The Return of the Thing

* Disclaimer * If you are someone I know IRL and have happened to stumble across this after years of silence, I want to assure you I am fine and IN NO WAY want to discuss this in person. I want no pity, or sad eyes, or "How are you... really?" questions. You are welcome to comment, but keep it light or commiserating. This means you, Dad, as well as a handful of others. * End disclaimer *

I haven't been here in years, but I'm finding more and more that I need an outlet to express myself again. I've tried journalling, but my inner voice keeps saying, "Why are you talking if it's only to yourself?" I prefer the anonymous permanence of the internet - 10 years after blogs became obsolete. 

Update time - in the 6 or 7 years since I've been here, I have: 

• left the church of my childhood once and for all, 
• completed my Masters in Social Work, 
• left my job as a Crisis Worker (not easily or well),
• lost our beloved Monty,
• worked every day of the pandemic either in hospital or in public programing,
• got diagnosed with ADHD,
• start a private counselling practice (while on meds for ADHD that created mania, but that's another story),
• brought home our grumpy-pants dog, Jedi, and our love-bug dopey dog, Gruber,
• moved cities to a job (senior social worker in mental health) that I love in as equal parts as it drains me,
• continue working part time in my private practice, and
• managed to stay married to The Guy (aka Wade) as we build a life here (I contribute most of this to him). 

Last fall, I slipped into the depths of depression. It was less of a sadness as it was a heavy fog of despair and emptiness that made it nearly impossible to lift my limbs or even my head unless I was at work or with a client. I expect part of it was finally running out of steam after the year of getting our new life together.

It was a whirlwind. I had been unsuccessfully looking for MSW work in my home city where, having moved to a different government body, I was deemed to have no experience because I had only been with their corporate machine for 3 years. Suddenly, the nearly 20 years (19 years, 9 months, 3 weeks) of intensive crisis counselling, intervention, therapy, mediation, and training meant as much as a 23 year old just out of university. This was nothing new to me, I have never much fit in to the system I was apart of, but it meant being passed over (over and over) for jobs that I was well-qualified for. 

As a lark, I started applying in other cities, and eventually I got a call. A manager had noticed that my resume listed me as part of her overall organization but I was not in the system. We spoke, she expressed interest, and she went out of her way to fix the issue that kept me out of the system. Within a week, I was interviewed and hired to start that next month. Within that month, we bought a house, sold a house, and I left to stay with my sister until The Guy could follow. 

So, a year and three months later, all I could do was lay on the couch once I was done at work. I loved (love) the job. It is all the elements that I love - some client work, some admin, some supervision. But it was really more of 1.75 jobs in one and I was determined to make it work. Add to that, masking my ADHD so that I would be accepted, was exhausting. I did my work with energy and attention, saw my private clients with enthusiasm, and then collapsed. 

I started to come out of that doom in March or April that year. I upped my medications (Effexor and Trazadone), got an excellent therapist, and slowly crawled out. However, some damage had been done. I had checked out of nearly every chore in the house. I had given limited energy to my relationship, almost none to making friends (apart from one extremely determined younger woman who is a pitbull of kindness), and less to doing anything to get out of it. 

Since then, I have attempted to return to the world - and have in some ways - but it has not been easy. I have had multiple injuries in the last two years (torn ligaments and tendons) so exercise in my preferred forms have been out of the question. I could do my physio exercises, but in my brain that isn't as appealing as yoga or walking - and those I need my limbs to do - so, of course, I couldn't do anything!

I've noticed the last few weeks that this heaviness is creeping in again - heavier than before. It may be a fall thing - I have many clients and friends who find fall extremely difficult. It may be a mind thing - the heaviness taking over my body when my mind is whirring about without boundaries. 

However, I heard a podcast that said self-care is about the reasons we do the things, not just the things we do. I'm reading the book Burnout by the Nagasi sisters (I can't remember their names at the moment and I'm too lazy to go look) and they note that to come back from burnout also involves creativity and my brain went, "Ah ha! Write more!" And so, here we are. Doing something different and yet not - deeply familiar and yet not. 

And I'm doing it here in sort of secret. I hear most people are on Substack so I should be safe. It's been a theme this week with clients and friends alike - wanting to be seen but not observed. And here I am.

Self-care is not self-indulgence. Or, at least, not always.

Fall is a difficult time for a lot of us with mental health issues.  Of course, I don't have stats to back that up, but anecdotally, a lot of my friends have said the same thing. We struggle with the changing of the seasons.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love fall.

I can finally wear pants, cardigans, heavy boots, and cute scarves. I'm not inundated with boob sweat or swass. Also, everything is flavoured in pumpkin, and that's just exciting.

I love the cozy nights by the fire place and the crisp breezes and the colours of the leaves. What I don't like is the crippling depression and dread that sometimes goes with it.

So, it was fitting that on October 10th, the day set aside to discuss World Mental Health, I couldn't get out of bed.

It is no secret I have depression and anxiety issues.  I've joked about them time and time again.

I have written seriously about them too.

Depression, pain, and the lies they tell
When I jumped on the meditation bandwagon

With that in mind, I've been thinking a lot about self-care.

source

Self-care has recently become a bit of a catchphrase that has lost all meaning.  (Like saying "tartlet" too many times! source)

It seems to me that now it is all lithe blond girls on Instagram who take pictures of themselves with large glasses of wine and a hashtag of #lol #blessed #selfcare!

And, while I'm sure that is also true, that's not always helpful for most of us.

What is self-care?

Self-care may better be described as emotional health care.

It is taking care of one's self so as to be the healthiest, best version of you.  It's doing the things to make that happen and to be gentle with yourself when those things aren't an option.

The trouble we come across, as a society, is that we seem to have gotten lost in the line between being gentle with ourselves and giving in to our every whim in a guise of "self-care".

Some days, me staying in bed all day is the only thing I can do. In order to take care of what I need to that day, I can stay there and not feel guilty or lazy.  I just do it and know that tomorrow will be a different day.

The problem is when I'm on day 3 of staying in bed all day.

That is not self-care.  That is depression taking over.

At that point, self-care is bribing myself with pie if I get out of bed and take a shower.

It's all about balance.

But again, if I only eat pie for breakfast every day and then get myself that extra-large latte and treat myself to ice cream for lunch - for a week - that isn't self-care. That is over-indulgence and emotional eating.

