we had daily surveillance meetings at the local hospital.  In the room where the meetings were held, there was a sign on the wall with the following written on it:

If you lose your wealth, you’ve lost nothing.

If you lose your health, you’ve lost something.

If you lose your character, you’ve lost everything.

 

I can live with nothing, but I can’t live without my smile.

Time to refocus.

Making changes.

 

 

Option 3

Life has been busy.  Adulthood is busy.  Actually, thinking about my kid’s schedules, childhood is busy too.  Alright, back to life than.

LIFE is busy!!!  Mine is no exception.

If you’ve been following along, you’ll be very familiar with the rollercoaster that is 2015.  If you know me at all, you’ll know that I LOVE rollercoasters.  If you know rollercoasters, you know that they end almost as quickly as they begin.  THIS rollercoaster is in obvious need of repair.  I’ve been travelling at high-speed for a little too long and this lady is getting queasy.

Before you start to panic, please realize that I’m half playing.  HALF!  One half is actually in need of a break, the other half is thoroughly enjoying the ride.  I love my work.  I truly do.  I’m driven by action, fueled by passion and in total and complete love with my life.

But life is busy and I’m tired.

I started the year with 5 weeks of vacation; 3 from 2015 and 2 carried over from 2014.  Getting deployed to Sierra Leone in February meant putting all 5 weeks towards my 8 weeks away.  Imagine how badly I needed a vacation when I returned from working at the Ebola Treatment Centre.  Imagine how difficult it was knowing that I had absolutely no time left in my vacation bank for the remainder of the year.  Imagine coming back to work to over 700 emails, voicemail and a cell phone ringing off the hook with everyone pulling you in every direction.  Imagine all of that by mid-April.

There is no way to sugar coat it, it sucked!!!!!

So, I had two options:

1. Pace myself.  Do what I could with the little time I had and not be as present as I would like.

2. Go hard!  Get done what I needed to get done, be present and satisfy the masses.

Option 1 meant less work and more rest.  Option 2 meant more overtime.  Overtime meant the possibility of building some lieu time.  Lieu time meant the opportunity for a vacation and/or time off during the year.  Option 2 won!  Hands down!

I’ve been living in option 2 for 7 weeks straight now.  I’ve worked many late nights, I’ve worked every weekend since I got back.  I’ve banked some lieu time and I have found relief in knowing that my feet will be walking along a beach at some point in 2015.  I’m happy with my choice.  I NEEDED to make that choice.

But now I’m tired!

Last Friday, I hit a wall.  I made another choice, option 3.

3. Unplug.  Shut down.  Take a break.  Breathe.

Friday ended with a shooting.  I could have worked all weekend but I literally had nothing left to give.  My kids needed me to be present.  I needed them to remind me to slow down.  Option 3.  I shut myself off from work for the entire weekend.  I didn’t watch the news.  I didn’t check my emails.  I didn’t answer my phone.  I didn’t check my voicemail.

I hung out with my children.  I watched my oldest son play baseball.  I spent the entire day watching my youngest son compete in his lacrosse tournament.  I laughed.  I napped.  I wrote.  I spent time with friends and family.  I fully embraced option 3.

Last night, I went to bed at 9pm.  I slept a solid 9 hours.  I felt amazing when I woke up this morning at 6am.  I got up, got ready and went to the gym.  I did a one hour spin class, took a shower, got dressed, bought coffee, ate my overnight oats and I was at my desk by 8:30am.  I was recharged and fully ready for Monday!

My morning started off with a meeting.

Meetings are the number one productivity killer for me.  Seriously.  I truly believe that.  I’m an action person.  I go in, get shit done, and leave.  Meetings are not made to suit the needs of us ADHD folk.

I’m also rarely at the office.

My work requires me to be on the road, in my car and in the community all the time.  When I’m at the office, I usually have an obscene amount of paperwork to do, petty cash to turn in, catch up conversations to have with my team and other members of my division.  Everyone always has something to say to me.  Getting my work done at the office means I spend most of my time trying to hide from people.

Today, it was meetings and hiding.

In the middle of a second meeting, I got the alert that there was a homicide.  2pm.  Daylight murder.  My phone started ringing immediately.  Shit!!!!

When an incident happens, the work starts immediately.  It’s non-stop action for the next few hours as you try to get all the information you can.  This is easy in my car.  This is easy in the community.  In the office, when you can’t hide, people come at you from everywhere.  “What happened?…I just heard?…It’s so sad?…Do you know anything yet?…Was it someone who lives in the area?…Were there any arrests?….Do they have any suspects?…Was it connected to anything else?….”

SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LET ME DO MY JOB!!!!

