Who are
you? It’s simple enough really, this
question the facilitator posed at the team building workshop today at
work. Each person took a turn answering
the question and as I was last in line to go I listened to the other’s talk
about their roles as wives, parents, what they did for work as I searched my
mind for what I was going to say.
When the facilitator arrived at me all I could say was “I don’t know who I am.” Because to define myself as a job, a family relation
(daughter, sister, etc.) just doesn’t fit anymore. I’m just Wendy. I’m this tangled ball of insecurity, hope,
wonder, magic, hurt, fire and tenderness.
I just am. And I’m not okay with
boxing myself inside the lines of roles, to limit who and what I can be. Yes, I’m the Sr. Bereavement and Palliative
Care Coordinator and I love my work, it nourishes my heart and my soul – but more
importantly than that – I’m WENDY. And I
am fully, wonderfully complete just being me, job or not.
I made this
collage of pictures of before and after weight loss and I would be furthest
from what would be considered a conventional success story. At my highest I was 285 lbs, at my lowest
197.9 and then life, cancer, the breakdown of a significant relationship (not
necessarily in that order) occurred and I ballooned up to 230 lbs. I lost my uterus to the Wendy vs. Cancer War
of 2013 and in the course of a month when I was recuperating I barely ate and I
walked away my pain.
Together
with my trusty canine, Moses I roamed every inch of my parent’s property. I mourned, I hurt, I crumbled and I fell into
a bubble of pain I didn’t think I’d ever come out of, and all I could do was
put one foot in front of the other. And
I thought. And I let my Momma take care
of me. And finally the tears came and
only the trees in the forest bore witness….and Moses. He never left me. He became my constant. My best friend. Holder of my secrets. My savior.
And he didn’t care if I was 500 lbs or 140 lbs. He just loved me, Wendy.
And as I
made this collage I did it to say that yes, I lost weight but what I gained was
a life. That was me wearing a hideous
pink dress playing paintball – fuck yes that’s right, paintball!! That was me not hiding behind my coworkers
and sitting on the arm of the couch.
That was me sitting with Chris Witten & Erin Day-Nunn wearing a
dress that exposed all of my arm and I felt beautiful in my imperfection.
So who am
I? I’m Wendy. And that girl, I like her a whole lot.
place inside all of us where we are all happy and get the warm fuzzies. Our happy places are insulated from the shitheads that make up just about everyone we encounter.
- Urban Dictionary
I totally think that nuggets of wisdom come to you when you're in the right frame of mind to receive the message. The seeds of those words are planted but sometimes it takes time for them to germinate, grow and blossom (okay, I failed biology, suck it). That process of growth can be minutes, hours, days, months or even decades. For me the concept of a Happy Place is a really good example of that.
As a survivor I became an expert at disassociating. It was a wonderful trick of the mind to leave my body, fly far away from the pain. Even when those horrible things weren't happening and I couldn't stand to be in my skin, to feel so vulnerable and unsafe in the world - when the shield of my fat didn't stop the panic, the scream rising in my throat I'd drift, float away in mind. Far away, where no one could hurt me.
When the concept of a "happy place" was introduced to me it was described as a place that you created in your mind where you could get away from the stress of life, a place to find peace. At the time I remember thinking, "but I already do that." And yes, in a way I did, but I think I missed a big part of that definition, an important part. See, when I disassociated from my body and floated away there was no peace in that place, it was just a dark void. There was no happiness, no sadness, just.....nothing. A bleak, dark, desolate prison in my mind where I could hide from pain.
And when I was in my body I judged myself so harshly, those kids on the playground who called me fat, well they weren't even trying...the inner bullying I did to myself left wounds and scars inside that no perpetrator could ever match. Because I was always ready with a joke or inappropriate story I think I hid how I was feeling quite well, no one knew how I felt because I would never let myself be vulnerable enough with someone to share with them my broken, bruised heart. And that bullying and those lies I told myself that I wasn't good enough, that no one like me or loved me I never could describe it, but this quote does a pretty good job:
"And it hurts that I can't be what everyone wants or what anyone needs
and it hurts that I can't be what I want or what I need
because I'm not enough and I won't be enough and I'll never be close to enough
and I'm just so damned tired."
- a.d.r.
In college I met a wonderful therapist, Kaia, and she helped me through some really dark times. That first year of college, I still don't know how I made it through when every class I had triggered me, an experience, a memory...there were days when all I could do was just dig my fingernails deep into the floor to stop from falling off my world. The first time I went to see her she asked how I was, I made a joke and said okay and she looked deep into my eyes and said "bullshit." And the floodgates opened. No one ever had seen past Wendy the clown to see the real me. Ever. And just like when you're a kid and you fall and hurt yourself, if your parent doesn't react and say "are you okay" all in a panic then you're all chill and shit, but as soon as they make a fuss you're a crying hot mess. Same deal with her. I couldn't reign it in, despite trying to be the tough girl. But she shattered my defenses, she wouldn't let me avoid and she wouldn't let me hide. She put a name to what I did when the abuse happened. She validated me and unlike with my family who also joked about everything (you wonder where I got it from), she took what I had to say seriously.
She helped stop the panic attacks, showed me how to create a safe place for myself when I felt I couldn't breathe and terror clawed at my throat. Kaia introduced me to other women, they too were survivors and their stories and shared experience made me think that maybe I wasn't alone in this. They echoed my thoughts of feeling dirty, guilty and full of shame. I was in a better place than I had probably been in years mentally, but I was far from well. I used school work to escape, to not connect with people my own age. I tutored and I was a note taker, I was even a foster parent. And I ate and I ate and I ate some more. Always going through periods of working out like a maniac for like 2 months, then having a set back and eating a fridge-and-a-half daily for 4 months.
It was always this one step forward, five million steps back. Because you see food had always been my secret love, my comforter, my confessor, my worst enemy and my best friend. I used food like some people use a razor blade to cut, piercing their skin, marking it....sometimes to have physical pain that could equal my emotional pain and other times because I wanted to feel nothing at all, to stuff and avoid and numb out and hurt myself for some transgression. And yes, the pressure cooker of emotions brewing in me had lessened, my time with Kaia and with group gave me space to let some of it out so I could at least function. Of course at this time I discovered my new drug of choice, sex. I had physical contact that I so desperately craved, connection and even if at the same time I was telling myself that I was ugly and that I was only good for sex. What I realize is that for me it was a form of control. I got to decide who got to have sex with me, it was almost a "fuck you" to my abusers to prove to them (not that they knew - I didn't say I was being logical) that I was in control. There was no love in these encounters, just control and touch.
When I graduated and was ready to leave college I got really overwhelmed again, out of control, not sure what my future held - and so damned scared of change that I went to that dark place again and things got really out of control....but I spoke about that in another post, I'm not going there again.
