After the Storm

It all started with a murder back in September... well really it started with a reckless decision I made about a decade ago... so let's say it flared up again with a murder back in September. One that took place about 100 feet from my front door.

Emotional grief and chaos had beaten me up pretty good back in March and April. My divorce became final in the same time period that my son got diagnosed with autism. And shortly thereafter I had to take a stress leave from work because I just couldn't keep up with everything.

I needed some space to breathe.

Some time to figure out which way was up again.

 

The real outcome of my leave, however, was that I discovered that I am comfortably busy

 just being the stay-at-home mom of a 3 year old with autism.

I can keep up with fitness, spirituality, and a social life if I don't also have a full time job
 (but I have to pay the bills).

But September brought my return to work, and it only took a few weeks for a storm to start brewing, and a looooong drawn-out storm it was.

Here is a brief storm summary (in addition to the regular challenges of single parenting a 3 year old with autism).

• September 19 - murder across the street. Didn't sleep well for a few nights.
• First week of October - my son's third birthday, which happens to fall on one of the biggest/busiest days of the year at work. I am beyond exhausted by the weekend. (And his birthday party was still awesome! Camping theme. Here is the cake:)

• Early October - I realize I have some alarming symptoms that could indicate cancer. I am stressed every moment of every day with the possible ramifications. Since it takes weeks to get appointments with my family doctor and get other information, I live with intense fear every day.
• Mid October, my symptoms get serious enough one night, I wonder if they are life threatening and spend the night in the emergency ward. Though my symptoms appear scary, they are not life threatening, and I have just had a panic attack.
• Last week of October:
• I receive some life-altering news about my ex and his life, but the news doesn't come from my ex. I realize I have not been receiving all the information about the activities of my non-verbal 3 year old when he is with his dad. I become extremely concerned about the safety of my son.
• I get the test results back from my concerning symptoms. Turns out its not cancer. Not life-threatening. Relatively easy to remedy I can exhale.
• I get a phonecall from a housing co-operative that I had applied to back in July. They want me to come in for an interview immediately. Within 48 hours I have an interview, am offered a dream 2 bedroom townhouse that will be the family home my son grows up in, in a beautiful, safe neighborhood, close to my work, that I would never be able to otherwise afford. I accept the offer for the townhouse and give my 1 month notice to my landlords. We are moving. To our dream house.
• First week of November:
•  I have to make a very difficult decision and am engulfed by fear about how my ex will respond to my decision. I consult with security experts. I inform my ex and he responds peaceably. Once again, some sleepless nights.
• I also start packing up my home.
• Second week of November:
• My ex's response flares up. We have to arrange an immediate mediation.
• My son's autism worker has to quit. I am expected to advocate for her, and I want to, but I can't with ex issues, moving, recent health issues, and my full time job. Its amazing that I can even make it to work in the morning.
• My ex and I make a holding pattern plan that will stabilize things in the short term.
• Third week of November:
• I receive more jaw dropping / face-slapping / gut kicking news from my ex.
• I get the keys to my new place with the condition that I accept it as is (dirty, and in need of painting and some repairs).
• I drop a huge chunk of change on some new appliances, paint, and labour.
• My son gets new autism workers (Behavioural Interventionists). I feel bad that I don't even know who these people are, but right now I just don't have time.
• I am fearful there is too much change going on for my son. I cry at the thought of him not understanding that we are moving to a new home. His current home (a basement suite) is the only home he's ever known. And he loves his home.
• My son comes down with a cold.
• Its one of my busiest times of year at work.
• Last week of November:
• Every spare moment I can find is spent cleaning and painting the new townhouse, to make it as comfortable and familiar as possible the day my son and I move in.
• Every other moment is spent packing and cleaning the old place.
• My son still has a cold and doesn't sleep well the whole week (so neither do I).
• Last day of November: Moving Day. 2 hours of sleep. Barely ate anything. My son was happy to see objects that he knew, but still tried to 'go home' to the old place. He sleeps in my arms that night, clutching closely to me. I think we were actually clutching onto each other.
• First week of December
• within 24 hours, my son figures out this is our new home. He is happy.
• my son gets pinkeye. He is in a fair bit of pain.
• unpacking takes a long time.
• Second week of December
• my son's cold is still going and I have been up with him numerous nights with very scary coughing fits (That's the part I hate the most about single parenting because I get really scared). I take him in to the clinic and discover he has an ear infection AND bronchitis.
• trying to finish up painting. Unpacking.
• my ex forces me into a surprise situation that is extremely uncomfortable. Takes me a day or two to emotionally recover.
• Third week of December
• Christmas shop? Christmas bake? Paint? Clean?
• sort out inappropriate surprise situation with ex
• my son recovers with the help of antibiotics
• Fourth week of December
• extremely awkward and dreaded Christmas situations with the ex come to pass. I survive. I am not a saint, and I didn't want to be a saint. But I am happy with who I am and what I put forward. Despite it all, I have a good Christmas.
• January - back to work, bills, and monitoring changes with my son's therapy.
• I get out to explore some of the trails and shops close to my beautiful new townhouse.