Sometimes, self-care is doing things we don't want to do, but that are good for us.

We have to be the "parents" of our bodies and our health - both physical and mental.

Just like with real parents, we need boundaries, we need rules, but we also need to shuck those rules sometimes and go to the zoo.

Be good to yourselves.

The day my father pooped my pants

Don't worry, my father has read this prior to it being published. It was so ridiculous we both knew it had to be told.

I have more things to write about our experience in Ukraine with Dad's illness (Part I, Part II, Part III) and all the things that happened (like here and here), but I need to jump ahead a bit and tell you a story of the day my Dad pooped my pants.

Source

Yes, that is the spoiler, but I feel like you will appreciate the story regardless.

My father and his wife, Tanya, planned to come back to Canada so that Dad could get the medical attention he needs to get well.  Dad had medical approval to travel, but he and Tanya both felt they needed help to make the trip.  As we could not get visa approval for anyone in Ukraine on such short notice, so it became necessary for me to make the trip again.

I do not like travel. I don't like international travel. I do not like international travel while I am alone. I do not like international travel to countries where I do not speak the language.

Now this was the second time in two months I would be making the trip.

I will tell the full story another time, but for now I will jump ahead a bit.

I made the trip and met Dad and Tanya at the airport in Kyiv.  We put on a fresh ostomy bag for our travels and hoped it would make it all the way to Canada.  There had been some troubles with the bags in the past, but we were hopeful.

Off we went.

All went relatively smoothly.  We had to empty the bag repeatedly on the planes, but apart from that, it went well. We were almost home -- on our final leg of the trip -- and thought we were home free.

We should have known.

It all fell apart mid-air between Toronto and Regina.

First thing that tipped us off was the smell.

I don't know if you've smelled the matter of an ostomy bag. It smells remarkably like a Gremlin died inside a Tauntaun on a hot August day in Alabama.

I knew we were in trouble.

I grabbed as many supplies as I could to do the replacement in mid-air.  Usually, Dad is lying or sitting down and we have all the time in the world.  We had to make this happen in an airplane bathroom as fast as we could before all the passengers started passing out or throwing themselves from the plane.

I entered the bathroom first and sat on the toilet.  Dad entered the bathroom next and shut the door behind him. It was the only way I could work on the ostomy bag while keeping the smell slightly contained within the confines of one room.

Our suspicions were confirmed. The bag had detached along one side.

It needed to be replaced fully.

I got to work peeling the bag off and disposing of it as best I could.  As I was struggling to move around in the smallest bathroom in the world, I looked up at my father in disbelief and said the only thing that came to mind.

This isn't the mile-high club I thought I would join.

That's our family, if you can't be normal, be inappropriate.

You would think that would be all. I mean, two fairly large people trapped in an airline bathroom. That is ridiculous enough.  Right?

Nope. Not for us.

It was at this moment that a clump from the ostomy bag dropped.

I saw it in slow-motion. And still, I couldn't stop it.

It landed squarely on my pants.

Poop.

I ignored it and finished applying the ostomy bag and getting Dad sorted well enough to return to his seat. I borrowed his large button up shirt (size XXXL) so I sent him away so I could clean the bathroom and myself.

I bagged and double bagged my clothes. I cleaned the bathroom and sprayed the odor eliminator liberally.  Finally, I exited the bathroom in a large blue jean cowboy shirt which I was now wearing as a dress. I grabbed a pair of pyjama short-shorts I had in my carry-on. I pretended everything was all fine.

The flight attendant took one look at me and brought me Bailey's on ice.  She patted my hand and told me I was a good daughter.

My glass was not empty the rest of the flight.

But I think we may be on a no-fly list now.

Adventures in Ukraine: Part 3 -- Wherein we learned to ask for help

In my family, we are not good at asking for help.

Surprisingly enough, we are not very good at being exposed to other people. (Unless it's like, "Surprise! Here's my butt!")

I, especially, suffer from the belief that I should be able to be all things for all people and, as a child, my catch phrase (unintentionally, but never forgotten) was, "Fine. I'll do it myself."

That phrase has served me dysfunctionally well over the years.

My therapist worked very hard with me to combat the feeling that I am responsible for everyone I've ever met and that I am the only one who can fix any problem  In fact, most of the time, she would stare at me with one eyebrow raised and ask questions to remind me this is not true.

Q: "Who are you in charge of?"
A: Myself (and sometimes the dog 

Q: "Who are you responsible for and to?"
A: Myself, the dog, and Wade. (I'm sure he was thrilled that he's third on that list!)

These boundaries that I took months to set up disintegrated the moment I got the call from Tanya. My Dad was in trouble and I took on the job of fixing it. I started making lists the second I got off the phone.

Best hospital? Check 

Respected doctor? Check 

Me present to enforce healing and effect change? Check 

Acknowledgement that I'm not in charge of whole world? *crickets chirping*  

I relate a little too hard to Lucy.

My Dad and I have a complicated relationship. It was complicated before Mom died and even more so after. I think even he will admit I have often been in the parental role more than he.

It is easy for me to take over and fix things for Dad.

It is even easier for him to let me.

*Ahem*
We interrupt this airing of family laundry to distract you to a different topic.  

LOOK A SQUIRREL!
*Thank you*

Where was I?

Tanya is also a take charge woman, so we delegated our areas of control to things we could excel in. She took over hospital directing, medical management, making sure everything was going smoothly, and all food preparation.

She did even more, but I cannot fit it all into one clever sentence.

I took over keeping Dad from getting evicted from the hospital for being rude, organizing shifts for Dad maintenance, and figuring out how to find the money to pay for everything.

I had reached out to a relative to borrow a few thousand to pay for all the medical expenses.  I assured them that it would certainly cover everything and I could pay it back once I transferred money out of my Dad's savings.

We ran out of that money after the first week.

For as inexpensive as things are in Ukraine, it costs a hell of a lot to have someone in hospital.  The family was responsible for all medical supplies.  Sterile gloves, syringes, medications, bandages, ostomy bags, tape, cleaning wipes for wound management, etc. Every day, supplies cost us between $200-500 USD.

We also had to rent a flat (look how European I am!) and buy enough groceries to live.

My sisters and I sat around a computer and Skyped with our brother to talk about our options.  There was no money. If we all pooled our resources, we could come up with $17 and a piece of lint. We could try and get a bank loan, but it seemed so insurmountable.

