Moving Day

I couldn't help myself. My inner cynic kept wise-cracking my favourite lines from Life of Brian:

A despondent Brian, left to take the rap: "Yeah, solll...idarity, Regg."
Or encouraging the mob outside his bedroom room window to think of themselves as unique: "You're all individuals!" Even as a lone voice in the crowd, the only real prophet, the one who gets it, responding: "I'm not."

And yet. . .

Today something happened to regular folks like me, to the 'general population' in these parts. Whatever it was sent me scurrying down Douglas Street trying to keep up with my indigenous friends. Something shifted, it was subtle, hardly felt but significant.

On top of all that I saw a group of Warrior Women take back their power even as they handed me mine. And I heard a sad woman say: "Once you see me, really see me you see yourself you know." Or words to that effect.

Maybe it really started with a young hero who set himself on fire and ignited the last straw in all of us, maybe not. All I know is since that horrible day we all first heard about that lonely death nothing's been the same.

Now, let's see about getting on with this. In the words immortalized by that hapless hero Brian: "Romans go home!"

Forgiveness

When I think about my sons and the mistakes I made raising them I often have to fight against suicidal ideation or wanting to hurt myself. The degree to which depends on the memory that percolated to the surface in that moment.

Forgiveness is not a concept I am able to grasp entirely, other than it involves a decision based on some kind of logic and is a process separate from our feelings. One thing is apparent, even to me: If I don't find a way to understand what it means to forgive myself, I will never be happy; and probably will continue to negatively affect my kids. As adults they know I am sad, but not yet parents themselves they don't believe me when I tell them it's not anything they do that makes me sad. I do that all by myself.

Wikipedia says:
Forgiveness is typically defined as the process of concluding resentment, indignation or anger as a result of a perceived offense, difference or mistake, or ceasing to demand punishment or restitution. The Oxford English Dictionary defines forgiveness as 'to grant free pardon and give up all claim on account of an offense or debt.'

Good ol' English dictionary circular definitions...use one word to define another and presume prior knowledge of both words. What does 'to grant' feel like? What does it mean? How does it sound, look like, where do I find it inside me? But the debt part I get.

And I love the sound of that word "concluding". All pain ends, it's what keeps suicidal-me going.

I think forgiveness means I understand I can't change the past. I was one person then, I'm a different person now. Forgiveness means I get it now and I've learned from my mistakes. I would not now even dream or think of doing (or allowing) any of the crap I put us all through. The "social" drinking (yeah right), the screaming, the poverty, the excuses, the passive-aggressive abuse from me: a frustrated, controlling, terrified enabler. Not all the time, but enough to make my kids think adults can't be trusted. That Moms are nice until they explode and Dads are well--that's his story to tell, I suppose.

There's no way I can ever expect forgiveness from my sons on my stuff without minimizing their take on it with what would only be lame-sounding excuses. Genuine? Irrelevant. If there's an "I'm sorry but..." there's no change in the behaviour coming so the apology is empty. My kids have well-developed bullshit detectors; If I want to be in their lives I won't get away with not growing as a person.

I can hope for their understanding of my mistakes to help minimize their pain. I'm so proud of them, watching how all on their own they are figuring how to get things a little bit better with their own lives.

I am learning how to cut myself some slack instead of some skin. As the moments of happiness creep back through parting, misted veils of depression I have hope. I don't have to stay stuck, defeated by only dulling the pain but instead I can conclude it. I begin to believe someday I will understand how to forgive myself.

Inside the Memory Box

Here's one story about yesterday:

http://www.timescolonist.com/news/Hundreds+rally+better+mental+health+services/5384402/story.html

On September 10, in Victoria BC, about 300 people gathered in honour of Word Wide Suicide Prevention Day. The image you see here is our Memory Box, in which the intrepid Tara Timmers carried our hopes all the way from our adult psychiatric hospital to the lawns of the Legislature. Once there, many wrote messages, or names and other memories on scraps of paper, there was even a small photograph dropped into the box. I've read every one and was moved to tears many, many times. These scraps of memory will go to Ottawa in the envelope containing our petitions and letters. 

