3.5 Heart-stopping Seconds to Gratitude

So thankful for this little mop-top.

Sometimes a close call puts everything into perspective, and reminds you of what you are most thankful for.

Yesterday, my mom and I took my daughters to a movie and then to the park.  My eldest has just figured out how to swing on the monkey bars and was desperate to show off her new talent to grandma.  My youngest, not to be outdone, recently learned how to pump her legs and swing herself and she couldn't wait to get up in the sky and close her eyes and feel like flying.

This kid, my youngest, used to be afraid of swings.  It was the one thing she was afraid of, but no more.  Now we can officially say she's fearless.  As you might expect, this means that my nerves are almost constantly frayed as she leaps from one death-defying act to another.  For a kid with no sense of danger, she has made it through four years surprisingly unscathed, but she has had her fair share of minor scrapes and spills.

Which is why, when I first heard her crying from across the playground yesterday, I wasn't overly concerned.  I looked over and saw her scooped in my mom's arms and assumed she had fallen and skinned her knee.  But there were a lot of people seemingly frozen, staring at her, and there was a man standing in front of my mom saying something which I couldn't hear over the crying, crying which wasn't stopping.  I ran.

I got to her and saw that her little face was covered in blood.  I heard the man's voice apologizing and saying that it had never happened before.  It seems my daughter, who adores dogs, had asked to pet the man's dog and he had said yes.  She was petting the dog and tried to give it a hug and the dog turned and bit her face.

She was okay.  She is okay.  A quick assessment revealed two bite marks, the most severe just an inch below her right eye and the other a minor cut on her top lip.  We rushed her into the car and to the ER (by the time we were in the car, amazingly, she had calmed right down).  And nearly four hours and two stitches later, I got to bring my little girl back home.  In one piece.  Smiling, with fistfuls of stickers from nurses, asking for a burger.

My mom and I tucked her into bed last night (her tummy full of hamburger, as requested) and, for once, this exhausted little thing didn't put up a fight.  She fell into a deep, peaceful sleep and my heartbeat finally slowed down a little.

So today, on Thanksgiving Day, I am thankful for many things.  I am thankful for my girls, for my healthy, amazing girls.  I am thankful for them every minute of every day but you can bet I held that little one even closer when she climbed into my bed for a cuddle this morning, cheerful and ready to take on the day like it was any other.  I am so very thankful that the bite was only very minor.  This was a full grown Rottweiler.  This could have ended so badly.  I am thankful for how calm my mom was as she comforted the granddaughter in her arms, for the reassuring hand she placed on my arm at the first sign of a waver in my voice as I spoke on the phone to the girls' dad, telling him what had happened.  I am thankful that I have inherited some of that strength and have the ability to quell the rising panic, set aside emotion and think clearly to get things done, and grateful too that my daughter seems to have inherited that strength in turn.  I was thoroughly floored by the incredible toughness that my only-four-years-old daughter showed as she lay perfectly still while being poked and prodded and numbed and stitched in a bright, noisy hospital far too close to bedtime.   I am thankful for free healthcare, a privilege I don't take lightly, and for the absolutely tremendous ER doctor for explaining everything to me very clearly and setting me at ease, but mostly for making my daughter giggle on a gurney while he washed her wounds and sewed her back together.  I am thankful she is home.

Tonight, full to the brim after a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with loved ones, my little girl sat back in her chair, grinned the widest grin, and said with a sigh, "This is the life."  Oh my dear one.  It most certainly is.

Get Up Get Out

Sometimes happiness is sleeping in, lounging in a warm comfy bed all morning when you don't have to jump up and get things done, when no one is expecting anything from you.  As I've been battling the aches and pains of some sort of virus this week, believe me, my bed is all I've been daydreaming about.  

Last Saturday morning, however, my internal clock insisted that I should be wide awake at 6:30 a.m. and I decided not to resist.  I got out of bed and, after a leisurely breakfast, grabbed my camera and went outside.  And it turns out that sometimes, happiness is up and at 'em with the birds.

(Confederation Basin Marina, Kingston Public Market in Springer Market Square behind Kingston City Hall, Royal Military College and Lake Ontario from Fort Henry Hill)

Takeaway Ten

And we're off

Like most littles in this part of the world, my daughters recently began the new school year – my first-born skipped happily into grade 2 with legs that I swear grew six inches over the summer and my firecracker took her first bold steps into kindergarten.  I’ve been thinking a lot about the words I want them to hear and carry with them through their school day and the years to come.  It’s a weird thing, to send your tiny people out into the world on their own, without being right by their side to guide and comfort them each stumble along the way. In lieu of shadowing them every minute of their young lives, I have been sharing these thoughts with them in the hope that some will stick.  