I mean, we come from the land of free health care.  We had never thought this would happen.

We had to ask for help.

Ugh.

We went to the internet and told our friends the situation.  We were mortified and embarrassed and downtrodden.  I mentioned to one person how much I felt like a Nigerian prince asking for money to help get my father out of prison.

But we asked.

While we originally asked for a few thousand (once again we were hopelessly naive) and the generosity overwhelmed us.  Donations came in with positive messages of love and support and prayers.

It was humbling and amazing and uplifting.  We cannot say thank you enough.



I mean, really, we had no idea how many people liked Dad.

Lessons I learned in Ukraine

For most people, living in Ukraine is not an easy life.

As such, many Ukrainians are not happy people.

I struggled with this as, in my profession, it is my goal to always be polite and courteous and kind (as I can be) even when things are awful.  When people come to me their lives are not going well, so it is my goal not to make people's days worse because I'm having a rough day.

That is not always how it was in Ukraine.

Keep in mind, I do not know Ukrainian or Russian.  I can count to 13 in Russian.  I know "hello", "goodbye", "thank you", "please", and "excuse me". I can say "milk", "apple", and "latte". (Hint: it's latte) But, other than that, I am useless.  Without Google Translate on my phone, I would not have survived.

My view from a coffee shop of the bustle below

Many people in shops that I went into were kind and patient and encouraging. But there were some people...

I struggled with those people.

One Apteka worker in particular was awful.  She would harrumph and roll her eyes.  She would mutter and bang her hand on the counter.  She treated me as though I was the stupidest human ever to be in her way.  There were others who were similar (although there were  more that were entirely lovely humans) but this dark haired horrible woman was the worst.

After 3 weeks of dealing with people like this worker, I learned two things:

1. DO NOT BE A DICK TO PEOPLE WHO DON'T KNOW THE LANGUAGE.
   
   It is hard to not understand a damn thing that is going on around you.  To be incredibly smart and capable in your own country but to be a raging moron in a different language is incredibly frustrating and disheartening.
   
   We have so many new people coming to our countries.  Some will know a bit of the local language.  Some will know none of it.  No matter what, they are likely overwhelmed and exhausted trying to constantly translate things in their heads all day long. Because, for newcomers, nothing is like home and everything is hard.
   
   It does not take much to be kind to someone. Be kind.


2. EVERY DAY IN UKRAINE FEELS LIKE MONDAY
   
   In Ukraine, things there are often harder than they need to be.  Every day is the same.  People get up, travel a long ways to go to work, work very hard, make very little, do it for a huge part of the day, travel a long way home, make supper, and then go to bed.  Then, they do it again the next day.
   
   People might say, yeah we do that here too, but it is so much easier for us.  We have conveniences they do not. Our systems (while flawed) are not so deeply messed up that everything takes 10x longer to get anything done.
   
   For me, after 3 weeks of struggling EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. to do what needed to be done and then doing again the next day, I was grumpy as hell too.  It taught me to be a little more understanding of people who might not have had a lot of extra f*cks to give when they were dealing with me. 

I am grateful for the lessons Ukraine taught me.  The hardness of the Ukrainian life experience humbled me.  The kindness people showed uplifted me. The beauty of the land inspired me.

But God knows, I was ready to go home.

***************

Past excerpts from Ukraine

Part 1 

Part 2 

Locked bathroom adventures

I spent a year in Ukraine one month: Part 2

As part of dealing with the stress of this summer, I have decided to write about it.  

Part 1 of the story is here and the story of how I locked myself and my sister in the bathroom is here. 

View from the top floor of the hospital in Dnipro

I had to start this post with a beautiful picture to remind myself that Ukraine is a lovely country with some really good people.  Many of the people I adore are in Ukraine, from Ukraine, and fight for Ukraine.  But this month in Ukraine, for me, was very difficult and so I found it hard to separate the stressful from the good at times. 

When we made it to the hospital to see Dad for the first time, I was instantly transported to the last month of my mother's life.  My big ol' lumbering Dad did not look the same.  He had hoses and pic lines and monitors all over the place.  He breathed the rattling sound of the very, very ill.  He was lucid-ish when he was awake but slept at the drop of a hat for hours and hours.  He was uncomfortable and ill. 

The hospital ward (ICU for sepsis patients) reminded me of an old building from the 40s.  At our church camp, we have old airforce barracks made of concrete with ad hoc wiring and cracking walls, so in some ways, the building was reassuring and yet not so much because I know what mould and scary things live in them.  Most of the nurses were kind, but spoke no English, and were very busy with the other urgent care patients (most of whom were Ukrainian soldiers from the front line). 

It was days before we knew if Dad was going to survive. We had connected my brother by phone so he could talk to Dad (my brother has health issues himself, so we refused to let him travel because one of our family members in Ukrainian hospital at a time was enough).  When my youngest sister left to go back to London, we wondered if she would get to see Dad again.  

Until then, we settled into helping provide care for Dad.

Ukrainian hospital is very different from Canadian hospital.  While I thought I understood, there was no way I could until I was there.  I thank God for Tanya who helped us learn the system and walked us through so much.  She explained that all supplies had to be provided by the family.  The nurses were there to deal with the wounds and the medication, but family did all the rest. 

Each day, we had lists of items to purchase including: gloves, syringes, bandages, medications, etc.  These items were often written on a scrap piece of paper we would take to the pharmacy (Apteka in Ukraine).  We would trundle off to collect things, going from store to store in order to get everything on the list.  It never ceased to amaze me that I could get multiple bottles of morphine by just handing a scrap piece of paper to a technician.  

Tanya spent each morning with Dad and then left the hospital to run errands around the city and buy things Dad would need.  She worked from 6 a.m. every morning until well after 9 p.m. every night. My sisters and I spent the afternoon with Dad.  One of us running errands while the other two visited with him, fed him yogurt, held his water cup, and held his hand.  The only thing that helped any of us get some sleep was that, while Dad was in ICU, we were not allowed in the building after 8pm. 

After 5 days, Dad was moved to the surgical unit.  He had to have another operation in the days to come, so he would wait on the unit to free up an ICU bed as he had improved enough. 

The ward upstairs was quite nice in a lot of ways.  The common spaces had beautiful marble (or what looked like it to me) tiles on the walls and floors and dark wood accents.  There were more nurses, but there were also many more patients.  In fact, there were 4 patients to a room.  The beds were tucked up end to end so that two were along each wall with a narrow path up the middle.  There was no air conditioner, no fan, and it was 30+ degrees Celcius many days. 

