Pain.
I push against it. Challenge it, like a warrior intent on proving that I am indestructible, unwilling to flinch.
If I ignore it, I tell myself, then it will cease to have power over me.
Except, bit by bit it gnaws at my edges, tearing me down and just as I’m about to succumb to its grip, I have a moment of clarity…
…recognize the invitation…
…that surrender is the gift, and…
…that the pain is passage, and…
…in letting go..
…I absolve myself…
…of the need…
“I’ll cover the lying down!” I tell the two strangers, who have just entered my bedroom assessing what needs to be moved.
“Good idea!” the tall, lanky one named Josh answers.
The outside air is heavy with the threat of a downpour. Inside I pull a blanket over my prone body.
I hear the grunts of men hauling my china cabinet, the living room couch, the multitude of boxes, contents unmarked. How do you define years of accumulation? Silly really to still be holding on. They will go to storage and be swallowed up by the black hole of Thingdom, never to be thought of again.
Afterwards, the sour smell of sweat lingering in the air, I wander into the main living area drawn by the echo of my husband’s voice. He is now the only furnishing in the room. The dining table stands stark, alone in its space, the kitchen counters glare emptily.
Layers of our lives have been stripped away in a mere hours. There is more to go, but as this shell is vacated I feel a sudden pull of emotion. Is it sorrow? Doubt? More a philosophical shrug: What was it all about anyway?
The excitement has tired me and I return to my current profession: warming my side of the bed.
Tomorrow more strangers will come, set the house up so that it is no longer recognizable as ours. Having loaded the last essential goods into our truck, we’ll pull away, point the nose of the truck forward, and move on.
Wedged between one satisfactorily completed task and an overload of unfinished chores, I am a mess.
We have decided to sell the house, and on the advice of stagers, are tearing everything apart, sorting into three piles: garbage, Goodwill, and keep/store. Purging, we are discovering, is exhausting.
In order to do some touch up paint jobs, Ric left me at the RV alone last week. We’ve parked it at the lake for the summer season, and the solitude is welcoming. Except that I woke up with severe pain in my left jaw on Monday morning, and after getting up and having something to eat, I started to feel very peculiar – sweating, nausea, and a strange dizziness that felt like the ground was sucking me in. I called 9-1-1. Crisis passed, and remaining a mystery (heart checked out okay), I returned home at the doctor’s suggestion.
Sunday, the kids came by to help out. At one point, I brought out freezies, and two bites into mine realized I was having a reaction – the top of my mouth felt like it was blistering. I’d only had this reaction once before and it was while eating Welchade fruit snacks.
“These are Welchade freezies,” my husband pointed out. Apparently Welchade uses an ingredient that I cannot tolerate.
Then yesterday, while scrubbing the bathroom walls, I felt and heard three pops in my left side. Ric helped me to the bed and we immediately applied heat, but the damage was done.
Between the pain in my side, the lingering sores in my mouth, and an insect bite that wouldn’t stop itching all night, I have had little sleep.
We have two more days to get this house packed up before the movers come in and then the stagers and it’s listed.
No wonder I’m a mess.
(Image: psychicjessicac.com)
We roll into our new neighbourhood cautiously guided by an old-timer, who after we finally manage to maneuver into our RV site, introduces himself as Graham.
“Been here since the park first opened,” he beams and then proceeds to point to each of the other trailers and run down who’s who: “The ones behind you like to party,” he warns, “as does the couple just over there. These people have two little granddaughters, that’s a woman by herself, the next one just lost her husband last year, this one over here had a boyfriend but they broke up, Dean across the way helps out around here like me…” and so on.
We have landed right in the middle of a pre-established click, and I feel my insecurities rising. We are outsiders.
The rain follows us, and trapped inside, I watch as others arrive, pull into their units and even before unlocking their own doors, hustle through the downpour to greet old friends. Voices rise in excitement and laughter lingers in the air, and I am feeling 12-years-old again, like the year we moved half way through grade eight and my new classmates examined me as if I was some repugnant specimen that had crawled out of the gutter – an unwanted intruder.
The next morning I watch as people emerge and gather in the road way, cups of coffee in hand, and then later as trays of food are carried to a potluck that doesn’t include us.
How will we ever fit in, I wonder? These people have a history. They have stories and rituals and relationships that have evolved over years of coming together. I have legs that sometimes work, a sensitive palate, and a non-alcoholic habit. Even if we were invited, I probably wouldn’t be able to attend: I’m in bed most of the day. 
