A Little Kindness Goes A Long Way

I am sitting here absolutely bawling.

I was having a hard day. Beyond horrible. All I’ll say here is that I was forced to relive things I don’t even want to remember and I got triggered big time.

I’ve been in limbo all day. Absolutely numb.

And then, I had to get up for something and realized the mail had come. There was a package for me!

Naturally,  I did what every sane person would do. I ran to get my phone so I could take pictures :)

Do you recognize the sender?

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Musings on Grief & Mourning

Recently, I’ve been privy to two close bloggers’ grief. One lost her father, the other her grandfather. The pain they are experiencing is beyond what words could ever express and my heart goes to them.

Thoughts of death always make me go into introspection. I can’t help but examine my own feelings regarding the deaths of my parents. Which are pretty non-existent when I am in survival mode, which is to say, my every day mode.

When my mother died, I didn’t cry. I even wondered at some point why I didn’t feel like crying when everyone else was but I just couldn’t. The answer -at the time, was very simple*. I was glad for my mother. I was glad that she was not going to suffer anymore. There was even the possibility that she had gone to a better place where she could be happy. But even if one takes the approach that there is nothing after death, that was still good news. If there is nothing, there is no suffering, so I was relieved and happy for her.

Needless to say everybody thought it weird I was so composed. I am pretty sure more than a few thought I was a bad daughter for not showing the appropriate mourning signs. A year later, I was really sad because I lost a trinket that I treasured and that brought tears to my eyes. One of my uncles saw me and said to me: “You didn’t cry when your mother died and you cry because of that stupid thing?” How can one explain the nature of one’s trauma when one is merely 15 and doesn’t really have a grasp on one’s own psyche?

When 8 years later my father too died, I didn’t cry either. I only had the feelings of relief for him. He was a tortured man and that is no way to live.

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It’s the most wonderful time of the year

I am thinking that maybe this year is a good year to become a normal person and hate the holidays just like every other person in the planet.

I love (used to love) the holidays.

But I had an epiphany today.

When I was married, I spent all the holidays with my husband’s family. For 15 years, I never spent a christmas or a New Year’s Eve with my own family.

At that time, I never thought it odd. But now, I see how out of character that was for me. And then, it suddenly hit me.

I put thousands of miles between my family and I. Every year, they tell me how much they would like to have me there for the holidays.

And every year I tell them that yes, I would love to be there but unfortunately money is tight and flights are expensive so I can’t go. Which is not a lie but it isn’t the real reason either.

How do I tell them that I simply can’t go because they still live in the house where my mother was murdered?

How do I tell them that the minute I step on the doorway, I see my mother’s blood all over the couch and on the floor?

How do I tell them that every time I go visit I come back to Canada being a mess?

How do they do it? I have no idea. Perhaps they are stronger than me.

I don’t know.

Every year, as soon as December rolls in, I put up the christmas tree and play christmas songs hoping that I will be able to have a happy christmas.

But the truth is that I haven’t had a truly happy christmas since I was 5.

Then remember my daughter and how much she likes christmas – something she got from me, because when I was innocent of the brutality of this world christmas always used to be awesome.

I have been in denial for so long.

Follow up and Day Hospital

I’m upset so might I well blog about it, right?

Besides, I suppose I owe you all an update on my mental health.

I am home now. This is how it happened:

First, I got off ward privileges. It meant I could go for walks up to an hour a day, as long as I remained on the hospital grounds. That meant I could get a reasonably good coffee from Second Cup and enjoy the lovely Fall weather.

Then I got a day pass, which I spent with my daughter. I came home, play with the kitties, shaved my legs and my armpits, fell human again, and went for a lovely walk along the canal.

Last, I got a weekend pass. That meant going home on Friday at 2 pm and coming back to the hospital on Sunday at 9 pm. Then I’d be evaluated on Monday morning and it everything went well, go home.

Well, everything did go well, and I came home on October the 7th – now and outpatient, with a bunch of medication and an appointment for the Day Hospital program at the Civic Campus for October 16. Yes, that’s today. I’ll get to it in a bit.

Incidentally, during that weekend, my daughter and I finally went to see Star Wars Identities, the Star War exhibit at the Aviation & Space Museum. It was out of this world (pun intended). I highly recommend it if it ever goes to your town and if you are a Star Wars fans and a geek like me.

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Things I’d like to tell my brain

*WARNING: I’m pissed.  There will be a lot of swearing here. Consider yourself warned.

[In fact, I tell my brain all the time but the fucking bastard never listens]

  1. Yes, I know my whole childhood consisted of waking up to horrible screams, lots of blood and trips to the hospital
  2. Yes, my mother was murdered.  By my father.  Do you really think I would fucking forget something like that?
  3. Yes, seeing your mother’s blood covering the couch and the living room is an awful sight
  4. Yes, I know I am very traumatized by that
  5. No, seeing my father murdered (also shot in the head) years later didn’t help a bit

But! Must you fucking remind me every fucking night of my life?

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