Those years after college were much the same. Avoidance behaviours, acting out sexually. Eating so out of control. Numbing out. Anything to face me. And their were bad choices and bad behaviours and inner bullying and bullshit. But there was also wonderful friends, cherished memories and gifts that I would never exchange. Of course I also had sporadic therapy and it would help, peel off layers of hurt but they all felt like crisis management..... I wouldn't go until things were so bad that I couldn't function again. It has seemed like I have always been striving for the "if only's".
If only I could lose weight, I'd be happy.
If only I could go on vacation things at work wouldn't be so out of control.
If only I could find a boyfriend I wouldn't be so lonely.
If only I could win the lottery I'd never have money problems.
If only I was anything but who and what I am I'd be at peace.
In everything I did I was always running at a million miles per minute, in my head, in my job, in my life. I don't think there was any time where I could just be. And as I look at the events of my life, the abuse, the bad relationships, the addictions and even the cancer I realize it was life trying so very hard to get my attention and me being the hard headed stubborn little bitch that I am I tried to avoid life at all costs. Short of taking a shovel and smacking me over the head with it life gave me sign after sign to stop, to slow down, to go to the inner but to no avail.
But there has been seeds germinating in my head from when I had cancer, words that a dear friend and fellow cancer survivor spoke to me. She said "Wendy, Stop. Breathe."
Little buds of that truth have been growing in my brain and when I started to take the anti-depressants in October the mental fog I had been blinded by lifted. And I started to stop. Stop saying yes when I meant no. Stopped pushing my body to exhaustion and really listening when my body said it needed sleep, food, water...love. I made playing with the dog a priority over staying at work for hours on end. Spending time with my parents and chronicling our memories on Facebook for all you to see touched a place in my heart and created joy. I breathed. Every day. Deeply. When I walk in the woods I slow down my breathing, force myself not to take greedy gulps of that sweet country air, but instead savour it slowly as I feel it enter my nose, throat, lungs....along with life, energy and abundance. And the exhale is stress, tension and strain...sending it back to the earth. I walk in prayer, this time that I hold sacred as I let the Universe heal me and in that solitude I have found peace and I've found me. It has taken 41 years and it may take another 41 but this journey into the very core of my being it has been an encounter with the divine.
Slowly I am making peace with my past, memories that could once puncture and tear at my heart are now just lessons, gifts that have made me who I am today and I am grateful to be in a place where I can use that pain to help others. Never before have I been able to sit so fully with another's pain without my own being just a huge a presence. And as I cherish and nourish myself every day that well of giving that I have available just flows over for my clients and the passion and love that I have for this work fills my heart.
And that happy place, that mythical place in my mind that I create to avoid stress, well I don't need that because I am my happy place and life, it is a beautiful place.
I found the key to loving myself and it isn't to have a partner who tells me every day that I look beautiful (today I believe the exact phrase was "u looked amazing today.") - not that I don't appreciate that and encourage it but the key was me. I chose every day to fall a little deeper in love with myself.
I remember in College when I first started to see a therapist and was really struggling with being negative and hating myself. My therapist gave me this exercise where I was supposed to look in the mirror and tell myself that I loved myself.
Needless to say, I failed miserably at that exercise. I couldn't look in the mirror and face the woman staring back, all I saw was ugliness there and I would just look away after a few seconds. 20 years ago I wasn't ready to learn that lesson, it just wasn't time.
But it was my time now.
I took the path of least resistance and started with my hair - because it has always been the one part of me that I really liked and I focused on it. Even though as a kid I got teased for being a ginger and it made me upset, part of me always liked that I was different, special that way. Also didn't hurt that I've gotten a lot of compliments about it. At times when I just felt like a big, blob of sexless fat my long hair made me feel pretty and feminine.
I thought about how my hair colour is tied so much to my personality and that feisty-ness and what makes me - me. The length, the way it looks like dancing flames in the sunlight...... and I think it's just beautiful.
That I'm beautiful.
I started by looking at myself objectively, as if it wasn't me in the mirror - just a stranger that I was observing with none of the judgments that I'd place on myself.
I looked at the shape of my nose. The shape and size, and upon close inspection I was taken by how damned adorable it was. How cute, perky, perfect really.
But if I was entranced with my nose well then my lips were a revelation. That full bottom lip, the delicate pink .... and that's when I fell in lust. With that sexy bottom lip.... that delightful smirk, the devious smile. I traced my finger along my lip, following that line, across to the dimples that flashed in my cheek when I smiled.
And then there were my eyes.
Oh my eyes.
The almond shape and the way the colour changed depending on my mood; navy blue when I was angry or stressed, an almost grey when I was happy, turned on, at peace.
And my lashes, they were so long when I took off my glasses. I never noticed that before.
I fell in love with the curve of my eyebrow, the light, almost invisible arch.
My heart beat a little faster at the twinkle in my eyes, the depths I saw there, the pain, the beauty....like my friend Daniel says, you really can see a person's soul through their eyes. And unlike twenty years ago, I didn't look away from the pain this time, I saw it, I honored it and saw that it too was part of the loveliness.
I became enchanted by my eyes. They drew me in and when I looked at them I knew it was time for the love affair to expand.
In the past my body was a constant disappointment for me, a reason to feel ashamed..ugly. Having lost over 85 pounds meant a lot of excess skin, scars on the outside from surgeries, hyterectomy and then there were the scars that were on the inside. Those invisible ones that no one could see but that in my heart I felt were uglier than even that angry red line on my belly left over from removing my cancerous uterus. A past of sexual abuse and holding onto shame that wasn't mine to hold onto anymore had made it impossible for me to see the beauty in those curves. The femininity, the vulnerability, the beauty. People probably wonder why I take so many pictures of myself to post on Facebook and they most likely assume that it's because I'm narcissistic but the reality is that I'm getting to know me, to fall in love with me and sometimes I need that picture to really believe it is me.
I take a picture of the curve of my breast, the bones in my shoulders, those delicate bones that made me cry the first time they appeared when I lost the first thirty pounds. I take another picture to look at the shape of my bottom - a bum that actually has a shape now....that tapers down from my waist. Then yet another of my legs, legs that look impossibly long.
It took months this process, this love affair but this first part was kind of superficial... lustful. (I'm not saying that was a totally bad thing). What I wanted was not just to love the sum of my parts, I wanted to love ME. And as I thought about that I realized that love wasn't a noun, it was a verb and if I really wanted to love myself then it was action that was required.
After the diagnosis and the surgery I fell into a depression. A deep depression. Cancer had left my body but it still remained in my heart, in my soul...and on my mind. I couldn't change that. I couldn't stop myself from thinking every twinge, pain, bump or spot was the cancer returning. I wasn't sleeping. I was falling back into that same pattern of escaping life by working and pushing myself to exhaustion. And I felt like I was on the edge of a breakdown.