It was also at the top of 5 very long flights of stairs with no elevator for anyone who wasn't old, needing extra help, or in a wheelchair.  

For me, that might have been the worst part.  I often had to count the stairs in units of 10 with a "you can do it" in between.

Me and exercise are not good friends.  Me and stairs?? We aren't even on speaking terms. 

But let me tell you, we spent a lot of time together.

*** to be continued ***

I spent a year in Ukraine one month: Part 1

A few days into July, I received a call from my father.  Normally a loud and forceful kind of guy, this time he sounded groggy, elderly, and in pain.

Dad explained he had a stomach attack of some kind and was in hospital in a city a few hours from where he stays in Ukraine.  He said not to worry too much, but that I should tell my siblings (including the brother he had just talked to and forgot to mention this to!!).  He said he would have his wife, Tanya, call me with more details when she could.

My siblings and I have always dreaded the day when we would get a call that something had gone wrong with Dad on the other side of the world.

After my mom died, Dad remarried Tanya.  Tanya is a powerhouse of a woman and just what Dad needed.  This was over a decade ago and they have since lived their lives straddling Ukraine and Canada.  Dad speaks limited Russian and even more limited Ukrainian and it is only because of his wife's tenacity and dedication to learning English that they have communicated at all.

They really are the cutest.

Once the siblings had been informed, we all just waited.

We didn't panic.  Dad's had stomach issues for a long time and we aren't the type to overreact for his health issues.  The closest sibling to my father is my youngest sister who lives in London, England.  She is only a 3 hour flight away (fixed because she says I'm crazy to think it was 8 hours), but, of course, she has a busy life as a teacher librarian in a large school that doesn't have "summer" break until August.  We figured it would fine, but if needed someone could make the trip.

We may have under-reacted on this one.

Two days later, Tanya called.  She isn't one to cry, so I knew it was serious.  Dad had surgery and wasn't doing well.  Tanya asked us to come as soon as possible.  We agreed someone would be there right away.

Of course, it wasn't that simple.

My middle sister was done with her semester (a professor of English) and I had just completed mine (taking my Masters in Social Work).  However, she had just flown to England where she was presenting at a conference.  She would be there for a few days, carry on to do research at the British library (the only place she can research a specific topic she is working on) and then would head to Boston to speak at another conference.  Getting her there meant cancelling trips and moving tickets and cancelling speaking and still getting the paper for someone else to present on her behalf.   We arranged to meet each other in London in 2 days and I made my plans.

I got the call that morning around 8am from Tanya.  I talked to The Guy about it and we looked at flights.  We couldn't find anything reasonable so decided I would fly to London and my sister's travel agent would make arrangements while I was in the air.  (Shout out to Amanda at Marlin Travel in Saskatoon.  She is awesome!)

We booked my one way ticket to London at 1015am.  I was packed by 10:45 a.m., went to the bank at 11:15 a.m., and was in the airport by 12:00 p.m.

I landed in London at 10:30 a.m. and met both sisters.  After supper, we got back on the train to catch our flight to Ukraine.  By 9:00 a.m. (Ukraine time) we landed.

Less than 36 hours from the time I bought my first ticket, we were in Ukraine.

Trapped in Ukraine (a mini story)

I am in the process of writing the story of our time in Ukraine and Dad's illness.  It is taking me some time to process, so I thought I would publish this in the meantime.

***************

The first few hours in Ukraine did not go very well.

We needed to freshen up after our flights before we made it to see Dad.  It had been 36 hours in the same clothes and we all needed a moment.  We went to the hostel where Dad's wife and daughter-in-law, Leina, were staying.  I had to wash my face and hands while my sister was showering, so I snuck in to the bathroom behind her and closed the door behind me.

It stuck.

Solidly.

True to form, we had been in Ukraine for less than 2 hours and some how I had trapped us in the bathroom of a hostel.

We tried to pry the door open.  We pulled, we banged, we cursed.  We got a hold of our sister-in-law and tried to communicate that we were stuck.

However, she does not speak English and we do not speak Russian or Ukrainian.

We had no phones for translations or help.

We had no way out.

I was sure I had been able to communicate with our SiL and she was going to get help.  I was content to wait while my sister got more and more agitated.  She attempted to climb the 3/4 wall to no avail.

Finally, our SiL realized we were not just taking an inordinate amount of time to get dressed and came to rescue us.

With a kick that would make a SWAT team member proud, Leina opened the door.

Leina promptly told the story to every one we saw after that and we all laughed ourselves sick.

Welcome to Ukraine.

When I jumped on the meditation bandwagon

I am a fairly high-strung person.

I look calm and collected, but inside my head I am freaking the @#*& out.

I come by it honestly.  My mother was this kind of person too.  It was said she could put her head on one chair and her feet on another without sagging in the middle.

I resemble that remark.

My shoulders are never relaxed.  My jaw is always clenched.  My head is always aching.

Source

My mind never stops considering the options of disaster and woe that lay ahead of me.  I go over every conversation that didn't go as planned, every thing I wish I had done differently, and every thing that I might have to do or say in the coming months.

It makes sleeping rather difficult.

Actually, it also makes being awake rather difficult as I can get so ramped up that my resting heart rate is 100 on a regular basis.

When the "mindfulness" trend started many years ago, people started telling me about it.  It was presented as a perfect solution to settle my disquieted mind and really focus on the present.

Pardon me while I hurl.

Truthfully, the first few times I tried mindful meditation, it filled me with such uncontrollable rage I had to stop right then.  It didn't get better for a long time.

Then I started yoga.

Source

Everyone who knows me, knows I'm a huge yoga fan (you have to check out Yoga with Adriene, she is the greatest!).  I have taken classes in a picturesque brick room with the city bustling beneath me while I settle into the mat and am at peace for the first time in a long time.  I have taken busy active yoga with a crammed room of 50 other people while the sweat pours down my face.  I have settled into a nice mix of both in my living room while I get ready for the day.

Finally, I understood what meditation is about.  But I had to learn it while DOING something.

Once I had that, I realized I could move into exploring what meditation could do beyond the mat.

I started listening to a guided meditation on Calm.com on my iPhone.  I found I didn't hate the voice of the woman so I could sit through it without being all ragey.  This is an important first step.