And with the arrival of the New Year, it seems that particular storm has passed by. Peace and calm have arrived (for at least today), and I am taking it all in. I am learning to embrace it all. In my daily meditations from Fr. Richard Rohr this week, I read that to love God is to love everything, for God is in everything. I know I'm definitely not "there" yet (I don't love everything), but maybe I'm leaning in that direction? Maybe I'm getting better at acceptance?

A few friends have commented on a difference they've seen in my spirit since we moved. There's a peace there. I sense it. And I don't know particularly what it is, except to say that its LOVE. Love from God. Love from family and friends. Love from my son. Love from the incredible nature that surrounds our new home.

 Love lives here.

This is my favorite song these days.
The general gist indicates a romantic love, but could certainly be interpreted into love of life.
And miraculously, that's where I emerge from the storm - in love with life and my son, still struggling most days, and glorying in the messiness of it all.

Sober - Little Big Town

 

I celebrated Thanksgiving (eh!) with my family today.

A few days ago I started thinking about what I'm really thankful for. If I even think about how thankful I am for my son, I start bawling immediately, so lets not go there. Same with family members, health, etc.

But there's something I have been thanking God for every day since the day after labour day.

Heated seats.

That's right. An extravagance for this menno girl, for sure. But they only had 1 manual Kia Soul on the lot when I bought it in April. And it was in black (which I wanted). And it came with heated seats.

I am usually achy in the morning. My chiropractor says its because I never fall into a deep enough sleep to allow my muscles to repair (pre-schooler with autism of the I-don't-sleep variety). And I'm usually panicked and late and utterly at a loss every morning, wondering how I will possibly get thru another day. And before I'm at the bottom of the driveway, the heated seats kick in, like a little love. Warming me. Holding me. Giving me hope that even if I don't make it thru the day, they will at least get me delivered to my office (where my day launches into a life of its own).

I've been reading some hysterically funny notes from single parents of autistic kids who are trying to date. It's hysterical because its so impossible. The life of a single parent of an ASD kid is completely unmanageable if the person also has to hold down a full time job... And then fit in dating, and an
actual developing relationship.... Well. They tend to develop at a snails pace because there is no time, and often fizzle out because they move so slowly, they lose momentum.

Heated seats might better.
They don't need anything from me.
They fit into my commute.
They make me feel good.
 They support me in whatever I do.
They are there for me at the end of a long day.
They sing with me to my fave song "Sunny and 75", making me feel like it really is 75.

My tushy and I thank you, heated seats. There is no one else like you.

(And I only had time to write this because I did so while sitting on a hard white pre-school Ikea chair beside the bathtub while my son had one of his marathon baths).

Dining Alone... And other times you feel like everyone's looking at you.

Today I am dining out alone.

I haven't done this for well over a decade. And I have to say, it is lovely. Of course I am sitting on a lovely terrace, Labour Day weekend in Harrison Hot Springs, BC.