Hell, if I was honest I think I actually had a breakdown.
And that is where the action came in.
After giving myself a verbal ass-kicking that I sorely needed about having fought so hard to be well that I wasn't going to let myself throw that (and me) away. So I got help. I talked to my doctor, I talked to my boss, I went back to see my therapist. I took Friday's off and shortened my work week to 4 days instead of 5. Despite a lot of internal conflict I broke down and started taking anti-depressants. I started to be honest about what I needed and that included sleep, being around people I love, spending time with my boy...and making time for love.
It's only been a month but already I feel clearer mentally. I feel rested. I feel happy. At peace.
Is the exercise finished? No. Every day I commit myself to this life-long love affair with myself.
The wind howled, the rain beat mercilessly against the ground, I burrow deeper into my coat but the force of the rain batters against my face, the rain so cold that it penetrates through the layers of clothes and skin to settle deep into my bones. There is no reprieve from the elements, standing alone in that bleak, open field. Branches from the trees that dotted the fence line come crashing down. The thunder booms, echoing in the vast emptiness sending vibrations deep in my chest like when the guy next door cranks the bass on his car stereo and blasts shitty 80's metal. The flash of lightening illuminates the terrain, casting shadows and heightening the impending sense of doom and danger. The air was alive with electricity...the force of mother nature produced an unequal carnage. I struggle to maintain my footing, the ground underneath me made unstable as the rain slowly turns the once hard earth into mud. The world feels off-kilter, dizzying blows come from every side and while I am scared, terrified really, the tears remain stuck in my throat, a dull ache in my chest as I focus all my efforts on remaining upright as my body is pummeled by the unseen forces. All my senses are heightened and dulled at the same time and I find it hard to make sense of what my eyes see I'm so
overwhelmed by the assault to my senses so I shut down a little, experience tunnel vision focused on one thing: staying alive. And after what seems like hours the winds start to die down, there is an eerie calm, an uneasy silence. I breathe, my lungs gratefully gulping in the air and I start to gain my footing, the world finally righting itself and I gain my equilibrium. I feel a reprieve, a calmness settling assuming that the worst is over but it is only the eye of the storm and just as I lose that sick feeling in my stomach it comes back, stronger, harder....the winds don't scream, they howl...the rain is like someone is standing over me with a bottomless bucket and I'm drowning....it steals my breath and the scream that tried to escape. The water accumulates quickly under my feet, seeming within seconds to rise to my ankle, then to my knees....swirling angrily around my thighs...dragging me down, pulling me to my knees. I struggle, trying to pull myself upright but now there are waves and they are crashing over my head again and again. I lose track of time, what could have been minutes or hours or years pass by as I struggle to keep my head above water, to gasp for air and fill my screaming lungs when
finally the winds subside....the rain gentles and I tread water. And miraculously the water it starts to calm...and lower, until I find I can stand....shivering, my clothes plastered to my aching body. Slowly the water ebbs away, the clouds start to clear and with it all of my energy....I fall to the ground unable to get up, my brain and body bruised beyond reason and still that edge of fear that this is not over, it can't be over ...and then blackness as my body and mind snap and I collapse to the ground.
I wake up panicked on the ground, the soft earth warm beneath my face....scrambling to my feet, casting my eyes to the sky looking for the dark clouds...and there is none. The sky is a brilliant blue, the sun bright and warm, I can see this with my eyes but I don't trust it...I can't trust it. When I started this journey I knew where I was going, there was a destination, but I can't remember what it is now...my mind can't seem to grasp the strings of that memory yet I know in my heart that whatever that destination was I can't go there anymore for it has forever changed.
I started this blog post three weeks ago, a friend sent me that .jpg about the storm, it was so fitting a description of this cancer journey, but all I could put in was the title, I couldn't find the words to write. I couldn't find my voice beyond that lump in my throat, that lump I tried to ignore because I was so afraid to let that storm loose. I have been living in a constant state of fear, every pain, every twinge of my body settling all I can think is "oh God, it's cancer." I let myself believe that first time that everything was going to be okay and I let myself feel safe and then more bad news hit and now I don't know what to trust, I don't know how to lose this wild eyed fear inside my belly. And then I think maybe the point of all of this wasn't to lose fear, but to use it. Yes, cancer can come back, I could get hit by a bus, aardvarks could attack me in my sleep.....in the end, I can die. Not I can die, I'm going to die....but it can be 5 minutes, 5 years, 5 decades from now but what really matters is how am I going to live? Am I going to go back to how I was living before, ducking my head and plowing through the world ignoring my hurting heart? Or am I going to really take time to cherish my friends? To ride that roller coaster? To hug my Mom? Am I going to use this experience to fuel my heart, my passions and really live life eyes wide open? Fuck yes!
So this next chapter of my life, it's about healing and building relationships and friendships and focusing on the good and the possible. xo
“I can’t tell
you exactly what your journey is going to look like, everyone’s is different,
but I’m not going to lie to you, it’s going to hurt and it’s going to suck….a
lot.”
“For how long?”
“As long as
it takes.”
It’s the same nearly every time, meeting with
people who have suffered the loss of a loved one, especially if it is their
first one, they want to know what to expect.
When I meet a person that first time, I may know a brief history of
their loss but literally everyone’s reaction is different, but whether it’s the
ones who sit there shell shocked as if they’ve been through a war and stare
blankly at me almost as if they can’t remember why they’ve come or the angry
ones whose sadness and hurt is so overwhelming that they revert to anger because
it hurts a whole less than the sadness in their heart or even the ones who sit
there, crying into tissue after tissue apologizing because they can’t stop
crying it’s always the same version of a question. What next?
I don’t have any concrete answers for anyone, I can’t make the pain go
away, I can’t stop their hurt and while it may sound weird, I don’t want to. This is their journey and those feelings –
even the painful ones – and to take that away for them means that they miss out
on something they need to experience. It
took me a few years (okay closer to a decade) to realize you can’t fix people
and it’s really arrogant to think that I can or should even try. What I can do is assure them that whatever
they are feeling or experiencing is normal FOR THEM – you’d be surprised at how
many people are concerned about grieving “correctly,” whatever the heck that
is. I can sit and be present with them
as they tell their story, not flinching from the pain but holding it and
honouring it and giving them a space to let it out. I do that for clients, yes because I get paid
but also because I love the work, it is my passion and I think that there are a
lot of people wandering this earth hurting because they never got a chance to
grieve and it doesn’t have to be like that – not for them and not for me
either.