You are special

You have a unique set of talents and ideas and the world needs them and you, in full and fearless.  You’ll feel pressured to fall in line and act the same as those around you – to like what they like and say what they say and feel what they feel – but you'll never breathe a full breath speaking into someone else's words, wearing someone else's clothes, following someone else's path.  There has never been anyone just like you in this world and there never will be again.  That’s incredible.  Be proud and celebrate who you are.  

Also, you’re not

Everyone has special talents which deserve the opportunity to shine.  Everyone deserves the chance to learn and to be in the spotlight.  Sometimes it will be someone else’s turn – lots of times it will be someone else’s turn.  This is not only fair but necessary.  We succeed when others do.  We build community and a compassionate heart when we cultivate graciousness.  Be happy for others.  It only adds to your own happiness.  And your turn will come.

There is an infinite amount of success

Someone else’s success does not leave any less for you.  Even if someone else wins the game, is awarded the part you wanted in the play, gets the job of your dreams, there will be other games and other parts and other dream jobs and please believe me when I say that a lot of the time it is for the best because there is something better waiting for you.  There is also an infinite amount of love.  There is no competition necessary for these resources.  They are in abundance.

Being smart is not about being right

In fact, you only become smart by being wrong.  A lot.  Like, seriously, a lot.  It’s only by being wrong that you work to understand why something is right and sometimes – often – being wrong and persevering and working the problem out gets you to a better answer.  And I’ll tell you a secret:  making mistakes can be kind of fun and they make the victory even sweeter.  This is true for life in general, too.

What you think of you is the opinion that matters most

You ask me sometimes if I think you’re beautiful, if you’re smart, if you did a “good job” and you’ve heard me answer your question with a question, time and time again:  What do you think?  I ask that because nobody’s opinion of you is more important than your own opinion of you.  Of course the opinions of others matter some times in some ways but what others think of you, even what your mother thinks of you, should never ever trump what you think of yourself.  That should always be your first question:  What do I think?  If you think you’re beautiful, smart and successful, that’s all that really matters, although the amazing bonus is that if you believe in yourself, others will too.

Look to give love

I’ve said it before and I’m sure I’ll say it again: We have a responsibility to look out for one another.  If you see someone on the sidelines, someone that needs help, someone that needs a friend, please be that friend.  Offer a kind word, a warm smile, invite them to play with you and rate the lunches your dear parents packed for you.  Tell a grown-up if someone needs help.  What a wonderful thing to give your love and friendship.  What a wonderful thing to receive it in return.

Listen to others

But not without question.  Make up your own mind and follow your own sense of what is right and wrong.  But listen to those around you – your teachers, your peers, even your parents once in awhile – because there is something for you to learn from everyone and every experience.  Accept or reject or question what you hear, but listen and think about it.  Talk too.  Others have a lot to learn from you.

Listen to yourself, most of all

Trust your intuition.  If something doesn’t feel right – a situation, a moment, an idea – get away from it and speak up.  You are the boss of you and you have choices and you get to decide what is best for you.  Stand up for what you believe is right.  I will stand up with you and for you, every time.

You are enough as you are

You do not need to get good grades or win awards or become top of anything or DO ANYTHING AT ALL to impress me or anyone else.  You are already impressive.  You are more than enough.  You breathe and you are enough.

I am here for you

Always and without question.  I don’t care how many mistakes you make, how many wrong turns you take, how much you may push me away.  I am here as I will always be, in your corner, ready and willing to do anything and everything for you.  You are loved more than you know and nothing will ever change that.  These arms will always be wide enough to gather up those long legs and these lips will always be ready with a kiss for that curly red noggin.  And this heart will always beat for you.

The Darkness and the Light

Despicable me

This is a picture of me taken in March-ish 2000, at my university department's annual end-of-year celebration.  There was much to celebrate: my classmates and I had just completed the final year of our program and would soon be graduating.  I remember that as a fun night, as we danced and laughed and reminisced about our four years together.

The thing is, this is also a picture of a girl who desperately wanted to die.  

This picture was taken during the worst period of my depression, when I would cry myself to sleep hoping not to wake up, and cry again in the morning when my wish hadn't been granted and I had to face another day.  When I would hear about tragedies - a fatal car accident, a cancer diagnosis, a pedestrian hit by a bus - and wonder why it wasn't me.  Wondered, if there was a God, why He didn't take me when I clearly wanted to go.  Those poor victims, I'd think.  They probably wanted to be here.  

In this way I was, what I would call, passively suicidal.  I courted death but didn't take the matter into my own hands.  But I think that was only a matter of time.  In fact, I would say that had I not received the right help when I did, shortly after this photo was taken, I don't think I would have been around 6 months later.