Second step was working my way up from 2 to 10 and finally 25 minutes.

Just sitting and being is really hard when you're a doer and a worrier.  It feels weird.

Source

I'm not solved.  I still have anxiety filled nights of insomnia, but they are fewer than they were.  I still have rock hard shoulder and neck muscles (and not the kind that are enviable) but I have ways to work them out.

Now, I try and do yoga three times a week and I do nightly meditation to fall asleep.

I'm still awake at 4 in the morning, but I am taking deep breaths while I am.

Drowning in academic hopelessness

Why I thought taking a short 8 week class (during May and June) would be a good idea, I will never know.  I'm working full time.  I have contract work on the side.  I volunteer.  I have a family, friends, my niece (who likely thinks I no longer exist), and responsibilities.

I wanted this class.  It combines all the things I want to do with my degree and my career.  Canadian social policy, critical Indigenous thinking, and domestic violence intervention.

In 8 weeks.

What was I thinking?

Each week, I have slogged through hundreds and hundreds of pages of reading, cramming my mind full of information and new ways of thinking.  Learning the things I should have known and expanding on some that I did.

What have I learned most?

The Canadian government has been A-HOLES to Indigenous people.  For hundreds and hundreds of years.

I always knew this on some level.  I was taught about Residential Schools and treaties and oppressive government workers and systems (Thanks, Mrs. Gellner!).  I watched mini-series and read books and listened to adults talk.  My heart ached as a child for the people who I thought were so lovely that nothing bad should ever have happened to them.

But I didn't actually know the bad.  Not all of it.  Not even most of it.  After all, I was only a kid and they try not to scar you that early.

Now I am in a quagmire of despair and pain and confusion.  Not only has the Canadian government been horrible, but the profession that I love has been an instrument of further oppression and pain and condescension.  How can I, with my trusty Human Justice and Social Work degrees and great plans to "help people", continue on?

How am I going to write a paper for this class now that everything seems hopeless?

I mean, the Government over the last 50+ years has issued study after study, commission after commission, paper after paper.  It has spent thousands (though cumulatively now likely millions and millions) of dollars "studying the problem" and getting recommendations.

Hundreds and hundreds of recommendations.  All saying almost entirely the same thing.

They are all saying and/or have all said, "Hey Canada, you're a dick to the Indigenous people. Here's how you can be better."

But guess what?

Canada NEVER EVER DECIDES TO BE BETTER.

Okay, that may be a little over-generalizing, but it's not far from the truth.  The Canadian government gets these great recommendations - ones that will make a real difference - and then they (it?) decide they don't want to do most of them.  Then the government puts a couple of paltry recommendations into place and are shocked - SHOCKED - when things aren't fixed.

What?? How are you not all better now?

Here are the main things I've learned (or relearned):

1. Many of those who signed treaties and moved to reserves did so because the White people killed all the game in the area and people were starving.  The government made it a policy to ONLY FEED THE PEOPLE WHO SIGNED AND MOVED.  And, at that, they only fed them every other day to make sure they remained compliant. (Clearing the Plains, 2013)
2. The government worried that Indigenous people being self-sufficient would mean they would interfere with Canadian settlements and so made sure they were not allowed to or able to do any work. (Clearing the Plains, 2013)
3. The government decided who actually belonged to Indigenous culture. Can you imagine if the government got to decide who was allowed to go to your church or come to your family reunions or live on your street? (The Indian Act, 1885)
4. Then, if someone did not comply with the government rules of who was Indigenous (i.e.: marrying "your own kind" or living on the reserves) the government made them sign their rights away. (Accounting for Genocide, 2004)
5. Children were taken away from their parents as young as 3 -5 years old and did not see their family for up to 8 or more years.  These children were put in schools and not allowed to talk to their own siblings. (The Circle Game,  2006)
6. Children were beaten and raped and killed and starved by religious groups "educating" them.  Anyone who spoke out against what was happening was fired or transferred. (The Circle Game,  2006)
7. Full self-government was encouraged in a report in the 1960s, but Indigenous people were not even allowed to run their own farms until 1990s. (Hawthorn Report, 1966)
8. There was a commission that encouraged special status and full self-government and instead the government planned to delete all status and have severely micromanaged involvement in government. (Hawthorn Report, 1966; The White Paper, 1969)
9. Children en masse were removed from reserves in the 60s and given to White families.  In some cases, up to 90% of children on the reserve were removed from their families.  (The 60s Scoop)
10. Indigenous women are at risk of violence at least 3 times that of any other woman in Canada. They are 5 times more likely to die.  And!! More often by the hand of strangers than other women.  (Missing and Murdered Aboriginal Women)

There is more.  SO MUCH MORE.  I am exhausted by it all.  Now I have 18 days to write a paper about domestic violence and social policy. 

Every time I think I have a research question, my mind comes up with some reason there is NO POINT TO ANY OF THIS.  My mind has a completely valid point. 

My question is this: how, after all that has happened, can I make a difference in the lives of anyone who is suffering not only from domestic violence, but also societal violence, racism, sexism, poverty, addictions, trauma, and a country who regularly makes the WORST decisions for you and your communities?

How can you help one thing without addressing all the other inequalities?  The answer is that you can't.

Here is the problem.

Our government, past and present and likely future (and the people who voted them in), do not want to address all of the inequalities.  Instead, they implement limited recourse with limited funds and then blame the individual for something that has been centuries in the making.

TryPod: my "must-listen" podcasts

A couple of years ago I was looking for a new way to learn.  I needed to expand my knowledge, my mind, and my experiences, all from the comfort of my own home.  Books are great, yes, but I have made it a policy never to read anything that will teach me things on purpose*.

I also needed something I could do while walking, driving, and knitting.

Enter the podcast -- a short radio-type downloadable episode (**see technical definition below!)

My sisters and numerous other friends had been listening to podcasts for years by this point, but I am woefully behind the times.  I mean, I still haven't fully figured out Snapchat.

Now, I am so entrenched in the podcast world, I often start my sentences with, "I was listening to this thing yesterday..."  It has given me endless pieces of useless facts.

And you thought I had too many already!

I decided to share my favourites in hope I can spark someone else to expand their world.

