History Repeats Itself

I’ve been looking forward to April 12, 2015 for half my life. 

17 years. 

Since April 12, 1998. 

The day I almost died. 

Since that moment, I’ve waited to celebrate this one.  

17 years on borrowed time. 

I’ve doubled my life. 

I am grateful. 

I’ve celebrated the anniversary every year since.  Counting down to this exact moment.  This day. 

On April 12, 1998, I attempted suicide.  That was the best failure of my life. 

I had never fought so hard to survive as I did then.  And I survived.  I knew that my life had to be about something more. Something bigger than what it was.  Something better than how it felt.  Something. 

The days that followed were all about setting goals for myself.  Preparing for that something.  Whatever that something was. 

I thought about where my life had been. Where my life was now. Where my life was headed.  I thought about the things I had wanted. The things I had sacrificed. The things I was doing, not doing and wanting to do.  I thought. Every single day.  

I made a list.  

I wasn’t interested in a life without spontenaiety, so my list didn’t include a plan. Just goals.  How I would reach those, that remained a mystery even to me. I just knew that I would.  

I made a list of all the things I would do in the next 17 years.  Everything I would have accomplished by April 12, 2015. 

A few months ago, I reviewed that list.  I went back to see where I was, to ensure that I would have it completed in time.  I had.  I had done every single thing I said I would do.  I was doing everything I wanted to do.  Every single thing. 

It was amazing. 

A feeling of absolute completion. Accomplishment. Satisfaction.  Pride.  

And then it hit me like a ton of fucking bricks.  I had planned the rest of my life as if it were going to end on April 12, 2015.  I hadn’t considered what my goals would be like after that.  As far as I was concerned, I was done. 

At 34, I had done everything I set out to do.

And then things got weird.  I found myself mourning the end of this stage and completely unsure about what the next 17 years would bring.  

I thought about where my life had been. Where my life was now. Where my life was headed.  I thought about the things I had wanted. The things I had sacrificed. The things I was doing, not doing and wanting to do.  I thought. Every single day.  

I’ve always had to feel like I was in control of myself. Of my life. Of my choices. Sure, I understood that absolute control was impossible, but if I could control something, I would. And I did. 

The day I found myself crumbled on the ground was the day I realized I was not in control.  I had somehow, without even realizing it, recreated the end of my first 17.  I designed the last 17 years as if they were my end. My last ones. Then I mourned it. Believed it. And I set the scene.  Right down to the emotions. 

At no point was I actually suicidal but I didn’t care if I lived or died. Looking back, I guess I never have. 

People ask me every day why I’m not scared to do the work I do.  The answer is simple, I’ve never feared death. 

I am not afraid to die. 

It sounds strange but there it is.  I enjoy walking on the edge of the cliff knowing that I’m strong enough to not jump.  I crave that feeling.  Not wanting to die but not caring if I live. 

And so, the universe gave me the lesson I needed. The real lesson about life and death. 

I returned home from my mission to painful news of another death. This one hit home. So close to my heart. It hurt.  

Here I was, mourning my own end. Fearless.  Not caring.  And what I had to see that day, was shattering. 

17 years ago, seeing my sister’s face when she found me.  I saw in her, what it would look like if I was gone. 

17 years later, walking towards her lifeless body, I saw what life looked like for my friend, now that her mother was gone.  

History repeated itself. 

I repeated history. 

This is the end of 17. 

April 12, 2015 is a few days away. 

I am so proud of where I’ve come from. I am amazed at where I’ve been. I’ve lived more in my 34 years than many do in 80. 

But I have a newfound excitement for whatever remains of my life.  A thirst for it.  A hunger.  There will be no more 17 for me after I celebrate this milestone.  

Just days. Every day. Weeks. Months. Years. Living. Truly living. Doing. Being. 

Creating. 

That’s the only goal I’m setting for myself.  I will create.  That’s it.  

Watch me. 

 

 

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. 

How many is to many?

At 33, I find myself surrounded by friends who are just beginning their families.  Some are planning their first child, some are thinking about a second, some are considering parenting nothing but animals for the rest of their life.  Personally, I’d say animals are the way to go.  Much less attitude and they are always happy to see you.  However, this is not about discouraging you from having a million babies, it’s about answering a question that I often get asked by my family wanting/planning friends:  What is it like having 3 kids?