All this to say two things:

There's this idea some have, I think, that when someone is "really" depressed, it is obvious.  That they're slovenly and distracted and crying all the time and not eating and failing their classes and missing work.  And sometimes that's true.  And sometimes someone will notice.  And sometimes someone will do something to help.  But often, all too often, depression hides its face and stalks in silence, slowly unraveling a person and a life bit by bit.  Because to call attention to itself would be self-defeating.  Depression plays a game of Statues: when someone's looking, it freezes and does everything within its power to remain undetected, something at which it is highly skilled, but as soon as backs are turned and you're alone again, it makes its move.  Hush hush hush, it whispers in your ear when people are around.  Don't tell.  Then as soon as they're gone, it hisses: I will destroy you.  

For depression to survive, it needs its victim to keep quiet.  It's a disease that convinces its victim that it does not exist.  

Think about that for a second.  What a terribly vicious circle.  An abuser who slaps you because you won't stop crying.  A beast sharpening its claws while insisting you're not on the menu.

The girl in this picture who wanted to die got out of bed every day and got dressed and went to every class and got good grades.  I don't think anyone knew, other than my partner at the time who was as supportive as you can be to a person who screams in your face and cries uncontrollably as soon as the front door is closed.  I was once proud that no one knew.  As a Drama student, I thought that the deception that I was happy and all was well was my greatest performance.  But again, that pride was the depression talking.  How can it keep playing if you throw the game?

Hush now, it says.  Don't let them find out how terrible you are.

See, that's the crux of it, that's the thing that someone with depression is trying to keep quiet.  The "truth", as told to you by a hugely persuasive voice that claims authority and who are you to argue because you are a horrible person who doesn't deserve to be here.  

Which leads me to my second point.  There's another idea that some have that suicide is selfish.  I can understand why people say that.  I can understand how those left behind wonder how their loved one could do this to them, could leave them in such pain.  

I can't speak for those who have left. I don't know the particular brands of torment their minds created for them.  But I can tell you that at the height of my illness, when suicide suited up and presented itself as my only saviour, this insidious disease was, in fact, telling me that taking my life was the only way I could redeem myself:  I would save the world from how terrible I was.  I knew that my family and friends didn't see this "truth" about me, but I believed that it was only a matter of time.  I knew that they wouldn't understand, I knew they would be hurt, but I believed that I would cause them more pain if I stayed.  Suicide was the lesser of two evils, my existence being the evil that was insurmountable.  My one gift to the world would be to subtract myself from it.  

So what then?  How do you recognize this beast if it is stalking you?  How do you turn in time to see it move?  How do you notice that it has made another its prey, if it stays so silent?  By no means do I have all the answers but I offer these thoughts for whatever small bit of help or comfort they may provide.

To the last point first, to those who could serve to help others going through this pain:  Be kind.  Not just when a moment presents itself but actively seek out opportunities to treat others, all others, with kindness.  We could all do with more kind words and actions in our days, and for those being subjected to a steady stream of self-hatred, the need is great and your kindness may be the only little bit of it that they receive, or the only little bit of it that gets through.  It may not topple the mountain but it may make the smallest of cracks.  Invite those sitting on the sidelines to join in; whether or not they do, the invitation offers a connection and a choice, two things that can seem vastly out of reach.  Get to know those around you and if you sense that someone might be in need of some help, talk to them and help get them help.  Ask for others to support you in doing that, in finding the right resources.  We have a responsibility to look out for each other.

To those for whom any of my story rang true, those who think they are worthless, who feel that all is dark:  I promise you that there is light.  Your dark thoughts are not you.  You have been hijacked by an other that is self-serving.   Once you catch it moving you'll be able to throw the game by seeing this beast for what it really is:  a sheep in wolf's clothing.  It is nothing without you.  Which means you hold all the power.

This is not to underestimate the work to be done to get it off your back; it can be a difficult journey (for me, the journey included four years on medication and six or so in therapy, and I have to remain vigilant even now).  But you can do it.  There is love and support around you, and help available, and you are stronger than you think.  If I accomplish nothing else with this website, with this life, I hope to stand in testament to the fact that you can make it through, and find peace and health and a life you love.   And immeasurable amounts of joy.  You deserve it.

Me.

And one day you'll look back and the darkness will serve only as a memory which helps the light shine even brighter, and the journey from there to here will have been the great emboldening of you.

And you may even find yourself on a sunny August afternoon pulling your car over on to the shoulder, hopping a fence into a farmer's sun-soaked field, spinning around until you're dizzy and smiling from ear to ear.

And feeling free. 

Point B

Hope, July 22nd 2012

You're probably not going to believe this.

I didn't really believe it and I was there.