The Way I Heard It

Host: Mike Rowe

I have watched Mike Rowe on Dirty Jobs and listened to him narrate The Deadliest Catch.  I liked his sense of humour and his calming voice.  So, when I found out there was a short podcast (usually 10 minutes max) where he tells you a clever story in a way you've never heard it before, I had to sign up.

You listen to his stories with rapt curiosity and then, at the end, he reveals the name of the person he is talking about.  It is clever and mind-blowing and I learn all sorts of things.

My favourite episodes are: The one where a songwriter bases his most famous song off the Morse Code for "dead" and the one of the most feared sniper in WWII.

History Chicks

Hosts: Beckett Graham and Susan Vollenweider

This was the first podcast I binged listened.

Friends and family will attest that for months, I talked of nothing else but these two women and the women they discussed.  I learned so much!

Listening, I really felt like I was sitting back with a glass of wine chatting with two friends about their fascination with amazing women of history.  Their tag line says it all for me: "Any resemblance to a boring old history lesson is purely coincidental."


My favourite episodes are so many I can hardly write them all down.  But I loved the one about Hatshepsut, the Egyptian Queen who decided she was a King; Molly Brown, the powerhouse woman who survived the Titanic sinking; and Dorothy Parker (Part I and Part II).  There are so many more, you will not be disappointed.  They even did a series on all the women who have run for President of the USA.

Criminal

Creators: Phoebe Judge (also the host) and Lauren Spohrer

I fell in love with two things about Criminal right off the bat: the soothing voice of host, Phoebe, and the completely different take on stories of crime.

In a world that is all about sensationalizing crime and the glamour or horror behind it, Criminal is thoughtfully done and respectful of the people involved as perpetrators and as victims.  It is the story of how crime occurs and the people it effects.

As for favourite episodes?  There's the one about a couple who put a Buddha in an empty lot to discourage garbage dumping and ended up turning around their neighbourhood.  There's the story of the police dog, Talon, who had to retire. For a third, there is a story about a woman who spent years searching for the bodies of two children she had never met.

It's not always easy to listen to, but there hasn't been a thing I've heard that wasn't fascinating and didn't change the way I see the world, so I think that's a pretty good thing.

Girls Girls

Hosts: Brittany Gibbons and Meredith Soleau

Warning: THIS IS NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART.  You will hear more cuss words and talk about sex things than you will ever need to hear in your life.

However.  If you ever want to hold your stomach and laugh so hard you pee a little, these are the girls for you.  They will talk about anything and everything with such openness you will forget to be shocked... and then you'll remember again.

As for favourite episodes, I don't think there is one that hasn't made me laugh so hard I snorted.  Sometimes, listening to Meredith's reaction to things has me wheezing in pain and laughter.

Again, this is not for my nice aunties or conservative friends.  If you listen and are horrified at the fact this is one of my favourite things on earth, I will just stare at you until you go away.

Episodes I love: We're all mad here -- the one about mental illness.  Panty Sniffers -- the one about people who sell their dirty underwear (honestly, I died at this one. I still laugh thinking about it.) Alternative sex facts -- the one where they discuss sex. (That's every episode).

They have more. Some I get weepy, some I am touched, and some I am so happy that someone is talking about things no one will talk about.  I like them a lot.



Now, this is a small list of the podcasts I must listen to as soon as they hit the internet.  Maybe I will share some more I love later on.  Maybe not. But here is a start for you.

You can listen to them on their webpages or you can subscribe to them via an app on your phone.  I started out using Podcast (the iPhone app) and now am happy with Overcast.  Check them out.  You won't regret it.
MayB



*Sadly, taking my Masters has done away with this policy.
** "Podcasts are similar to radio programs, but they are audio files. Listeners can play them at their convenience, using devices that have become more common than portable broadcast receivers." (Source)  

Imposter syndrome settling in fast: a tale of Masters woe

It is late at night and I should be awake in a few hours so I can get back to work. Since I know it will take longer to get to morning if I am awake for it, I have chosen to wait it out.

I have entered the realm of "completing my Masters" panic where I have a paper due soon and I have no idea what I'm doing or how long it will take to do it.

I have often heard my family members (sisters and cousin) and friends complain about the workload of doing a Masters. I heard them bemoan the sleepless nights, looming deadlines, and set-in of panic, but I thought it couldn't be that bad. Tough yes, but not paralyzing.

I would like to apologize.

Now of course I am working full time, heavily involved in my union, working as a consultant a few times a month, and volunteering in my free time. Add to that my social life (occasional wing nights and suppers with my husband) with my copious amounts of recorded TV shows and trashy romance novels I want to read and I am having a bit of time management issues.

I assume everyone else also responds to this by napping and/or playing games on their phone.


Part of my lack of confidence lies in the significant time that has passed since I have been in the world of academia. When I last wrote a term paper, I had to research using card catalogues. I painstakingly jotted quotes and ideas on recipe cards so I could tape them together in as an outline before I wrote. I used a shared computer in a lab where I stood in line for 45 minutes so I could work for 2 hours.

I also walked uphill both ways.

I am lucky in a few ways. I have written case reports, agency evaluations, project proposals, and more in the over 15 years since I last exited the hallowed halls of school and swore on my mother that I would never return. I am lucky to have written anything resembling intelligent thought in the time between.

I am also lucky as I have my father's gift of bullshit where if one speaks confidently and without pause one sounds like they know much more than they do. (I'm not speaking out of school here, it's one of his favour things.)

However, as I sit here in front of the computer, I don't actually want to do these things. I want to eat ice cream in the pantry with a large spoon while the dog sits outside the door and wonders why I won't share.

Thankfully, we're out of ice cream.

What to buy for people who are hard to buy for: a tutorial

It's coming up to the 10th anniversary of the first date that The Guy and I ever went on.

So cute and young.

Ten years. That seems like a long time and yet not long enough. I feel like we've been together for a long time and also not that long.

Time is weird. Also, now I have to get a gift for him.

I've got a dilemma.

What do I get the guy who doesn't need or want anything?

The Guy's answer? "Truck parts"

I'm not buying trucks parts. Maybe for our "chrome" anniversary. Wait... I just realized 10 years is the tin/aluminum year. Ugh. 

But I've been thinking about our date-iversary and what I want to get The Guy. So, when UncommonGoods contacted me and offered me a chance to review their site and get a bit of money for it so I can buy something, I jumped at the chance. 

What's so good about UncommonGoods?