For the last 2 weeks I’ve found myself wandering
into rooms not remembering why I went there, feeling fuzzy mentally and numb
most of the time depressed at others, wanting to be alone, not wanting to eat
and unable to sleep and it’s only now that I realize that I’m grieving. I guess I have the excuse that I’ve been
healing physically and dealing with pain but underneath that focus on healing
there was that little lump in my throat that I could never quite swallow
down. Those moments when a few stray
tears would fall. I don’t know if I’ve
been trying to be a tough guy so I don’t have to deal with the enormity of the
pain, but if I am then that’s okay, I give myself permission to. Our brains have this safety switch that makes
us numb out when something traumatic happen – it knows when we can’t completely
absorb the enormity of something so it shuts itself down and then releases
information out in little drips, in pieces we can handle without completely losing
our shit. (Sorry to get all technical
there on you). I had my surgery on May
10th and I have to say that the last few weeks have just been a
blur. I’ve went for walks with the dog,
played cards with my Mom, helped Dad around the farm but it’s almost as if I’ve
been standing on the outside watching myself do these things. I nap a lot and even though the pain in my
body has subsided I feel exhausted all the time.
My parents left for the cottage this afternoon and
after I ate dinner I bundled up and went for a walk, my iPod on shuffle. I don’t think I quite made that first field
before the tears started pouring down my face.
My brain finally released that information that has been there all
along. I am never going to have my own
biological baby. I am never going feel
my child growing in my belly. I am never
going to hold them in my arms and rock them to sleep. I won’t be able to kiss the top of their
little head and feel their breath on my neck.
When I was in high school I didn’t have much of a social life, I worked
at the local grocery store after school on Wednesday, Thursday and Friday night
until 9 pm and all day Saturday. After
work at the grocery store (except Wednesdays) I would go to my babysitting gig
and they would drive me home usually at around 2 am. They had a little girl who was around 3,
cutest little curly haired blonde angel named Tricia and a baby who was around
3 months old named Michael. I loved those
kids. Tricia and I would play until it
was time for her to go to bed and then I’d stay up with the baby, rocking him
to sleep in my arms. I never wanted to
put him down, I would just rub his back, kiss the top of his fuzzy little
head….and trace my finger on his cheek - his skin, it was so soft. Life then was horrible. I was so unhappy and sad at school and home,
but those moments with those kids and especially with the baby it just felt so
right. I was so good with kids, they
never made fun of me – and they wanted to spend time with me. They didn’t care what I looked like, that I
never had a boyfriend, that I didn’t fit in….they just accepted me. In all the unhappiness and chaos of my life
at that time this was my calm center of the storm, my safe place. At those times I would dream of having my own
children when I got older, because surely life wouldn’t suck then, right? In college I did two placements with children
and babies and they all loved me, I had the knack to make babies stop crying –
and at the one community center I had a baby in each arm most times. When I first started as a foster parent I had
babies, toddlers, older kids and I was good with them, even when at times I
felt way over my head. Then came the
teenagers… and the challenges they brought with them – and one lifelong
friendship. I guess what keeps coming
back to me is the words of my Gramma Bernice said to me when I was in my early
twenties: “I want to meet your babies.”
Well, that’s not going to happen.
And it hurts and it sucks, just like I said it would.
It’s funny, in school we learn how to add numbers
together, how to read, to learn about chemicals and plants, about distance
lands and wars and the acts of our ancestors.
These are all important things, and while we may never have practical
need of some of these things (I’m looking at you Calculus when I say this) they
make us more interesting as human beings and hopefully somewhere along the line
we learn something that will have meaning later in life but no one taught us
how to grieve or what to do with emotions that seem pretty overwhelming at
times - that seems like a pretty important part in being a human.
So what happens next?
Next is listening to my body, my heart and my
mind. Sleeping when I’m tired. Eating when I’m hungry. Crying until it feels like my heart is
shattered in little pieces. Walking with my bee eating boy, because he makes me happy. Walking every inch of this property, slowing down to remember to breathe, smelling the cedar trees and feeling the damp earth beneath my feet, my safe place to cry, to yell, to scream out loud at the fucking unfairness of this all...or to just to have time alone to figure out how I feel, to find some peace in the silence. I know I've been isolating myself, it feels like just being around people is so draining and I can't handle it, but don't worry Amie, I won't forget to crawl out of the rabbit hole...I just need time. On June 18th I get my results, I will know then whether I have to have chemo or radiation or if removing my uterus has contained the cancer - and I'm scared what those results will be. Every little twinge, pain anything I think it's cancer. And I think that's probably pretty damned normal too - well normal for me. And when this is all over I will figure out a new dream and try to be brave enough to fight for it. But that will come in time, for now I need to listen to my heart that is aching for a good cry. This one does it to me every time.
Every girl knows the story line to follow, we don't even have to read from the cue cards we know how the perfect fairy tale unfolds; boy meets girl, they fall in love, get married and live happily ever after. Sure I was the little girl who grew up on the farm, who more often than not was found covered from head to toe in mud, but I read those books and if I had only them to rely on to judge how I'm doing at this thing called life I'd be royally boned today. See I got to watch a fairy tale unfold right before my very eyes, one more powerful, meaningful and real than any Princess who found her Prince Charming (who was clearly a necrophiliac and into running around kissing non-responsive women. I really do wonder how that fairy tale ended, did he only get off if she "pretended" to be asleep?).
Before I continue this story I need to apologize to the lady who told it to me, she lived this experience and dealt with harsh judgment and probably a lot of shame. When she told me this story she asked me not to talk to other people about this and I have respected that until now, I am not telling this story to place judgment on any of the people involved, I wasn't there. All I can say is that I'm sorry Gramma I love you so much and miss you every day, but I need to tell your story so that I can heal this part inside of me that is hurting so much right now and to find the hope and strength I need to carry on and I hope you find it in your heart to forgive me, wherever you are.
My Gramma and I were best of friends, she was always so kind and loving - quick with a joke and she had the cutest mischievious grin ever. I was so socially awkward growing up, I didn't have a lot of friends and I had a Dad who drank - this woman she made me feel so loved and she lived close to me too. I spent a lot of time with her as a teenager, I'd drop in after school to talk to her when I went away to college we wrote back and forth and called all the time. They were comfortable, but never rich by any means but she gave me a gift no money could ever buy, the gift of herself. We had real conversations, I could talk to her about anything and I got to ask questions and ask about her life...this story is pieced from those conversations.
My Gramma Bernice and the love
of her life, Grampa Jimmy.