That’s what I want to say.  I usually just answer briefly and try to walk away.  It’s a huge pet peeve of mine but I understand that people are curious and for the most part, genuinely concerned.  I know this.  So, I try not to be rude, despite my annoyance.

Today, after 4 hours of emails and phone calls, I wanted to go home.  I hadn’t had a chance to use the washroom and my head was really starting to hurt.  I had an hour commute ahead of me and I just wanted to leave.  As I got up to go to the washroom, someone I worked with decided it would be a good time to discuss a situation that she experienced that really upset her.  I listened to her for about 10 minutes before her phone rang and she had to go.  After about an hour of holding in my pee, I finally got to go to the washroom in peace.  I said goodbye and wished her a good evening.

I go into the stall and sit on the toilet.  Yes, I SIT on the toilet.  Sorry germophobes, at this point, I’m way too exhausted from the activity of the day to hold a squat.  I take a breath, ahhhhhhh….peace!

I’m in the middle of my pee when the door swings open.  Sure enough, she storms into the washroom to finish telling me the rest of her story.

I’m sitting there and all I can think is, “Is this actually really fucking happening?  What has happened in my life that I can’t even pee in peace at work?”

THIS rollercoaster is in obvious need of repair. I’ve been travelling at high-speed for a little too long and this lady is getting queasy.

Not my time.

I like to think that I bleed truth through my writing.

Open.  Honest.  Without fear.  Without shame.  Real.  Raw.  Me.

But the biggest truth is that I proceed with extreme caution.  Whatever I choose to write.  Whatever I choose to share.  Whatever I choose to bleed.  I’m very selective about it.

My life is not my own.

As much as I would like to believe it is, it’s not!  I am a product of everyone I’ve ever encountered.  Hundreds.  Thousands.  Millions even.  Experiences.  Conversations.  Observations.  I am the combination of everything and everyone I’ve ever experienced.

We all are.

So many people have contributed to the Sandra I’ve become.  People who have shaped me.  Changed me.  Guided me.  Misguided me.

My stories are not mine alone.

I haven’t written anything on my blog for a while.  I haven’t been able to.  Writing, for me, serves a very simple purpose.  It gives me a visual for the chaos in my mind.  Sometimes, I don’t even know what I’m thinking until I put that pen to paper.  I don’t know what I’m feeling until my fingers hit the keyboard.  Words are my truth.  I write.  I read.  I understand.  I share.

But for the last couple weeks, my visuals paint a different picture.  The things I’ve been processing.  Thinking.  Feeling.  Doing.  I cannot share openly.

Those stories are attached to people who have played a much larger role in my life.  In my development.  In my journey.  People I care about.  People I love and have loved.  People that have dedicated their entire life to ensuring no one knows who they really are.  What they really do.  How they really feel.  What they really believe.

Their lies became my lies.  Their lies became my silence.  Their lies keep me silent still.

I can speak freely about the impact a stranger had on me.  I don’t know them.  You don’t know them.  I don’t care about them.  Neither do you.

But what happens when you love the people who hurt you the most?  I know them.  You know them.  Or maybe you think you do.  How can I bleed truth if it comes at the expense of their reputations and relationships?  If I make the choice to live a life of honesty, does that give me permission to reveal their lies?  And if I don’t, does that mean I am not as honest as I think I am?

2015.  It’s been the biggest transition year of my life.  I have figured out so much about myself in the last few months.  Made decisions.  Shared.  Laughed.  Cried.  Loved.  Lost.  Worked.  Lived.  I am in a peaceful place.  I am in a better place today then I have been in years.  I love who I am.  Where I am.  I have lost the need to control where I’m going.  I have released anger.  Guilt.  Pain.  Frustration.  I am good.

I’m great.

Absolutely amazing.

But getting there hasn’t been easy.  It’s never been easy.  Getting there has required a lot of processing.  Reliving experiences I never wanted to relive.  Digging deep into the lies I’ve been forced to feed the world.  Not my lies.  Facing the reality of some of the decisions I have made recently and why.  I’ve had to find myself.  Again.  After already finding myself so many times before.

It would have been impossible for me to understand any of this without that process.  The same way it would be impossible for you to understand who I am, without first understanding what has shaped me.  Who has shaped me.

I want to share that so badly.

I want to live a life of honesty.

There are so many stories I wish I could tell.  So many experiences I wish I could be more open about.

I am simply made of many closed wounds, just waiting for the right time to bleed.

But now is not that time.

Boys are gross.

So my preteen (from hell) decided to lose his shit the other day.  It was awful. Hours of screaming, crying, threatening to run away. His hormones are raging and he’s struggling.  