I've been working hard since then to make myself remember yesterday. I noticed about 4 or 5 hours after I got home the entire day (as is usual since I hit my head 6 years ago), had begun to disappear. In the same way a vivid dream that I think I couldn't possibly forget does after I wake up. I began to get those feelings of self-recrimination, fear, anxiety, depression replace the joy I could now only dimly sense had been there. It just wasn't fair! I really wanted to remember this day of all days and was annoyed at that part of me that had kicked in, seeming to want to punish me for feeling happiness.

It occurred to me I might have a chance to fix this if the memory issue is a chronic anti-stress response. That maybe I could train myself to remember. I spent most of the evening "walking" mentally through the day, from start to finish. I noticed there were vignette moments that had stuck, so I made myself logically go thru the missing sections with prompts from long term memory. Like picturing a particular street corner I am familiar with. 

It worked, sort of. I was able to bring back a lot of it. It's still got that TV effect but the images are there. And I am so thankful today for Daphne's, Hugh's and Erika's photographs to fill in the rest. The best part has been some of the good feelings I had in those moments came back, again, dimly and movie-like, kind of once removed but there. 

I tried a tactic I heard about from people who treat people like me with dissociative identities, or what I refer to in myself as my splinters. I had a long talk with that part of myself I theorized might be masking all the memories in order to safely block any dangerous ones. I used a commanding but motherly tone, speaking out loud about how it is okay to trust myself to deal with feelings, that an adult is in charge now. That the child in me could finally let go of her vigilance. This exhausted childhood part of me is where I think the more persistent post traumatic stress symptoms come from. 

I never had a functioning adult in my life as a child and only came into an understanding of what it means to be an adult once I got my addictions under control after the accident. Feelings are not something I access anymore for evaluating a given situation.

From some reason yesterdays exposure to all those people cut through to some deep wounding inside me. I felt completely at home with everyone there, it felt natural as breathing to speak to them and to have them speak to me. Not an ounce of agoraphobic reactions after a bit of nausea at the very beginning. 

The best part of the exercise in remembering was when the memories of watching the women speak came flooding back. I can "see" their hand gripping the microphone, "hear" their voices shake with emotion, I can "feel" their passion. Watching them as mentors: Denise Savoie , Hazel Meredith and Erika Rolston and reliving the experience of watching them will make my job easier to do now because remembering is learning. 

Timing

I suppose starting a Blog wasn't such a good idea right in the middle of organizing a major event to which 1,200 people are invited. Too bad. I absolutely loved thinking about and writing the first two (or was it three?) entries and have only limped by here today to beg your patience. Let's get this baby 'dots' thing and rally settled and then we'll see. Timing and balance, mutually dependent on each other for best results. Later!
P.S. These little turtles live near where I paint sometimes in summer, at a place called Beacon Hill Park in Victoria, BC

Taming the Dragon

This little fellow popped out onto my canvas one day years ago. Not sure where he came from, he's far from my usual style (and I almost never use orange when painting)...I thought of him suddenly when pondering today's entry--in honour of the Dragon Boat Racing Festival in town this weekend.

The dragon in this context symbolizes the Canadian mental health system. I can hear my favourite writing instructor at Camosun College saying "Jean, too big a subject! Focus! Focus!" Except she would not get excited because she also discourages excessive use of exclamation points (!)

Lack of focus in this system is the point. Focusing long term and effective resources on mental health will lead to a time when suicide is not considered an option many Canadians consider as treatment for mental health pain.

A dragon boat has 10 paddlers who to win must listen to the beat of the drummer in the bow. Every stroke in unison. The stern controls the direction the canoe goes in. The team of 12 people practise with a commitment that would exhaust an Olympiad. Why? For the common cause of beating the beast that is cancer forever into defeat while we celebrate the lives of survivors and lost cancer leaves in its wake.

It's not much of a stretch to imagine what good would come of a similar focus on mental health by our Provincial and Territory leaders.

Today the dragon's eye on each boat in our gorgeous inner harbour is painted red, to awaken the dragon. Our human chain on September 10, this World Wide Suicide Prevention Day, is our chance to paint the eye red, to awaken the dragon and get its attention.

Belief

Belief is so much more useful than hope. Hope easily dissolves under too much stress, whereas belief, by its very nature, can only grow. Hope disappoints, belief stabilizes. Belief knows, hope, well, can only hope.