Well, my favourite thing is in their mission statement. UncommonGoods are "making sustainability a part of every decision we make" and are "working to make UncommonGoods more environmentally friendly, [and] socially responsible."

Honestly, with all the things going on in the world today, I have been trying to make better decisions about my purchase choices. Sustainability, environmentally friendly, and socially responsibility is where I've been focusing.

I'm serious. Read the mission statement.

Presents for the guy who has it all

I got lost in the rabbit hole of awesome gifts for everyone I know, but I focused on gifts that are good for guys and gifts to commemorate anniversaries of all kinds. (I also looked at things for the dog... Monty's been in this relationship too!!)

Alcohol Options

The Guy likes a good beer. He's a bit of a beer aficionado and so I always know that beer is always a good gift for him. When I saw I could narrow down my recommendations to beer related, I was pretty stoked.

I figured I could take one of everything, but these were my two favourites. The Guy has always loved Guinness beer so this kit would be a neat way to explore that. The glass set is a perfect co-gift. Wade likes beer and I like wine!

Irish Stout Beer Brewing Kit and Personalized Tree Trunk Glassware Duo
All photos source UncommonGoods

Travel related gifts

We love to travel all over the place. I swear, if we had all the money in the world, we would never come home. UncommonGoods has some awesome travel themed presents for everyone.

Personalized Anniversary Pushpin World Map and Hand Embroidered City Pillows

I'd love to have a map where we could keep track of all the places we have been and where we want to go. I've also started buying pillow covers respresenting each of our travel destinations, so the hand-made cover would be perfect!

Home decor options

I am always on the lookout for home decor stuff. So, with the great decor options for the home from UncommonGoods, I couldn't resist.

Handmade Rock and Vine Lamp and Kissing Lovers Sculpture

I cannot stand the lamp that is in The Guy's office, so I love the idea of replacing it with this awesome handmade lamp. And what can I say about the statue. It is so beautiful and I can think of all the places it would look perfect in our house.

Now, I will link The Guy to options for me! Anniversary gifts that a woman in your life would love.

Please. Don't. Suck.

The new year is coming.

This, of course, means that everyone and their dog has a New Years post with something to say. I am no different. I have been quiet the last few months, but today I had a need to write.

This last year, that of 2016, has been a rough one. I have to admit that it has nearly defeated me on more than one occasion and I am not sad to see it go.

2016 has taken countless people from the Earth who have made extraordinary differences and many others who seemed ordinary but made differences just the same.

2016 has seen the uprising of bigotry, misogyny, and other various kids of hatred. It has lead me to fear for the world in general and its people in specific.

Yes, there have been good things about 2016. If you look at my Instagram, you will see all the good things about my year personally. It was full of puppies, school, friends, food, knitting, and football.

Love and beauty and art and simplicity that have seemed like brief, shining, fleeting moments of glitter amongst the refuse.

Even with it, it feels as though the refuse is winning.

So I have this to say:

Dear 2016, don't let the door hit you on your way out.

Source

Looking to the future

But I also have something to say to and about 2017.

Dear 2017, Please. Don't. Suck.

That is my phrase for this year. Some people pick uplifting things for their yearly plan, but I don't have it in me. All I have is a plea to the coming year as it struggles to push 2016 out of the way so we can finally be done with it. Please, 2017, don't suck.

Now, this is my intention for the year 2017 and the things that happen in it, but also it is my intention for me personally.

Don't. Suck.

I plan to wake up every day and think to myself that this year, I should not suck. I should be as good as I can be at things, sure. But what I'm looking for is a little deeper.

Don't. Suck.

As a human being, in the world of all people, DO NOT SUCK. Don't be the one that others look at and think "Wow, you suck at being a people."

Be kinder.

Be more helpful.

Be patient.

Be strong.

Be knowledgeable.

Protect the innocent and the weak.

Give of your time or body to others in a way that is respectful to them and yourself.

DON'T. SUCK.

That is all I ask of 2017, the things that are to come, myself, and the world around me.

I don't know if it is too much to ask. Some of the things I've seen and heard in the last year make me wonder. All I can do is try myself to suck less at being a person on this Earth filled with millions of other people who may or may not suck.

I will treat people with kindness more often. I will protect the innocent and the weak without being a dick about it. I will not save the world, but I will be a better part in it than I have been before.

I will not end misogyny or bigotry or other hateful things, but I will point it out when I see it (even in myself) and I will make noise about it. I will be less programmed and I will be better.

How to overcome the smell of rotting broccoli in two easy steps

I am not a good cook.

This is not a surprise for most people who know me as it has been a running family joke for most my life. The tale of the hamburger soup I made to impress my step-mother but actually forgot to turn on is something that I still get teased about.

It's nice to know I'm consistent.

This week, I made a pretty decent Thanksgiving dinner. The turkey turned out great, the potatoes were creamy, the veggies were roasted, and we all ate like kings. So, revelling in my success, I thought I would make turkey soup to keep the party going.

I had good intentions.

But then...

My cooking in 4 sentences: Made turkey soup. Forgot soup on stove. Threw out turkey soup. Dang it.

— Bronwyn (@Bronwyn_MayB) October 11, 2016

This brought on a great deal of conversation on my FaceBook page about other people's mishaps and reminders that it could be worse. My cousin jokingly reminded me it was no worse than the time I forgot broccoli in the microwave for 2 weeks.

That brought up many questions for friends and family, so I thought I would regale you with the story. It may be the perfect example of all my cooking experiences.

Broccoli clip art for emphasis. Source here.

Once upon a time, my soon to be sister-in-law, Mel, and I lived together in an apartment. It was a cute little apartment with 60s style room dividers and a teeny kitchen off the living area. This was good as it was rare we ever cooked with any consistency.

One day, we were trying to be healthy and made supper. Pork chops in the oven, pasta on the stove, and broccoli steamed in the microwave. I'm sure it was lovely, but I have no memory of the meal itself.

What I have is memory of the aftermath.

A couple of weeks went by and we were overwhelmed with the smell of rotting vegetation. We cleaned the kitchen top to bottom. We moved the stove, cleaned out the fridge, and washed the floors.

Still the smell remained.

We didn't locate the source for many days.

Now, you would think with the extreme clean that we did that one of us would have remembered to open the microwave. You would think that someone would have used the microwave in those weeks, but then you would not understand how much we truly hated cooking.

Finally we opened the microwave.

There it was.