Luckily, or unluckily for him, he has two parents who are in this field. So, he gets a mix of conversation and problem solving possible strategies for helping to manage his anger. Not in those words exactly but let’s just call it what it is.

One of the things we tell him to do sometimes when he starts to escalate is to go take a bath. Cool down. Relax. Enjoy some quiet time in a private space. Process your thoughts before reacting. Take the damn time out.  Take it before I throw you out the window!!!!  But I don’t tell him that last part, that’s an inside voice. 

This was one of the options presented to him the other day. He thought it might be a good idea, which made me happy. His time out also helps me get MY time out!  It’s a double bonus. 

We decided to go for a mommy/son run first.  I love those times. We have some pretty serious conversations while walking. He tries to talk when we are running but that’s not my thing.  Normally, I run with music but I’m on momma bear high alert when I run with my kids, so listening to music is not an option.  To not have music is already annoying enough but when he tries to talk, I’m not having it. Our mommy/son runs involve intervals because of this; jog, walk, sprint, walk, jog, etc.  

We jog next to each other during our jog periods.  

We have serious conversations about serious issues while walking.  

We full out race during the sprints (I still kill him in the races).  

This is what we do. It’s our thing. One of our many things.  I love it. 

So, we choose to do that on this night, which brings me back to the original reason for this blog…

BOYS

ARE

GROSS 

The bath was an option that was on the table for cooling down.  We had already established that before going for a run.  Going for a run meant he would be taking one anyway. So, when we got home, I asked him if he was going to take his bath now.  

He looked at me and said “I’m just going to take a bath to relax, I’m not going to use soap or anything.”

Really?

You’re already doing EVERYTHING else, why not take a couple minutes and wash the preteen/just went for a run stink off your body?  

Gross!  Gross!  Gross!

It got me thinking about the million times this, or something like this has happened. At home. At work. Everywhere.  People “fake” clean themselves ALL the time!!!!  I see it everywhere. 

I see it at home all the time with my disgusting boys.  I see them wet their hands with water and run as far away in the other direction in hopes I don’t notice. I’ve seen them sprinkle water on the soap to make it look like they used it. I’ve seen them put just enough soap on their hands to make them smell good in case I ask to smell them when they leave. Gross!  

I see it in public washrooms from the door cracks. I watch people turn on the water and stand in front of it and play with their hair until the water has been running long enough to make whoever is in there believe that they washed their hands.  Then they ruffle some paper towels, throw it out and call it a day!  Gross! 

That shit takes thought and effort.  You could have actually washed your hands more easily and quickly then in the time it took you to pretend. 

If you’re already making all that effort anyway, why not just do it?  Or not do it. Pretending just seems like a waste of time. Own your grossness or clean yourself properly.

I don’t get it.

After all that, my son and I decided to make smoothies before the bath. Chocolate peanut butter banana strawberry almond milk hemp hearts and chia seeds smoothie, to be exact. Yum!!!  Somehow we got to talking while enjoying our smoothies.  Then it was bedtime and he kissed me goodnight and went to bed.  

About 20 minutes later, I realized there was no bath.  He got me!  Punk!!!!  

He IS gross but at least he owns his grossness.

My reason.

The more people that offer me help after reading my blog, the more I see the importance of writing it. 

We have created a society where people are not comfortable with their thoughts.  Expressing themselves. Sharing their feelings. 

On a professional level, I have been in the social work field for 14 years.  I have heard thousands of struggles.  Pain. Loss. Confusion. Truth. I have heard and seen darkness over and over again. 

On a personal level, I have now lost count of my friends, family and acquaintances that struggle daily with depression, anxiety, stress and finding purpose.  Physical struggles. Emotional struggles. Mental struggles. Spiritual struggles. 

I can say with absolute certainty, not one person in my life isn’t dealing with some aspect of it.  

But they are doing it privately.  Alone or in a very small circle.  Not for a lack of support but for other reasons. 

Fear. 

Fear of being judged. Fear of how others will look at them if they know their life isn’t perfect. Fear of being “different”. Fear of what others may think if they find out they are on medication to help them cope. Fear of appearing weak.  Fear of hurting their family and friends. Fear of scaring people with their thoughts.  Their actions. 

We are all scared of something.   

Those feelings are very much valid. 

Fear is real. 

So we sit with it.  

We medicate.  

We medicate ourselves. 

With social media. 

With alcohol. 

With drugs. 

With work. 

With company. 

With sex. 

With the gym. 

With love. 

With anything and everything that will keep us from having to be honest. 

We succeed in other areas and we are celebrated for doing so.

People drown themselves in physical activity and we congratulate them for being determined. 

People drown themselves in their work and we congratulate them for being ambitious. 