I resign myself to the role I’ve always played: the loner. They will tolerate me, and I will remain comfortably on the periphery, I decide. Ric is just like me. We’ll be loners together. It’s what we do.
Then my granddaughter comes to stay, and as we walk her to the playground we pass a group of people.
“V.J. and Ric, right?” a woman waves. “Might as well get acquainted, we’re neighbours now.”
Names get thrown around and before we stop her, Sloane has joined the circle and made friends with another little girl. Then another woman stops and says she lives directly across from us and we find out she’s from Ric’s hometown, and when we meet the next time, I’ve remembered that she’s the one Graham said lost her husband and I offer condolences, and we sit and she tells me her story, and it turns out her husband had the same cancer as mine, and we cry together and suddenly we’re no longer intruders… we belong.
Turns out it’s not the beer we drink, nor whether or not I can eat pasta, nor any of the other reasons I might think someone might dislike us – it’s about making connections: opening our hearts and seeing the people around us and letting them in.
Perspective is everything and seldom appreciated until the offending circumstances are well in the rear view mirror.
When my former marriage fell apart, I did the unthinkable and moved out.
The one that leaves loses, I’d heard over and over. I was hell-bent that I would not lose.
What I failed to do was consider just what it was that I was set to lose. I was so focused on gaining my share of the equity and assets along with support that I didn’t factor in the emotional toll on all involved.
Four years I dragged my case through the courts fighting a battle I could never win: my opponent was a brick wall narcissist, whose sense of self existed outside the realm of common law and ethics. Four court decrees in my favour held no sway over my ex’s intentions: he was not going to pay.
In the end, I was able to reimburse my lawyer (more than half of the settlement I received) and I had a small lump sum I used as a down payment on a home – a paltry amount considering what I’d figured I was owed. I had to waive support arrears to get it.
That was many years ago, and the resentment burned in me in for a long time. Everyone was right, I told myself, the one who leaves does lose.
In hindsight, I have a different take on what happened. Yes, I lost the equivalent of seventeen years of invested time and money, but that can happen in life anyway – economics change and losses occur. If I had managed to get him to leave (unlikely, since he worked from home) I would have soon lost that house as I had no appreciable income to sustain the upkeep. As it is, he held onto the home, and the children have at least one structure from their childhood in tact.
Financial losses can be recouped. It is the underlying pain and suffering that is hard to replace: the damage done to the children.
I recovered – raged, despaired, railed against the injustice, and then got on with my life. My children, caught in the crossfire, were not so fortunate, and I wish I had been more aware of that at the time.
Divorce is hard, I get it. Typically, the adults involved revert to childlike behaviours in response to the emotional pain, which is understandable, but not helpful.
I was at least conscious enough not to make the children pawns; I didn’t threaten to keep them away from their dad if he didn’t pay up. Having a relationship with both parents, I realized, was their birthright. I did, however; involve them in the fight. It only served the purpose of forcing them to take sides – a choice no child should ever have to make.
If the kids never really know what happened that’s okay. What they need from their parents is reassurance, and a role model for how to overcome adversity.
I told myself at the time that at the very least I needed to conduct myself with integrity and civility – a goal that is only ever possible with the right therapist on board. I was not always successful.
When weighed against the losses, the gains of ending a disruptive marriage ultimately win. Post divorce I was able to receive the counselling and personal growth that I needed so that I was ready when a healthier relationship came along. I embraced opportunities that I never would have before, and most importantly, I reignited a sense of self that had been slowly extinguishing over the years.
And….the greatest gift of all: my three children.
Divorce is not the end of the world. It is not about who is right and who is wrong. It is a loss of a dream, and an opportunity to follow a new path. Yes, it hurts. Yes, it is humiliating. Yes, it feels like insurmountable failure. How the challenge is navigated determines who and what is lost and gained in the end.
Of course, that’s easy for me to say, in hindsight.
“Grandma, when will you be better?”
It is 5:00 on a school morning, and I am sitting at my granddaughter’s bedside nursing her through a sore tummy.
“Not sure, Honey.”
“Oh,” she shrugs. She is four and has never known me any other way.
Later, we snuggle up and watch Moana.
“You are just like the Grandma in the movie,” she tells me.
“Because I have white hair?”