Okay, not the greatest pic, but it was dark in the shadow of the terrace, and my iPad wouldn't capture me AND the view.

I recently read somewhere, that unless you're okay with dining alone, or going to see a movie by yourself, you're probably not truly comfortable with yourself... You haven't fully accepted who you are.

I think that's probably true because why WOULDN'T you be okay with dining by yourself?.... Because mose of us are afraid of being judged... criticized... evaluated and found to have come up short.

Before I was married I used to be paranoid about being judge for my singleness. Ithought everyone was talking about me under thier breath (because I wasn't worthy somehow). Then I talked to a mom who felt the same way, except she felt like people were constantly jduging her because she was a stereotypical mom  of two pre-schoolers who struggled to keep up with the mythical, polished, Supermom image. That's when I realized that we all feel judged all the time, no matter where we are in life.

Just this year I discovered WHY.

Its because we are constantly judging ourselves, and our own fears. And when we judge other people, we're actually just projecting our own fears on others. It has almost nothing to do with them, and its entirely about us.

I am now amused when I hear about others around me feeling judged because whoever is judging them is clearly self critical of a related issue. They are allowing their true fears to be seen. Their criticism is just about their fear, and probably related to a fear of rejection. It has nothing to do with how the other lives their life.

By the same token, when the personon the receiving end of the criticism flips out over the criticism, it simply reflects that they beat themselves up over a fear that they might be what they are jedge for.... Or at the most basic level, what they fear (once again related to fear of rejection).  It is not a picture of the reality of who and what they are in that moment.

Back to dining alone...
the terrace I sit at is an excellent spot to literrally look down and people watch, which to some extent is related to jedging others. I find it intruiging that I notice only those who visually resemble what I might judge myself for. Women who are 50 and trying to look 20. Couple with large age gaps. Overweight or frumpily dressed women. How a large chested woman wears her assets. Extremely polished people make me feel the most judged, and hence I judge them the most. All these reflect my fears and have nothing to do with the individuals I observe.

If you've ever suffered from feeling judged, its a wonderful to arrive at a place where you finally understand what this is all about.

A dear but distant friend contacted me today to tell me that she has entered the process of divorce. I am loaning her all the courage I can. She comes from a similar background as I do where divorce really wasn't an option. Marriage is forever. I know this has put her on an unwanted journey. And dammit, it hurts.

I re-read a favorite quote from Fr. Richard Rohr this wee, and its truth resonates deeply in me, for my journey, and for my friend's journey. the quote is from the book "Falling Upward", and of course I can't find the exactquote now, but here is the essence of it from my memory:

We must allow our pain to transform us by seeing God in our pain. When we don't allow our pain to transform us, we transmit it instead.

“How to bear that which is unbearable.”

Those were the words that leapt off the page of last year’s July edition of ‘O’ that I had gotten out of the library. It was an interview with author, Cheryl Strayed, about her book, Wild.

I didn’t need to know what the book was about; just that I needed to read it. It was sort of like my body and spirit recognized truth right there… the truth that the reason I was having such difficulty moving on with life is that I didn’t know how to bear what felt unbearable to me: the loss of my marriage, my soul-mate, my dream, my love, my self, my pride. There is an element of loss with my son’s autism too, but the root of my grief, the larger iceberg under the water, was the loss of my marriage.

It was the day after I posted my last entry that I rushed out to the book store to get a copy of Wild. It turns out that it’s a memoir about Cheryl Strayed’s journey on the Pacific Coast Trail (PCT), and I couldn’t believe that it was a book about how to bear the unbearable AND one of my few personal passions: hiking. (And I have hiked very small sections of the PCT while en route to less cumbersome trails).

Cheryl’s grief was centered around the loss of her mother, and as a side issue, the loss of her marriage. She decided to hike the PCT, on a whim, to find herself again, to re-connect herself to nature, to truth, to her natural self (and wow, had she ever lost touch with herself!) Hilariously and horrifyingly, the unbearable turns out to be her backpack that weighs almost as much as she does. She knew nothing of backpacking, so brought along everything she might possibly need on the trail. And the loveable thing about her (because I see it in myself) is that she pushes herself to carry it anyway. It’s a pack that muscular 6’2” men can’t even carry, and she’s like, 5’4”.