People drown themselves in their social life and we congratulate them for being fun. 

But honesty. 

Pain. 

Reality. 

We fear it. 

The only consistent thing I find in everyone I meet, is struggle. 

That’s the real “normal”.   

THAT. 

IS. 

THE. 

REAL. 

NORMAL. 

And still we are told that it’s not. 

That the way we feel is something that needs fixing. With medication. With counselling. With anything. 

And the more we allow ourselves to believe this, the more we struggle. 

The more silent we remain, the more pain we feel. 

The more we fear, the more isolated we allow ourselves to become. 

So I’ve decided to write openly about what hurts.  To split myself open.  To come out of my head so that others know it’s ok to do so. 

Every day, hundreds of people read my blog.  I get feedback from all over the world about how my words have reminded them that they are ok.  

 

This is why I write. 

 

My struggle is real. 

But I’m ok. 

The more people that offer me help after reading my blog, the more I see the importance of writing it. 

Returning to me (pt. 2)

After feeling this way for a week, I decided this would take more than love.  An outsider. Someone I can unload to without concern for their feelings.  Without having to worry about worrying them. 

I trust my process but I know how terrifying it can look to someone that cares about me.  

I know I’m ok. 

I don’t want to have to worry about making sure everyone else knows it too. 

So today, I made the call to my employee assistance program for counselling.  It’s not the first time I’ve deemed it necessary, it likely won’t be the last. I’m familiar with the intake process.  

A series of questions to find out who I am, where I’m at and what is happening.

She gathers the basics.

Name

Number

Address

Blah blah blah. 

Next is the confidentiality clause…We won’t tell unless you’re at risk of hurting yourself and/or others.  Got it.  Cool. 

Then we get to the heart of the matter…tell me a little bit about what’s going on. 

I start with, I just got back from an Ebola mission in West Africa. 

She interrupts.  That’s so wonderful. Good for you. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I keep going. 

My marriage is falling apart.

There is a lot happening in my personal life.  I’m coming up on the anniversary of my suicide attempt and I’m surrounded by death.  

My family and friends are going through a lot right now.

I’m going back to work in a week and a half and I know there will not be a smooth transition.

She’s gathered enough. 

After you said Ebola mission, I can completely understand why you called. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I am so much more then my career in disaster response. There is so much more to my life.  This is part of what makes coming back so difficult.  Everyone wants to hear about your mission, your deployment, the horrors you’ve seen and heard.  All to satisfy their own curiosities.  It’s such a lonely feeling to return to that. To be surrounded by that. To lock yourself away because you know this is what you will have to face.  Every. Single. Time. You. Walk. Out. That. Door. 

My mission is a fraction of what I’m experiencing.  I’m trying to figure out how my life will function if my marriage ends.  The thought of not being with my husband, having to move, struggling financially, maintaining my very demanding career as a single mother and not having my kids full time.  I’m struggling with the fact that my life has been plagued with death. How my first 17 years and my last 17 years started and ended with it.  So much more. So much fucking more. 

I don’t say any of this. 

Next question. 

Do you have a history of drug or alcohol abuse?

Yes, but I’ve been sober for over 16 years. 

Are you on any medications for depression right now?

No, but I’m considering it temporarily while I access supports. 

Have you been on medication before?

Yes, at various stages in my life. Temporarily, while accessing supports.  

You said you were married, does your husband work?

Yes. 

So, obviously you don’t have any children so I can skip that. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

I have three kids. 

Ohhhh. 

But now I’m pissed. 

What the fuck about my life led you to make an assumption like that?  

Is it that I can have a successful  international career?

A successful full time career?

My past addiction?

My mental health history?

I don’t say anything. I’m not in a good place for that. I get through the intake and just sit with it. 

 

I’m 34 years old. 

A woman. 

A mother. 

A daughter. 

A sister. 

A queer woman. 

A woman who was homeless. 

A recovering addict. 

A former drug dealer. 

A street involved youth. 

A runaway. 

A survivor of an eating disorder. 

A survivor of suicide. 

A god damn fucking success story. 

I am what mental health looks like. 

I am what drug addiction looks like. 

I am what a good mother looks like. 

I am so proud of everything I am. 

Fuck your labels.

Fuck your assumptions. 

 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

Fuck you. 

 

My appointment is next Tuesday. 

I’m getting back to me. 

Changes

Some conversations replay in your head for hours.  If home is a feeling, I’m not there yet.

Changes.

Alone

As much as I speak to people, the best conversations I have are when I’m alone. 

I listen. 

I speak. 

I hear. 

I haven’t been alone in a while now. And that, is the loneliest feeling in the world.