“Yes, and …..” it is at the part where Moana’s dancing Grandmother says she’s the village crazy lady…” that too. Will you come back as a stingray when you die?”
“More likely a bird,” I tell her.
I love that while she is not afraid to ask questions, she is also accepting of the answers.
“I miss you,” my mother tells me every time she talks to me.
“It’s like we’ve lost our Mom,” my daughters remind me.
I know my husband pines for the old me, too. Hell, I am in agreement with them all, but dwelling on the loss is counterproductive to healing.
ME/CFS is a bit like having the flu, only those days where you begin to feel better are not harbingers of a return to normalcy, they are tricksters, stirring up false hope and an overuse of energy. A crash is certain to follow.
Apart from the daily physical challenges, I taunt myself with a barrage of ‘shoulds’ illiciting emotional turmoil.
I need to borrow a page from my granddaughter’s life book: to know that I (Grandma) am sick and have limitations, and love me anyway. She has no expectations for me to be any other way than how I am. Imagine being that emotionally mature, or should I say, innocent.
Acceptance says: this is my life, this is who I am. Wisdom reminds me that life is seldom static, so chances are that things will change again. Openness will help me transition from one stage of life into another. It also keeps possibility alive.
Without acceptance, I live in a constant state of never being enough. I think I should do more for my children, be a better daughter, push myself for my husband’s sake, accomplish more. In other words, I am constantly facing a mountain of insurmountable goals. 
Acceptance would gift me with the power of no: the ability to recognize what I am and am not capable of, and the courage to set realistic boundaries. Acceptance seeks to understand without judgment. It is a shift in perspective.
Imagine being able to find joy in the moment, without the cloud of self-chastisement.
I believe acceptance can give me that.
“Grandma, I want to come sleepover at your house,” my granddaughter tells me as I leave.
I hug her and tell her: “Soon”, and marvel that she wants to spend time with a doddery old woman like me, and think:
If a four-year-old can accept me the way I am, then surely I can too.
It is just past noon and I am still in bed. It is doubtful that I will be able to do much else today.
Yesterday, I went for lunch with my daughter, her mother-in-law and the baby, an occasion for which I rested up. One hour we were gone, and then I came home for a nap.
Then my husband and I decided, spur-of-the-moment, that taking my Mom out for dinner would be better than waiting for Mother’s Day, so we did that.
While we were eating a friend texted and asked if I could come over. She is battling for her life right now and I want to be with her as much as possible. My husband dropped me off for a short visit on the way home.
Yes, people with moderate ME/CFS can do things, but everything comes at a price.
As tired as I was last evening, I had overstimulated myself, so sleep was elusive. At 10:00 this morning, my husband came in with a cup of tea. I only just now managed to eat a piece of toast.
The exhaustion of ME is systemic. It’s not the kind of tired that comes from having overworked: a well-earned fatigue leading to deep slumber. It’s more than the fatigue at the end of weekend of company, although many try to tell me they know what I’m feeling. It is dead weight burn out: the incapacity to generate enough energy to activate movement. It accompanies any exertion no matter how minimal. And, it can last for days.
It means that those of us who suffer from ME/CFS have to be selective about what we commit to. It means that we have to disappoint people and bear the guilt of not being able to be all things for all people anymore (most of us were that person before disease struck).
Yesterday, I exceeded my normal activity level times three. Today, I will lie here contemplating washing my hair for much of the day, likely not being able to conger up the necessary fuel to do so. 
Hopefully, tomorrow is better. Can’t count on it though: this is ME.
Explosive, sometimes irrational, anger is a steady companion of addiction. Anyone who has lived with or been an addict will recognize the pattern played out in the pages of Mishka Shubaly’s memoir : I Swear I’ll Make It Up To You.
Shubaly holds nothing back in the telling of his story, subtitled: A Life On The Low Road. The rage that spews forth is acidic, and at times, difficult to stomach, however; this is a missive about more than inconsolable pain: it is a message of hope.
As I often do, I listened to the audio version, in this case read by the author. His voice is rough, and gravelly – a testament to years of self-abuse – and the narration raw. There were moments when I questioned my allegiance to Shubaly’s tale, and yet, I persisted, a choice I did not regret in the end.
Shubaly’s personal account reflects many universal truths: the damage created in divorce; the dark side of drugs and alcohol; and the power of the human spirit to overcome adversity, no matter how daunting.
