Paul – The End (1999)

I woke up to him laying next to me in my bed. He was watching me sleep. Crying.

“What are you doing here?”

“I can’t lose you.”

He was high. Even in that dark room, I could see it.

He was empty.

It had been a year since we got sober. A year since I’d seen that look in his eyes.

“Please tell me you didn’t do it, please tell me you didn’t.”

“Baby, I can’t lose you. Please don’t leave me.”

Whatever was left for me to give him died in that bed that night.

“What did you do?”

“It doesn’t matter, I don’t want to live without you.”

We were both sobbing now. I felt as if my heart was being ripped from my body as I tried to hold whatever was left of him. Of us.

No matter what happened now, I couldn’t take him back.

I had to save myself.

He (poetry)

He was the most powerful drug she had ever consumed.

She craved him.

The way they could do everything and nothing at the same time.

Physically.

Mentally.

Emotionally.

Spiritually.

He affected her.

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. 

and miles to go before I sleep

I have a tattoo on the inside of my left forearm that says “and miles to go before I sleep”. I love it. I look at it every day. I run my fingers over it, close my eyes, and feel it. Breathe it. It is a part of me that goes far beyond a simple tattoo. To many, it seems incomplete. People often read it, then search for the rest. It doesn’t start with a capital letter, it doesn’t end with a period. It just is. To me, it makes perfect sense.

As a teenager, I lived a dangerous life. A life of uncertainty, risk and violence. I lived a life on the streets, involved in a world of drugs and sex and broken dreams. I didn’t ask for that life, I didn’t search for it, it found me. It found me in the same way it finds most kids, the pain inside me was bigger than any happiness I could see. There were many factors that led me down this path. I can sit here and point fingers at all the systems that failed me. I can write about oppression, opportunity, justice. I won’t. Not here anyway. At 14 I was sexually assaulted by someone very trusted in my community. I had no one to tell. It had to be my fault. So I deserved to be punished. It made sense to take myself away from things that I loved, at that time, it was sports. Goodbye sports, I didn’t deserve the happiness they gave me!!! That didn’t work, it wasn’t enough. I needed to find a way to take back power over my body, so I hurt it. I punished it further by not nourishing it. By calling it names and doing whatever I could do to make it suffer for what it was doing to the rest of me. I cried and felt numb at the same time. Then I found drugs and for the first time, I felt nothing but happiness. One pill down. 20 minutes later, I was laughing. All things were perfect. This was exactly what I needed. School didn’t matter. My family didn’t matter. Drugs mattered. For as long as my high lasted, I felt free. I felt like the person I was before I became the victim. I needed more. I always needed more. But drugs cost money and money is not easy to find as a teenager. I considered becoming a stripper first, my boyfriend said no. He was also involved in drugs, but despite it all, he loved me enough to not let me make that choice. He probably saved my life with that. We started selling drugs instead. We sold and we sold a lot. I looked innocent enough to walk around the City of Toronto with a half pound of mushrooms and 50 pills on my back and not attract attention from the police. I knew how to work the system. I knew how to work the streets. I kept “friends” who kept me safe. There was never a shortage of money or drugs. I slept in many places. I slept in parks. I slept in shelters. I slept wherever I was whenever I felt like sleeping. I danced. I laughed. I loved. I got high. But the more I got high, the lower I found myself. I couldn’t tell the difference between what was real and what wasn’t. I wasn’t me, I just fooled myself into thinking I was. I didn’t recognize myself anymore. At 17, three years after the initial assault, I was sexually assaulted again. This time, I was too high to know what was happening. I didn’t know until it was to late. I wanted to die. I took whatever I had – 17 pills – and tried to sleep. My sister found me and the look on her face still haunts me. By the time I was being rushed to the hospital, I knew I didn’t want to die. I was so concerned with myself that I hadn’t considered what this would do to those around me. I fought so hard to live that day. The next year was spent recovering. Finding my real self again, or at least beginning the process. One week ago, I celebrated 15 years of sobriety.

I learned about a poem by Robert Frost when I was young called “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”. At the time, it meant nothing more than a memorization project we were assigned at school. Shortly after I tried to kill myself, I found the poem again. There are no coincidences in life, I was supposed to find that poem. I read it and in it, I found exactly what I needed. There are many interpretations of the poem but mine was simple. The man finds a cabin in the woods. He wants to stay. He’s tired, it’s dark and snowy and cold. I saw the cabin as a place of peace, death, a final resting place. The last lines of the poem are “but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep.” I have lived the last 16 years on borrowed time. I have made promises to myself and I have vowed to live every single day of my life to the fullest. My story could of ended that day but as it turns out, I have miles to go before I sleep.

I have a tattoo on the inside of my left forearm that says “and miles to go before I sleep”. I love it. I look at it every day. I run my fingers over it, close my eyes, and feel it. Breathe it. It is a part of me that goes far beyond a simple tattoo. To many, it seems incomplete. People often read it, then search for the rest. It doesn’t start with a capital letter, it doesn’t end with a period. It just is. To me, it makes perfect sense.