Cheryl talks about not achieving the mileage she expected to achieve… only achieving about 1/3 of it because her pack was so overbearing. She talks about burning and numbness and bruising and chafing, and toenails falling off. She talks about one step at a time. Sometimes 50 and 100 steps at a time, but sometimes all she could do was to take 10 steps at a time. Sometimes all she could achieve was simply to lean forward. And, somehow, by doing this, not only did she get stronger and wiser, but she walked all the way from the Mojave desert to the Oregon/Washington border!

Close to the beginning of her journey she is charged at by an aggressive long-horned bull (like the kind they run from in Spain). She is so terrified she closes her eyes and blows her scare- whistle. She thinks she’s going to die, but when she doesn’t, she opens her eyes again, and the bull is gone. She finally realizes she is DONE and it is time to pack this journey in and go home. But then she realizes that she doesn’t know which way the bull went. If she gives up and goes back, the bull could be there. Or if she goes forward, the bull could be there. So she decides she might as well go forward since she doesn’t know where the bull might be.

These two incidents rocked my traumatized/victimish world. It helped me to realize that while my journey is painful and numbing, I have to keep moving. Also, like Cheryl, I’m carrying a lot of stuff I don’t need to be carrying. Its time to put it down, burn it, whatever. Furthermore, I have no idea when and where my proverbial long-horned bull is going to come charging out of the bush at me, but I have to keep moving forward, because the bull may or may not come at me regardless of whether I go back, stay still, or move forward. So I might as well move forward. And finally I learned that some days, I might only be able to take 1 step at a time. Some moments, all I can do is lean and stumble in the right direction.

Since I’ve read Wild, I haven’t made any more blog entries. Why? Because I’m too busy living again, and its wonderful.

And.

There’s still days (like Sunday and today)

where I’m only getting in 10 steps all day,

or I push myself so hard to get in 20 steps that my fatigue makes me sick.

Since my journey is 20 – 40 years long, and I’ve got a little one who's counting on me, I need to be kinder and gentler to myself… congratulate myself for making ends meet, providing good nutrition for my son, and lots of hugs (which he requires many of). If that’s all that happens, that’s still a pretty damn good day.

Anger, Anger, Where Art Thou?

Oh THERE you are! I have been trying to touch you for a LONG time now! I knew you were there, but I just couldn't access you!

I would not have posted yesterday’s post, “Heart. Break.”, a few weeks ago. But I knew my grief was stuck and something that I was doing… or not doing, was blocking it.

 Several people have asked me about my anger in my journey and I haven’t been able to feel it, find it, or express it. Cognitively I know my anger is there, and subconsciously I’m spending enormous amounts of energy containing it, but I haven’t been able to break the surface to let it come forth.

Why?

Because I’m nice.

Because I do the right thing.

Because I choose the higher road.

This past week, as I’ve been practicing trusting in my true self, I’ve realized I need to let go of trying to do ‘the right thing.’ I am who I am. And I am good and perfect the way I am, right now… not even as I grow into some better/wiser self through my journey.

 My son is who my son is. As I trust myself to be myself, I need to trust my son (with his autism) to be himself. He will walk his own path and he has all he needs, in his true self, to do so. I’ve also felt guilt, panic, and exhaustion trying to apply the right choices for him. My course of action in getting therapy for his autism has been timely and appropriate, but now that its in place, I can let my hyper-vigilance relax and allow him just to be his 2 year old self, while I just return to being myself.

As I’ve let go of my expectations and self-imposed parameters (one white knuckle at a time), my anger has finally started to bubble through. What a relief!

Yesterday, as I felt the surge of renewed hurt and betrayal from my ex, I wanted to yell, “GET OUT!!!! JUST GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!!!!” But I didn’t (mostly to protect my son). And then my ex quietly slipped out, and the hurt surged through my veins even harder.