The relationship (or lack of relationship) Shubaly has with his father resonates deeply with me, especially when he realizes that his perception of events leading to their estrangement was built on misunderstanding.
I Swear I’ll Make It Up To You is a reminder of the complexity of human relations, and a promise that life’s journey is seldom predictable, and always worth the effort.
The inspiration for today’s post comes from Dr. Andrea Dinardo who I follow fervently.
In my second year of teaching I was assigned to a behavioural class, which was composed of nineteen students, ages sixteen to nineteen. Recognizing early on that this class would need a special approach, I developed something I called: Mrs. K’s Challenge.
Mrs. K’s Challenge was an idea that I would present to my students, have them implement for a certain amount of time, and then journal about. I hoped that by trying new things, the students would gain more confidence, as most of them lacked self-esteem.
One challenge was to make a small change to their daily routine, such as to wake up ten minutes earlier each day, or to make a point of talking to someone new each day, or anything else that they thought might make a difference.
The results of this challenge were more than I could have expected. Several students woke up earlier and reported having time for breakfast, which seemed to help their day run more smoothly.
One student said he decided to eat lunch with a different person everyday and had made a new friend.
The most striking story came from a young man I will call Shea. Shea was an ESL student (English as a Second Language) who had emigrated from Southeast Asia. He was a large boy: solid with a neck like a bull. He liked to wear tank tops which showcased his muscles, and touted heavy gold chains and menacing tattoos. Shea had the countenance of a storm about to unfurl. He seldom spoke above a growl and I had never seen him smile.
When I asked the class if anyone would like to share what they did to change things up, to my delight, Shea raised his hand.
“I decided to smile at everybody that passed in me halls,” he declared proudly. “And you know what? People actually started talking to me.”
Turns out Shea’s intimidating persona was just a cover.
A smile is a powerful thing!
We often think of changing of the world as some great big, grand gesture. Performed on stage with millions of people watching. When in fact it’s just you and me (and 7 billion others). Smiling, connecting, caring, and loving. Every moment. Every encounter. We are the dominos.
“You’re abandoning me for the summer? Is that what you’re telling me?”
I reel at my mother’s response when I tell her we have parked the motor home at the lake for the summer season. This is the place she always goes to: how it affects her and I feel the talons of guilt closing around my throat.
“Won’t you miss your grandchildren?” my daughter asks, triggering a tighter hold.
If I could just banish guilt from my conscience, I think I might have a real chance at joy, however; like a bird of prey, it hovers overhead waiting for just the right moment to attack : when my vulnerability is peaked.
Guilt is an overgrown, black crow, who pecks at the shiny places and mocks my sensitivity. She rides along beside me goading me into action, then cackles with delight when I stumble. I am her trained pet and I don’t know how to untether myself.
… we may wrap feelings of guilt and self-blame around ourselves like an old familiar blanket. Many of us feel guilty if we are anything less than an emotional service station to others.
– Harriet Lerner, The Dance of Anger
I once thought my ability to Intuit other’s pain was a super power – that Crow magic allowed me to infiltrate and alleviate suffering. I became the Responsible One, setting aside personal need to save the world. I lacked awareness of how I was feeding the bird of guilt.
How does meeting my own needs negate the needs of others? Is the question I should be asking myself. Why should I have to justify making a choice that supports my own well-being?
“I can always count on you,” my mother told me often as a child. “You are my rock.”
Meeting the needs of others ensured acceptability and, if you can call it that, love.
I was also deeply aware of the danger of ever becoming a burden to anyone…and then…disability struck, and now…I am all that I feared: dependent….and I am the embodiment of vulnerability…and Guilt, that voracious bird of prey, smacks its treachorous beak in anticipation of the feast.
Except…I am angry. And, I’m no longer willing to sacrifice my own health – body, mind, and soul – for what really amounts to interference in another’s life.
Yes, you read that right. 
If I am brutally honest with myself, I never saved anyone. As long as I was willing to rescue my mother, she didn’t have to learn to be assertive – a skill that would have served her well in life. Being strong for my older sister only ensured her continued weakness, and so on.
Guilt would have me pass on the lake this summer. Stay home so I can attend to the needs of others. Sorry, you old crow, but that is not going to happen.
I have found a place of solace and respite with the promise of actual healing, and should anyone care to come visit, my door will always be open.
No crows allowed.