Ok, I make it look easy.  I do.  But I assure you, it’s not.  It’s really not.  It’s hard work regardless of how many you have.  I had my first child at 21 and it was not planned.  (See blog “Gratitude Forgotten…and then remembered” for more details.)  It rocked my core.  Changed everything I knew.  After everything I had experienced in my youth, I decided I needed to start fresh, somewhere else.  My boyfriend, my roomate and I packed up our bags and bought a one way train ticket to Victoria, British Columbia.  I couldn’t wait to be by the water.  I couldn’t wait to get away from all the bad I was leaving behind.  I started my post secondary studies and planned on becoming a doctor.  I was going to work for Doctors Without Borders and surf my way around the world.  It was perfect.  My boyfriend and I were happy, maybe a little to happy.  Enter Pearce, my first born.  The universe has a funny way of telling you that you cannot simply run from your problems.  I heard the universe loud and clear.  Here we were, thousands of miles away from family, about to raise a child, finish our studies, and work full time jobs without any support.  Yup, the universe was not my friend.  Ok, it was, it always is.  But at the time, the universe and I were fighting.  FINE!!!  After three years in BC, we packed up any belongings we could fit into a small uhaul and our Hyundai.  After three years of happiness, my boyfriend, my 7 week old son and I moved back to Toronto.  Back into my parents house, where I had not lived for 6 years.  I swallowed every bit of my pride because it was the right thing to do.  I knew it was.  So, I apologized to the universe.  Now that we were on speaking terms again, the universe challenged my stubborn self in every way imaginable.  I thought I could do everything alone, pffffft, enter post-partum depression.  I thought I could ignore the strain on my relationship with my parents, enter the fighting.  So many thoughts, enter counselling, medication, repression breaking through every wall I had built, a break up, single parenthood, full time school, part time work, a custody battle from hell, crying, tears, wanting to run away.  Thanks universe!  No really, thanks!  It made me realize that I wasn’t ok.  Not yet.  I worked my butt off, repaired relationships, raised my son, excelled in school, worked on my physical/mental/emotional/spiritual health and learned the importance of a supportive network of love.  One child rocked my core.  It was not easy but it was possible.

I met my husband when Pearce was 3.  We worked together, we were friends, we fell in love.  I was a package deal.  It was clear.  I was willing to love and be loved but not to compromise the life I chose.  He wanted the package.  I couldn’t imagine the father he would become, life was wonderful.  I finished school, started my career in social work, I was physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually healthy again.  THANK YOU UNIVERSE!    When Pearce was 5, I gave birth to my second son, Lincoln.  Child number 2.  This was a perfect addition to our family.  He was a wonderful child and he fit right in.  With two adults and two kids, we were perfectly partnered up.  When one needed to be fed and the other needed to play, hubby and I split up and tackled the tasks.  Hubby could put Lincoln to sleep while I spend some quality time with Pearce on our mommy/son date nights.  Hubby and I could have a monthly date night and my parents were happy to babysit their two favourite people.  It was great.  2 was perfect.  6 months later…Seriously universe?!?!?!

With a 5 year old and a 6 month old, I became pregnant with my third child.  The universe has a great sense of humour.  Really funny.  Hilarious!  At first, I thought about all that I’ve overcome.  Surely, this was no big deal.  I got this!  I had a wonderful husband, great kids and a supportive family.  Alright, here goes nothing!  But wait.  That’s when I realize the world is not built for families of 5.  It’s built for families of 4.  Vacation packages for 4.  The backseat of a car only fits 2 carseats.  3 bedroom homes.  Wait a minute, this isn’t going to work.  I find myself trading in my car for a minivan.  I said I would never drive a minivan.  Our 2 bedroom loft isn’t going to work.  Now, 7 months pregnant, I’m in the middle of a move.  After growing up in downtown Toronto, I have to move to the suburbs to find an affordable place.  Moving away from the support system I’ve built, away from the life I’ve known.  What is happening?!?!?!  Adding a 3rd child changed everything.  Campbell, spent his first couple years in and out of the hospital.  Lincoln was learning to walk and I was feeding a sick infant.  My commute to work was longer.  My monthly daycare bills have helped to rack up a debt that will take years to repay.  My car payments went up.  My housing costs went up.  My visits to the hospital with injured children went WAY up.  My condo is crowded.  I have to recruit more parents because they all play sports.  When the 3 of them run in different directions, hubby and I have to decide which two are worth saving based on their behaviour that day.  My life has changed.  It’s chaotic in ways I couldn’t have imagined it to be.  But I wouldn’t change it for anything.

The universe has a funny way of telling you exactly what you need.  One kid, two kids, three kids, or animal babies.  My answer is simple, stop worrying so much about planning the life you think you want.  Let the life you’re supposed to live find you.