She grew up with like a million (okay, probably 10 or 11) brothers and sisters and with that many kids they didn't have a whole lot of money but the way she talked about her parents I got the picture that where there wasn't an abundance in "things" there was in love. She only attended grade school and then she worked at a store at some point and then she met my Grampa Jimmy. I don't know all the details of this other than they had a relationship of some sort that he was her childhood sweetheart and then somewhere along the line they had a fight and broke up. (I don't know all the details because although I appear to be perfectly fine with asking inappropriate questions - just ask my friend Leah who had to field questions as to whether the Church was okay with nuns masturbating - but even I have limits when it comes to those kind of details with grandparents). Anyway she then met and married this other man and had my two older uncles and my Mom. I never met this man, he's not my grampa. He wasn't a nice man, he drank, spent all his pay on booze and then came home mean and violent. They would have to run to get away from him into the ditch. But this was the 50's (ish) and there was no supports in place then for battered women. To have known my Gramma, this beautiful soul, the tiniest woman ever and to think of anyone laying hands on her or scaring her makes me physically ill - and not just because I know that experience all too well myself.
Then somewhere along the line my Grampa Jimmy came back into the picture and they got together. Don't ask me the details of when or how, I don't know - and honestly, I don't care. She divorced my Mom's Dad and married my Grampa and together they had two more boys - but he was a Dad to those three other kids from day one. And again, I wasn't there - and I know there was a lot of hurt and anger on some sides but all I know is that my Grampa was one of the best men I have ever had the privilege to know. He always had perfectly coiffed hair, he used this cream to smooth it back and he had a well trimmed beard - he was a quiet man but then he'd slide these great zingers in, he had a wonderful sense of humour. When I was a little girl I would run and get the comb so I could sit on his lap and comb his mustache. For a little girl whose father barely acknowledged her you don't understand how much that meant to me. You can't even begin to imagine how hard it is to type when you're crying this hard.
They weren't the storybook perfect couple, my Gram swore like a sailor and because of her stomach issues (or so she said) she did have some flatulence issues which would piss my proper Grandfather off to no end. He always said she did it on purpose... and her story probably would have rang true if she had wiped the damned shit eating grin off of her face. I never once heard them raise their voices to each other, yeah they fought, but it was respectful fighting and there was no ill-intent there. One of the best memories I ever have when I was in high school and we had this big bonfire and my Grampa put his arm around my Gramma and pulled her close - my parents aren't affectionate like that with each other - seeing their intimacy and how loving they were with each other - it still touches my heart. Of course once when he was drunk he grabbed her boob and she was always goosing him, but they had romance too. Are you really shocked? It's my family! :)
I was in high school (the mid-90's) when my Gramma had a heart attack, I was there when it happened. She threw up again and again and she was in such pain, laying on the bathroom floor and my uncle had to call the ambulance. My Grampa never left her side, not once. He went to the hospital every day, helped her to recover...held her hand. He was her rock. She recovered, thank God...and I remember us laughing about the book they sent home with her about having sex after a heart attack. I was never more grateful in my life than when she came home and I knew that she was going to be okay. It nearly tore my heart out watching her in that bathroom in so much pain, and I couldn't help her.
In the late 90's my Grampa was diagnosed with bowel cancer and it was my Gram's turn to become the rock - she never left his side either. He had treatment and he was so sick...this vital, strong man just sat on that green chair in the living room or laid on the couch...the morphine making him so sick and pale. Although he still found it in him to make fun of my car. I was so proud, I had a Barney-purple Geo Metro, I drove it up close to the house so my grandparents could see it. He got his can and looked out the door for a few minutes, said nothing. Then out of the blue he says "it's small, has it been sick?" Fucker. lol.
He died when I was away on a work trip to Vancouver. I didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to tell him I loved him and how much he meant to me and when I walked into the funeral home and saw him laid out in that casket I cried like I never have in my whole life. And my Mom, the woman who was never a hugger came over to me and folded me in her arms and I wept.
The night of the wake I asked Gram if I could stay over with her and she said yes. I remember we were getting ready for bed, they had a waterbed and a wall with carpet on it - wow, the things I remember..anyway we both just got settled and we were talking for a little bit about Grampa, the wake and how much we both missed him. Then there was silence. I looked over at her and said "Gramma, did you fart?" Thank God it was a motionless mattress because she quite literally shook with laughter, we both had tears in our eyes from laughing so hard.
She never married again, or dated... she was still in love with him and really I still always felt his presence in that house, sitting in the green chair.
Some time in the early 2000's Gramma got diagnosed with Colitis, she was really sick could eat barely anything without it ending in some sort of explosion. Still, she had the best sense of humour ever, we could always make each other laugh. She's always come into my parent's house and grab the leaves of this plant by the door and literally maul it and ask if it was real....my Mom was like "yes, ya bitch, stop wrecking it." Man she would laugh.
I have very few pictures from my wedding, but
this one I cherish with all my heart.
When I got married a friend gave me beanie baby bride and groom bears - my Gramma collected beanie babies and I helped her to find some to add to her collection. Anyway, we went to a family potluck and I brought the beanie babies to show Gramma. Oh how she fawned over them, I packed them away and didn't think about it again. Well two weeks later in the mail I got a package, in it were the two beanie babies with a note that said "don't you love us?" Bitch. So then Steve & I moved into our first apartment together in Bowmanville, she and Mom came to visit. I took them for the very brief tour (it was tiny but beautiful and by the water and you could hear the train), we sat and chatted it was great. Two weeks later again I get a package with the beanie babies in it - she had stolen them! Well I fixed her little red wagon, at my wedding I bought another pair of identical beanie babies and enlisted the help of one of the groomsmen to help with the massive prank. So at our head table we had all these flowers, candles, etc. and my set of the beanie babies...well at one point I removed them and hid them under the table and then our grooms man stood up and announced "someone stole the beanie babies!" and then everyone from the head table looked at my Gramma. She was mortified! I laughed my ass off and then pulled out the other set and gave them to her. lol....she took it like a champ.
SIDE NOTE: An even better story of revenge around my wedding was that my Dad always used to say that I was the mail man's kid - the mail man being Perry Grandell who wasn't even the mail man when Mom was pregnant, but whatever. He really wouldn't let it go, so I put an announcement in the local paper that said Perry Grandell and Gwen Gray (my Mom) along with William Gray are happy to announce the wedding of their daughter.... It caused quite the stir. And go figure, Dad was pissed. Tight assed bitch. Ha!
My Gram and I stayed close and I called her all the time, she was like my go-to person when something good happened, hearing her voice just made me happy. I never really told her about the bad stuff, I don't know why - I guess I didn't want her to be disappointed in me and of all people she could have related the most. I don't live in regret, but there are days that I wish I had reached out to her, but it's hard to reach out to anyone when you're busy punishing yourself I guess and I forgive myself for that...and I know she does too.