A small bowl of broccoli was sitting there in the middle of the appliance. It was green, but not in the way that broccoli is green, but that green that has taken over once-living vegetation.

The smell that wafted forth from the open door was somewhat sweet, but mostly decaying, and caused an immediate retching from each of us in the room.

We threw out the broccoli and cleaned the microwave. Like my other cousin pointed out on FaceBook, there is not enough vinegar in the world to stop that smell. But, we gave it the college try.

Eventually we admitted defeat. We were going to live with that smell forever and that was how it would be.

A possible solution came to us. Popcorn!!

Have you ever cooked popcorn and had the smell take over an entire room? Maybe this would do it for us.

Plus, we would get to eat popcorn. Double win!

We threw the popcorn into the microwave and settled down to watch American Idol.

I would like to remind you of two things here. First, this was long ago enough that watching American Idol was awesome. Not weird and sad. Second, this was long ago enough that the microwave did not have a popcorn setting. You put it in for numerous minutes and waited for the sound of popping to slow to one pop a second.

American Idol got very exciting. Mel's favourite singer knocked out my favourite singer in the last round. Mel was whooping and jumping around in victory while I felt small and insignificant.

Suddenly... "What is that smell?" and... "The popcorn!!!"

The microwave door opened to reveal the popcorn bag on fire. Panic ensued. Flaming bag was dumped in sink and doused. Popcorn was mourned.

Once the excitement finished, we noticed something important.

The smell of rotting broccoli was gone.

Ode to my hatred of gardening

Oh, how I hate you, Garden.

You lure me with your promise of food and stress relief.
You speak to the blood of my farming ancestors
and stir up memories of abilities once used.

You fool me with picturesque images.
Of over-sized hats and flowered gloves
and simple salads made with love and sunlight.

The reality is much less romantic.
It is the presence of dirt that cannot be removed
and mosquito bites I cannot reach to scratch.

It is of aggressive and ever-present weeds.
They cannot be thwarted nor can they be tamed
and often are larger than the plants they accompany.

O, Garden, you are a menace.
After weeks of producing little, you develop overnight
with amounts that cannot be handled by one woman.

You grow with ferociousness that shows your true nature.
You do not want to feed, but overcome
and take back the earth from civilization.

Harvest comes quickly and needs constant vigilance.
Those with employment cannot manage
and require days of rest to be abandoned for labour.

I curse you, dear Garden, and all your fruits.
I loathe the carrots that will not be plucked easily
and the onions that grow 4 feet tall with no bulb.

I despise your zucchini the size of small dogs.
The spinach that flowers too quickly to be picked
and lettuce that overwhelms the bed.

One cannot eat this much salad!
I have grievously injured myself on a carrot
and my back aches from wrestling with beets.

There is nothing I love about you, Garden.
I loathe you with the hatred of a thousand suns
and expect I will do it again next season.

Monty's grand adventure: The great escape

It was Monty's 11th birthday on May the 29th. I thought, in celebration of this troublemaker, I would tell the story of Monty's grand adventure.

Letting freedom wash over him

In October this past year, Monty went for a sleepover. When The Guy and I have the privilege of travelling the globe, Monty sleeps over at our friend's place. He has been there many times. She even used to watch him as a brand new puppy, so she has been his "other mom" for years now.

We dropped Monty off at his home-away-from-home with our friend's lovely housemate (who has also cared for dear Mont in the past.) We left with full confidence that all would be well and Monty would behave.

Spoiler alert: Montel did not behave.

The Guy and I jumped on a plane and headed on our way. We were going to Hawaii for the first time and we were pretty thrilled. I had just resigned from a position causing me a great deal of stress and The Guy was happy to be getting me somewhere I wasn't crazy. Also, beach.

Many layovers later, we were about to board the plane for our 7 hour oceanic flight when I got a message.

Monty had gone missing.

FREEEEDOM!!!!!

I talked to his caregiver who told me that Monty, a dog who has literally NEVER run away, had snuck out under the fence gate and made a break for it. She had tried to lure him back to the yard, but he'd had a taste of freedom and he liked it. 

Now Monty has never been an active dog. He likes his walks, but after about 20 minutes, he just wants his couch and a long nap. He does not even like being outdoors that much. 

He's a bit of a princess.

But now that he was on the road like the wild animal he descended from, he was going to enjoy it. 

While his sitter first chased him down the street and then frantically called everyone on our emergency list, Monty made his first of many stops. The reason we know where he went is because sightings of this little black dog were posted all over FaceBook.

This face was everywhere online.

He headed south until he reached the hospital grounds. This was only a few blocks away, but was directly across a very busy street. Being that I've seen Monty scared by a plastic bag rustling, I'm not sure how he managed to cross with that much traffic and still remain functional.

Monty then veered left toward the new stadium build. I figure he knew his dad is a huge Rider fan, so he should visit the site to make sure it was all going well. He said hello to a few construction workers, but when they tried to pick him up, he ran away.

He crossed another busy road to go to the Aquatic centre and visit a few people in the parking lot there. However, we all know that Monty is not a fan of water, so he carried on like the Littlest Hobo.

From there, he crossed a railway track and another major road. This time Monty hit up the Dairy Queen knowing that is his mom's favourite spot. He also knows that the drive-through is where food comes from, so I imagine he thought a treat might be in his future.

Finally, Monty was getting tired. He had travelled just over 1.3km in just over 2 hours. For a little dog, that was a long way.

He walked south a few more blocks (across yet another busy street) and stopped in the middle of an intersection. He blocked traffic from moving and appeared to be pretty freaked out.

A kind woman, who once had dogs of her own, stopped her car and approached him. She didn't try to grab him, but instead said one of his favourite sentences, "Do you want to go for a car ride?"

He did.

Did you say "car ride"?

Now keep in mind, none of us knew this is what happened. We were on a flight to Hawaii frantically checking FB every few hours for updates. We had friends, family, coworkers, and even kind strangers searching for our dopey mutt into the wee hours.

We were fearful of him alone in the dark and thankful for unseasonably warm weather.

It was a long night.

The next morning, I had a message from our vets office. The emergency numbers on Monty's collar were only during office hours, so the kind lady had kept Monty overnight. I called her and made arrangements for our friend to pick him up and take him home.

The lady told me she had given Monty some toast with peanut butter and then he crawled into bed with her. She paused.

"That was weird," she said.

This is my spot now. Sleep on the couch.