For the first time ever, I knew I needed to act on my hurt. If I didn’t act on it, I’m never going to heal. So I went into the bedroom, closed the door, and punched an overstuffed pillow, over and over again. I imagined it was my ex. I imagined it was other individuals involved. It went on until I didn’t need to do it anymore.

For most people, this is laughable in terms of expressing anger.

For me, it’s huge... or a huge first step.

I don’t express anger.

 I cry.

I run.

I numb.

But I don’t express anger.

And its literally killing me.

Yesterday I expressed my anger for the first time. First, through the pillow-punching. Second, through posting something that was a little dramatic… a little more raw than I prefer to be out in the public.

Miranda Lambert, the country music artist, has a reputation for having no difficulty expressing herself, in music, and allegedly in person as well. Her current hit song, “This Ain’t My Mama’s Broken Heart” takes it to more of an extreme than the reality I live, but I’m grateful that she does… firstly so I don’t have to. Secondly so the origin of the hurt emerges into humour, thereby bringing healing.

(for the record, it ain’t about my mama… more about the expectations that many of us have been brought up in).

Heart. Broken.

I’ve been officially ‘recovering’ for a month now. As wonderful as working 1 day a week sounds, my time off has been no picnic. I’ve been stuck in the oxymoronic process of

Working hard… to rest

Grieving… to heal

Crash & burning… to rise from the ashes.

All of these are not choreographable tasks. They all require surrender that is active in its joy and passive in its action.

I’ve noticed in myself and others, that we humans tend to be reticent to share ourselves in the midst of our grief. We want to wait until we have it all figured out so we can deliver our message in a happily-ever-after package. I think we want to show ourselves and the world, that all of this heartbreak does make sense… somewhere, down the road.

But I am not there.

I am stuck in heartbreak.

I am immersed in grief.

I had a conversation with my ex tonight that re-opened the tender scabs on my pulverized heart. It brought forth another tidal wave of betrayal and hurt. It makes me wonder if this will ever end. I’m already divorced, for crying out loud. Why can’t I get over this? I fully believe that I took the path I needed to take by both marrying AND divorcing my ex. Its been two years since I realized that the dream is dead. And still, the tears pour out. Still, the heart breaks more and more.  It makes me wonder if there’s even any pieces of my heart left to be scabbed over. But there must be, because I still feel pain. If my heart was pulverized to the point of obliteration, I wouldn’t feel pain.

Talking with a few good friends in the last few days, the only new clue I have in how to get through this, is that my heart-of-hearts, my true self, the part of me that is irrevocably and eternally connected to God, knows the way through. And I have to trust that part of me to show the way.

Yesterday a friend, who is also a therapist, was telling me that what she’s discovered lately is that too many people try to rush through the ‘crash and burn’ phases of grief. The crashing and burning is so uncomfortable, mostly for the person who’s going through it, but probably also for people around that person. The thing with the crash and burn phase is that you can’t DO anything in it, except surrender to it. You can’t control it. You can’t hurry it. You can’t dissect it because it doesn’t make any sense.

You CAN observe it. But that’s about all. And there’s no fast forwarding in the observation either.

When I flipped open my laptop to write this entry, I noticed the wallpaper on my screen. It’s the same wallpaper/background photo I have on my Facebook profile.

“The fullness of joy is to behold God in everything.”

And that’s about as close as I can come to making sense out of anything in the midst of heartbreak. That’s about as close as I come, to having hope that I will recover. That is the essence of HOPE itself.

Zits Happen

Its been a while since I've blogged.

Why?

Because I'm on a partial stress break. Or maybe I should call it a stress brake. I went down to 1 day a week at work just to get a handle on life. I feel like my major, seemingly insurmountable, overwhelming battles are done now. And now I have to figure out how to recover from my war, and find my new 'normal' in life. I'm sure there will be future blogs about the interesting things I'm discovering about rest and exhaustion, etc, but todays' blog is about zits.

Around second trimester of my pregnancy in 2010, I got a zit that creates the third corner of a triangle between my inner eye and the bridge of my nose. To my dismay, the zit never disappeared, and in fact turned into a mole. So not only did I grow a baby from my body in 2010, but I also grew a mole that is almost all I see when I look in the mirror now.