Not long after my wedding my Gramma got gall bladder cancer....with mets, well everywhere. She died just before her birthday in July 2005. I remember her laying in that bed, so damned little and in so much pain and I was so filled with anger that this woman, this beautiful, wonderful woman had to suffer so fucking much, I was rocked by the unfairness of it all. She never complained, when I went to go see her in the hospital - she'd ask how I was what was going on in my life. We still had real conversations, even in that hospital where she spent her last days. I told her I loved her every time I left, I hugged her when I saw her and I hugged her even tighter when I was leaving. At then end when they called the family in I was the last one to arrive, everyone else had went in and said their goodbyes so I went in alone and I sat with her. She wasn't conscious. She looked so damned peaceful and even though she was in a room by herself the room felt full, and I knew she wasn't alone. Think what you will, I don't have to defend myself but I saw little tiny pinpricks of light around her bed and whether they were angels or relatives who had already passed on who came to be with her, I felt at peace knowing she wasn't alone. I held her hand, I told her I loved her and I hope that she heard me.
So what does this have to do with my story? Why did I have to tell hers? Because their story is all that gives me hope some days. I have hope that there are men who love their women and don't yell and scream and hurt them and then call that love. I have hope that there is a time for romance....sickness, love, everything, every wonderful, beautiful, painful part of this life still left to live. And listening to this song I think what I got out of spending time with my Gramma in the hospital is that she didn't need me to make things better for her, she didn't need me to take away the pain (although I really, really wanted to more than anything), she needed for me to treat her like a person. She needed me to make it okay to laugh, to cry, to hug....to just be. And from the other side as someone who is going through this right now I get the perspective of maybe not knowing what to say. The other lesson I have learned is that I can't live my life wrapped up so much in my own pain that I escape and live in my head because I miss out on all the wonderful people in my life and being there for them - and that's not okay with me. I can't escape from life. I'm handing in my title, I don't want to be the Queen of the great escape anymore.
I have been vulnerable and scared in my life and before I used being overweight as my shield, to make people not want to be near me - and now, now when the pain feels so overwhelming and like my body is betraying me that feeling of being vulnerable and scared has increased tenfold because I feel like I couldn't protect myself. I need to remember, I'm not in that place anymore. I'm safe. I have beautiful, wonderful friends who love me so much, I've never had a greater outpouring of love and that's what I need to immerse myself in, the love - not the pain. How can I not be living my very own fairy tale? I have friends who are throwing me a farewell to my uterus party and sure it would be cool if the uterus-shaped cake Amie was making me had strawberry jam in it so that it exploded when I cut into it - but her way is good too.
I think Pink says it best: "I'm terrified of the dark, but not if you go with me."
My Ren & Stimpy shirt always makes me feel better.
XXXX hey does cancer hurt like right now? Wendy Gray the cancer part doesn't. it's the cysts on my ovaries that are rupturing that hurt XXXX are you scared Wendy Gray yeah
It's weird, I knew I had the appointment on March 4th to get the test results for the biopsy but for some reason the week before I experienced this rush of energy, it was like a switch got flipped in my head and I felt such hope and drive, something that has been missing for awhile. There was no reason, just a bubbling of joy inside me that couldn't be contained. My intuition, it's usually bang on and I know when bad - or good things - are coming, but I was way off on this one. I had a lot of people offer to go to the appointment with me, but I turned them all down, part of it was because I didn't want to put anyone out...but that wasn't the whole reason. The big reason was that I felt like I had to do this on my own. I have held onto this guilt and shame, that part of me that believes I deserves cancer and the pain the comes with it, I've believed that this is all mine to bear - I damaged my body by letting myself be so fat and unhealthy and felt so dirty and ashamed of the things I have done when I was hurting so bad. I thought I let that go, came to peace about it all, but cancer came to call and all of this insecurities and blame and shame just came to rest in my heart. And I hate cancer for that....I hate that it stole that gentleness I had found for myself, the love and confidence I worked so hard to find. I got really overwhelmed and I reverted back to my old ways of just pushing things down and pretending that I wasn't scared or hurting - and beat the shit out myself verbally and mentally. It was a brutal beating, one I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. And I masked it, I masked that fear with anger...blinding hot anger at cancer, the situation, myself. Then on Wednesday night I lost it. I was putting my hair in a ponytail, getting ready for bed and I caught sight of myself in the mirror - and that girl I saw looking back looked about 8 and so scared and lost and I broke. I cried myself to sleep that night...and the next. I didn't get much sleep in the next few days, but I found something in that time - peace with myself. I have told myself that I have to be strong...but I don't want to be strong anymore, I want to be real....and the reality is that this shame and this blame isn't mine anymore and I'm done punishing myself with it. I really saw myself in that mirror - something I haven't seen a long time and I realize I've been hiding, I haven't been real and those things that I have tried to keep hidden, those imperfections - they have gained too much power - robbed me of joy. So here they are, the scars - the imperfections...and they can hold no power over me anymore. This scar on my hand, the white line that follows just below my thumb it's from carrying beer bottles around when I was 3 and dropping them on my hand.
When I was 7 I was riding my bike down the hill near my house, I hit a pothole in the dirt road and flew over my handlebars, landing on my hand - I walked home crying, blood running down my face - there's still a dent there, but it has faded - I think only I can see it.
... This is the scar I woke up to on my belly when they were only supposed to take a cyst but ended up taking the ovary...and my hope. For years I tried float away from my body and make myself believe that this body wasn't mine. Today I trace the scar with my finger, it feels kind of neat...it's not ugly, just another battle wound, proof that I survived.
In 2011 I had weight loss surgery - 5 little cuts where they opened me up and re-arranged my guts...and gave me back my life. They look like little bullet wounds intertwined with the stretch marks. I never wanted these scars to heal, I wanted them to stay red and angry so I would never forget the price I paid, the pain. But I don't need that reminder, I will never forget.
When I was big I would never wear my hair in a ponytail, my neck it was so fat it looked like I had a hump and there was an angry line where the base of my neck met the hump. I cried the first time I wore a ponytail and there was no hump....I still do some days.
So here I am, imperfections and all. Nothing hidden. This is just me. And I'm still scared but I'm scared and I'm free. Whatever happens next I am making a promise to myself: cancer isn't going to take anything from me, shame and guilt, there is no place for it anymore. Oh there are going to be weak moments, but nothing is going to take my joy, my bliss, the fire in my belly or the beauty in my life. I will reach out to those people who love me and allow myself to be cherished and loved. I will take risks with my heart. I will find someone that deserves my love and trust and for that person I will hold out my bruised and beautiful heart and it will be good. I'm suiting up kids, full-on super hero mode - my own hero.
XXXX
Hey
bud, I am so glad to hear that you are feeling better.
Wendy
Gray
Thank
you XXXX, it's been a rough year but I'm not giving up.
XXXX
I like
to think of these little jolts of super power as vines and we just swing from
vine to vine. It's pretty fun sometimes, right?
Wendy
Gray
That
is pretty much the best analogy I've ever heard to describe it.... ya when I'm
in my super hero/power mood I have so much fun. Inappropriate fun, sure but
better than being a miserable bastard.