Two years ago yesterday, July 21st 2012, my husband and I came home from a dinner out to celebrate our 14th wedding anniversary, which was to be the following day.  But we weren't in a particularly celebratory mood.  I could tell that something was wrong and I felt a conversation coming.  I went to sit out on the back patio to collect my thoughts, and prepare for what I thought would be one of our usual "clear the air" type talks in which issues were voiced and put to bed.  I thought we'd talk and go back to our regular scheduled programming.  (The fact that this type of talk was a "usual" thing should probably have been a sign that things weren't right, but the universe was about to give me another.)

As I sat there on what was a gorgeous summer's evening, I looked up at the clouds and I noticed a cloud in the shape of a smiley face.  A perfectly round smiling face.  And, I kid you not, before my eyes I watched the smile turn into a frown.  And I said, out loud, "Well that's a bad omen."

And not 45 seconds later, my husband came outside and told me our marriage was over.

This is not a post about airing dirty laundry.  There is no dirty laundry to be aired.  We built that marriage together and we were mutually responsible for letting it fall into disrepair.  This is a post about the distance from there to here.  About how much things can change in a single moment.  And how much things can change in two years.

I was devastated.  In hindsight, I can see all sorts of signs that things were going from bad to worse, but the girl that I was in that moment did not see it coming.  And in that single moment my entire world changed.  I hadn't only lost a husband and the future that I thought we were going to have together ("only", as if that wasn't enough on its own).  I was a stay-at-home mum and I loved it (most days) and the plan had been for that to continue indefinitely, as long as it were financially possible.  It was all I had ever known in my heart that I wanted, to be a stay-at-home mum, and in that moment I suddenly had to say goodbye to that dream, say goodbye to that time with my kids.  I had to find work.  I had to find a daycare for my kids and the thought of a stranger taking my place, taking my time with the kids, was heart-wrenching.  I had to find a place to live because I couldn't fathom living with a ghost in the house we had shared for 11 years.  

I've had some pretty low moments in my life but this was the lowest.  Needless to say, I couldn't sleep that night.  And finally at 5 a.m. I'd had enough.  I had to get out of the house.

I had, a few months prior, created a list of goals, 101 things that I had hoped to accomplish in 1001 days, and one of those things was to watch the sun rise.  So I decided that there was no time like the present, and I grabbed my camera and the car keys and left.

I drove around for awhile, uncertain of where the best vantage point might be for my task.  My mind was still swimming but I had a momentary purpose that pulled me through some of the waves of grief and agony, enough to operate the car, anyway, and get me from point A to point B.  I went through the drive-thru and bought a tea, like I was a normal person and it was a normal day.  I pulled into the marina next to the penitentiary, and parked my car.

It was a beautiful morning, which seemed a little like an affront to my sorrow.  The world was moving on without me.  It was just another day, to the world.  The sun began to rise and it shone down on the day not knowing that it was my wedding anniversary and I was bawling in a parking lot.  I eventually got out of the car, camera in hand.  

I took a few deep breaths.  The lake was calm and the sun was painting the sky as it rose.  I started snapping photos.  Sometimes the beauty around you is so astounding that no amount of grief can hold it at bay.  And then it happened.  

A flock of birds flew right over my head and off to my left, above the penitentiary.  As I watched them fly off into the sun-drenched clouds, a breathtaking sight, I was absolutely in awe.  And in that moment, the moment you see in the photo above, I felt some hope.  I knew in my heart that this was a sign that things would be okay.  Even in my grief, I could see that this was, indeed, the dawn of a new day (and the comic metaphor of the birds flying free over the institution was not lost on me either).  

So much can change in a moment.

And so much can change in two years.  Despite this gift of hope from the universe, on that day in the marina and in the days and weeks to follow, I couldn't imagine what my future would hold and how I would feel anything but pain ever again.  I couldn't see how I could get to point B.  I couldn't even picture what would be there.  But I had purpose to pull me through the waves of grief - two sweet, giggly purposes in fact - enough to get me in the driver's seat and my hands on the steering wheel even though the destination was unclear.

I found a job.  I found a daycare for my girls.  I found a new home.  I found small amounts of strength and courage and gathered them up.  I found love waiting for me in the arms and words of my friends and family.  And I found a way forward.

I have not, by any means, completed the journey.  I am not, by any means, living my ideal life.  But I have reached a Point B.  I am no longer in that pain.  The waves have calmed.  The future I couldn't picture came, regardless, and I'm still standing.  And in the last month or so, I have felt the flip of a switch.  There you go, I felt the universe say, you're no longer in survival mode.  Now, go build your life.

I don't really believe it, and I am here.

Two feet

Santa Cruz, California, May 2009

One foot in, one foot out,
One head full of fear and doubt,

One tiny whisper, "Just begin"
One heart open, two feet in.