This morning that mole pore became clogged again, and I noticed I had a whitehead on top of the mole, now creating a 3-D model of Mt Baker on my face. Of course today is also the day that I have to go to work. So I knew I couldn't leave Mt. Baker to loom at people, particularly because I had a presentation with 50 grade 7's.

So you know what I did...

....and you know what I looked like then... Mt Baker with a cherry on top!

I knew I couldn't go talk to the grade 7's like this because instead of the usual first question:
"Why is marijuana illegal?"
I'd get asked,
"What's that thing on your face?"

And I just knew I didn't have the strength to face that. My only option was to call in sick... from a zit... Now I appreciate all of you out there who have lovingly made comments about my strength to get through everything... but this particular moment in time is a more accurate reflection of my strength... being scared to talk to grade 7's because I have a zit. And, much to my chagrin, I realized that I couldn't call in sick... not only because its the only day in the week that I work, but also because I had another class that I absolutely had to be there for later in the afternoon, so I couldn't really call in sick for one class, then show up for another later on in the day.

So I went to work. And I emailed, texted, and called everyone I needed to talk to instead of venturing outside my office door. I don't even think I went to the bathroom. One of the Vice Principals stopped by my office at one point and I was honestly expecting him to jump back, aghast at my zit. I'm not sure he even saw it. Could be because my office has low lighting. Or it could be because he's a man.

My grade 7 presentation arrived quickly at 11am. Up until then I had come up with a lot of excuses why I could still cancel it, such as that my laptop powerpack had been lost for the last few weeks and my laptop had run out of power. But not only does everyone know that I know my presentations well enough to not require a laptop, but the librarian also found and returned my missing power pack at 10:40... so I had to go.

As you might guess, the first question with the grade 7 class was "Why is marijuana illegal?" NOT "What's that on your face?" (maybe if it was grade 2's it would have been 'What's wrong with your face?') In the end, it was one of the most interactive, dynamic presentations I've had with a grade 7 class this year.

An hour later I shared my vulnerable experience with a co-worker who is familiar with my recent journey. She said, "What a wonderful opportunity for you to model that its perfectly okay to have a zit; life goes on and you can still be a confident, beautiful woman even if you have acne... because those are exactly the kinds of issues they are dealing with in grade 7." Ya, she's probably right, but to be honest, I don't care about modeling to the grade 7's right now. I just want things to go smoothly... to have no bumps, or zits or uneven pavement in my life for a while.

And then that video that changed my life, Brene Brown's TED Talk, "The Power of Vulnerabilty" came back and hit me in the face.
Click here to watch The Power of Vulnerability

 I remembered that life is made up of vulnerability. Without vulnerability we can't know joy, gratitude, creativity, belonging, etc. Vulnerability... zits!... are what life is made up of.

Vulnerability... zits... both literal and proverbial...
- put us in a posture where we are a receptical to receive grace.
- having received grace, we are then in a better posture to practice grace

Vulnerability facilitates an opportunity to put our pride/ego/sin aside in order to make room for others in our lives; its fairly well known that I'm not good at asking for help. Since my ego seems to be too big to do so, God/Life has brought me other opporunities that have forced me to do so... probably so I could experience the fullness of life that comes from relationships.

Vulnerability... zits... help me keep it real. In Brene's TED Talk she talks about how hard we work to perfect life. But life isn't supposed to be perfect. When we are trying to perfect our lives, we're essentially trying to play God, which makes us sick on a whole lotta levels. Therefore zits keep me engaged with my Creator, and help me remember that I am not God. They put me in my place, in a good way. I can't even handle being director of the program I run at work, or being a Mom to my son, never mind God.

I could probably keep going, but I'm not going to wait until this blog is perfect. Maybe you can perfect this entry by telling me about the gifts that your vulnerability/zits bring in your life. Cuz, you know, zits happen to everyone! Zits are the fabric of our lives... not cotton.