"To be a princess is to play at life. To be a queen is to be a serious player....The purpose of life as a woman is to ascend to the throne and rule with heart."
The box of letters I wrote my Gramma Hazel while I was in College that she kept till the day she died. I added the ones my Gramma Bernice sent me to the box - this is the most treasured item I own and when I feel down and lost I re-read these letters and I find strength to move forward and reading those letters from 20-year-old me, I fall a little in love with that girl who was so idealistic and funny.... and become so damned sad that I nearly threw it all away and killed myself. If only I could have seen then what I see now. (By the way, the return address on that envelope said Wendy Einstein-Gray - I thought I was so damned clever, but fuck it I made the Dean's List I was impressed!
It's a pretty nice view I have from my cozy bed, it looks super cold out this morning, one of those sunny, crisp days where you just know your snot is gonna freeze the second you step outside. Still, when my grandparents were alive often on these cold Sunday mornings we'd all bundle up - the whole gang, my family and aunts, uncles and cousins - and head back to the woods where my grandpa had built a cabin nestled in this little clearing. In general I have a shit memory but to this day you could blindfold me at their front porch and I could lead you through those trails they had cut through the bush to that clearing. That sweep of lawn that used to have those four big oak trees (I think they're oak. Fuck it they're big, I got that part right anyway). There are only two now, the one up by the road they cut down when I was in my teens, it was messing with the power lines, Grampa cut a big whiskey barrel in half and put on top of that stump and filled it with soil so Gramma could plant flowers in it............
..........On a totally unrelated to this blog note, in an impressive feat of driving I managed to put my Dad's truck up on top of that whiskey barrel when I was learning to drive. I got freaked out when I had to turn and instead of putting on the brakes I just pressed harder on the gas. Long story short, Grampa made one killer speed bump which luckily stopped me and the truck from barreling (pun intended) into their living room. Funny enough my Dad was not even a little bit impressed with my mad driving skills. Oh well...back to my story...........
My Uncle Donald... aka: The Fucker. Funny, even those people who he wasn't related to called him that. He teased me and tormented me as a kid, but I know that's how he showed me that he loved me. And I love him, more than he'll ever know. When I was a kid and stayed at my grandparents house for dinner he'd do anything to drive me nuts like take his half eaten pork chop and put it in my mashed potatoes. Anything to make me yell at him. Or, I'd call to talk to Gramma and he would answer and instead of passing the phone to her he'd try to get me to tell him what I wanted and when I wouldn't he'd hang up on me. Such a fucker - yet my favourite uncle and yes, it should have been my Dad who said the words "I loved you from the moment you were born", but coming from him it was just as sweet.
Where was I? Right, the Stephen King-like long ass description of a lawn. So anyway, past the lawn to where the cars were parked - in the summer time Gramma planted rubarb and peonies (to this day peonies are my favourite flower) in alternating bushes beside Robert's shed. It's weird, Robert (my grampa's Dad) had died decades ago, yet it always remained his shed. The chicken coop was to the left - the place where my fear of chickens was born. In the fall when it was time to kill the chickens my bastard uncles would force me to hold them and I'd inevitably drop the damned things because I got creeped out by their talons of doom. Then they'd make me hold the string that they had tied around the chicken's neck as it was placed between the two nails on the block of wood - you would think that I would find some small satisfaction in knowing that one less chicken would be on the earth to plot against me but I didn't have time for that as they'd toss the newly severed head at me making me scream. Then you had to pass the barn where we used to explore and play in and through the gate to the field. That field sometimes had cattle grazing in it and we would have to jump the electric fence - and not stand too close to that fucker Uncle Donald who would try to grab your hand and then the electric fence so you would get the shock. The wind whipped across that field because there was no trees to buffer it and between that and dodging fresh cow patties that was probably the least fun part of the trip...but once you got to the end of the field and entered that gate oh that is when the fun started. My grampa had a whole "graveyard" of old cars and trucks back there from the 50's onwards.... it was almost creepy and cool at the same time seeing those abandoned cars and making up extraordinary stories about them in my head. There were probably 30 or 40 of them, half of them that my Uncle Allan (the mechanic) would restore when he was younger and use in cop chases with my Uncle Donald. When Grampa died the auto wreckers came through and took away those vehicles and I felt a sadness at that time I couldn't quite explain. Then came the actual forest, that path was full of cedar trees that just smelled so damned yummy, the air was so clean and crisp and we'd all frolic and play - some jerk would eventually take one of the snow leaden branches and grab it so the person behind them got covered in snow... or barring that a snow ball fight would ensue. That path wound through the woods, you could hear the creek trickling in the background...and it was so warm there, sheltered from the winds. The path split at one point and if you went to the left there was another, bigger clearing where the tree that got hit by lightning was but if you went to the right that led to that special place - Grampa's Shagging Shack. It was a little wooden cabin with a wood stove, it was far from fancy yet it had Grampa's old recliner there and their old kitchen set and of course the obligatory topless Sunshine Girl pictures. Just in front of the cabin was this perfect spot that was surrounded by huge cedar trees (yes, for sure they were cedar trees)...and we would build a fire and put hay bales around it and talk and roast hot dogs and marshmallows and talk and laugh. Those days, they were magic. And when your hands got cold you would go into the cabin and the heat from that wood stove would warm you right to your bones. Oh how I miss those days.
Why am I telling this story? Because I'm stuck in my bed, the pain has reached the level where I can't breathe without it hurting and my stomach is upset and I have to focus on something good or this will consume me. I'm hurting from the Oncologist appointment where they took the biopsy to test for uterine cancer and the bleeding and pain hasn't stopped since. Everyone asks me why I didn't take someone with me to my appointment but there is just that part of me inside who feels that this is my fault - that I didn't take care of myself, let myself get so fat and I brought it on myself so I need to deal with the consequences on my own. I know that's stupid, I do in my head, but it is my heart that needs convincing. I have never felt so much dread going into a hospital ever before - because I had walked this walk before, I had a cancer diagnosis and I knew what was coming. So in typical Wendy fashion I started cracking jokes. The doctor who instructed me to put my feet in the stirrups didn't even crack a smile. I panicked, tensed up knowing what was coming next and that probably made it even worse. I sobbed through the entire procedure. The tears ran down my face, I couldn't stop it, I couldn't control it the intense, sharp pain of her using that instrument inside me was unbearable. The nurse held my hand as the doctor kept telling me to relax and I fought the urge to kick her in the face. It probably only took ten minutes for her to get the sample but it felt like hours. And all I kept thinking was please God, make this stop - I can't do this anymore. After she was done they left me to get dressed but I couldn't, I just sat there and sobbed, covered in blood and doubled over in pain. Finally I was able to get dressed and walked to the bus stop and took the long bus ride home.
So now I have to wait until March 4th for the results - a full year since the original problem and referral took place so until then I am going to focus on me, continue that archaeological dig of my past - sift through the debris for the truth - because as I mentioned before my memory is shit and I really need to look to find the good and the wonderful of who I was and who I am and looking through these photos I think I am finally getting a glimpse of that.
Gramma Hazel & my niece Montana
My Gramma Hazel was so proper, an English teacher and Sunday school teacher to boot. She still had that sense of humour about her though - I remember when she was 80 how she was listening to a rock station every morning to listen to the DJ's daily funny - it was always a pretty inappropriate joke. When I was little she lived across the street and would come and babysit me while my Mom was off driving the bus. She made every little thing special - she would make us tomato and mayo sandwiches and serve them on my little table and chair set my Uncle Donald had bought me. When my brother and Patricia & Elyn would stay over on New Year's Eve she would always have a little bottle of champagne and give it to us in fancy mini plastic wine glasses. She died a few months before my wedding - and I was devastated....she was such a huge part of my life. She was classy, generous and she had such a solid sense of self that I always admired and still try to attain. Her faith in God was unwavering but equal to that was her faith in herself and I carry a part of her with me that brings me such comfort. She was so
different from my Gramma Bernice, she came from a more affluent city background, she definitely had more education and she was very, very practical - and I loved her - still do actually, but in a way that
was so different from my other Gram. It's weird though when I went to college and all the stuff around the sexual abuse came out, it was her who I told about it all - wrote about it to.
My Gramma Bernice and
Uncle Doug
This lady... oh how she holds such a tender place in my heart, I loved her smile and her laugh...still when I'm sad I think about her and her laugh and it brings me such comfort. My Gramma Bernice (my Mom's mother), she was my rock in the world. I always knew just how very much she loved me and thought I hung the moon - because that look in her eyes was reflected in mine. She faced some really rough times with an abusive first husband - but she persevered and left that bastard and married her childhood sweetheart. Because of her I have a love of Smarties, she used them to teach me how to count and my colours and at Christmas time when she was doing her baking and making her special Smartie cookies she made a batch just for me. She found humour in everything... .and she suffered, oh how she suffered with colitis and then the cancer. When I am hurting and scared I think of her and of how brave she was, how she handled things with such grace. I love her and miss her every day - and I am so happy that she was in my life, she saved me. It's funny, she never had as much money as my Gramma Hazel but she gifted me with something I have treasured far more than any gift I have been ever given - she shared herself with me. She talked about her past, how she felt....about who she was as a person and she gave me the space to share the same with her. If I'm even half the woman that she was I will be happy.
Me and my best friend Patricia (we are the two standing on the ground), I was always taller than her, but looking at this picture I wasn't that big - I thought I was the size of a moose. Trish and I always joke that we were put in the crib together, but it's not far from the truth. She has always been in my life, she knows me the best of anyone in the whole wide world. She knows my fucked up family and laughs when I tell stories about them. I never had a sister, but she pretty much was. I love her with all of my heart - and I consider
Me and my best friend Patricia - that's her sister Elyn on the float
doing her Canada's Next Top Model pose.
her family mine....although I'm still not that cool with vacuuming when I go to her parent's house or going down the stairs to that creepy ass basement to get bread from the freezer. Some of my best memories of my life involve her, a lot of times at my parents cottage laying on the dock and looking at the expanse of stars and talking about everything that was in our hearts....or just laughing and being highly inappropriate. Even though we have had times where we didn't even live in the same country when we came together it was like we had never left each other's side. This woman, she was God's gift to me and I hope she knows how much she means to me.
Grampa Jimmy (R) & Len Barr (L) at New Year's Eve
And then there's my Grampa....yep, the dude with the Kenny Rogers beard and festive hat. I can't even look at his picture without wanting to cry. He was such a good man, when I was a little girl he would let me sit on his lap and comb his mustache. He treated my Gramma Bernice like a Princess, yeah he was human and he would get mad but he also had such grace and love in him. He was tender and in my world men weren't tender. He was a father to kids that he didn't have to be, he was respectful and loyal and amazing. He stayed by my Gramma's side when she had a heart attack, they were each other's best friend and when he had cancer and was on morphine and snapped at her he cried because he had hurt her and apologized profusely. If I ever decide to pursue a relationship in the future it will be with a man like my Grampa, I won't settle anymore. I remember after he died and we went back to my Gramma's house after the funeral and I swear I saw him in that green chair in the living room - his presence never left that house. When my grandma died and my aunt and uncle took over the place I felt like I couldn't go in that house anymore because it would be too painful to be there without them in it but once I did I felt such peace because I knew that they would have wanted my Uncle Allan and Aunt Donna to live there - things were as they were supposed to be.
I laid in my bed surrounded by these pictures and I felt so very loved at that moment, but it is still so hard some days to reconcile that girl who was adored with memories of feeling so ugly and damaged and broken inside. I do an exercise with groups - I have them sit in a circle and in the middle I put an object - usually a cardboard paper towel tube and I color it all different colors so if you are sitting on one side of the circle you won't see the same thing someone on the opposite side of the circle will see. The lesson is about perspective and seeing things from someone else's point of view. I think I need to learn that lesson, perspective and what other people are seeing, not just my tiny point of view that is coloured with my own self-judgment and shame.
I had a friend (who shall remain nameless) email me a picture - when I saw it I stopped breathing, that ugliness of the past it was there again in my face. My immediate thought was to judge, to look away from that girl and pretend she wasn't me. Then I read the note my friend wrote with it....
I'd like you to meet my friend Wendy from grade school/high school. She is a zany girl and always laughing and cracking jokes.
I kinda wished I was more like her. I was always worried about what people would think. I think that's why I chose photojournalism in school. I was comfortable behind the camera, it gave me power or a shield. It made me feel like people actually wanted me around, like I wasn't just some afterthought.
I always wanted to be confident like Wendy.
This was taken the last day of grade 13 right before exams. We went down to the locks and had lunch. I think we had Mary Browns Chicken.
For some reason, you had a pinwheel.
I always wanted that joy.
Makes you think.
Yes, it really does. This friend who I always thought had it all: a kick ass personality, boyfriends, popularity.... well she was hurting too and I was so damned wrapped up in my pain I didn't see that either and I missed out on having an even deeper friendship with her than I could have.....but like the blog is named, it's not too late.
It took a lot of courage for me to post that picture of myself - part of me thinks that people will say look how fat she is and ugly, but I need to let that go. I need to love that girl, love me....all parts of me, and those things that I bring into the light - the pain I share, the vulnerability they only help me to be someone better, freer.
And there are still days when I feel so lost, so scared and overwhelmed about the future and what it holds and I don't know if I have the strength to go on but I'm going to keep playing this song - it is my new anthem - and I'm going to keep playing it till I believe it.
Thank you friends for letting me share myself with you. xo
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