Cooking is
the bane of my existence. I’m not fond of it. I eat because I have to to
survive, and when I finally force myself to cook, I’m a slave to a recipe because
I lack confidence in the kitchen.
I grew up
eating a very bland diet. My father had half his stomach removed when he was
young due to an ulcer and couldn’t tolerate any spices. My mother was not terribly
adventurous in the kitchen to begin with, so this predicament suited her palate
and skill level just fine—I ate a lot of boiled meat and
potatoes… and frozen peas. My God how I hate peas!
As I moved into
my tweens and teens, I tried to teach myself how to use a stove, but my limited
knowledge consisted of knowing how to open a Kraft Dinner box and boil water
and using a can opener to pour Chef Boyardee pasta into a small sauce pan. That
was pretty much the extent of my culinary skills.
When I
ventured out on my own and started a family, I scrambled to learn how to feed
them and fill their bellies with fresh fruit and vegetables. It was pretty hit or
miss. They were, and still are, picky eaters and their palates aren’t terribly adventurous
either. Given my culinary background and limited repertoire, this isn’t surprising.
They were doomed from the get-go, inheriting my own fear of weird tastes and textures.
New foods
freak me out. I’m a super senser, so I taste everything to the extreme and my
sense of smell is almost canine, so things are just MORE! Something a tad bitter
is just plain nasty (don’t get me started on arugula and kale). Something sweet
is super sweet. (Though I have no issue with this one. I say bring on the
sugar!) Slightly sour puckers even my toe nails and anything that I would consider
too spicy or hot is apparently not even remotely spicy and causes heat lovers
to tilt their heads to the side while they try to analyze my reaction, which typically
involves coughing, guzzling water and whimpering.
I grew up
on such a bland diet, it’s difficult to convince my brain that things outside
that small box won’t kill me. However, over the years I have tried to expand my
palate and cooking repertoire, but I need the expert guidance that can only be
found in a recipe book. So when I do cook, It’s usually time consuming and
labour intensive.
I’m OK with
this, for the most part, because I know that the final product will result in
something my boys will enjoy—or at least tolerate—and I will have managed to get some vegetables into their system while I’m
at it.
This is a
win for me.
However,
now that I’m on my own two weeks out of the month, consulting the recipe book
seems ludicrous. All that work for one person just doesn’t seem worth it. Currently,
my diet consists of gluten-free macaroni and cheese and oatmeal (I’ve clearly
regressed to my childhood). This has a two-fold benefit—they are both
easy and cheap. When all three boys are here, they eat A LOT, so the limited
diet I’ve been eating helps balance the budget.
I recognize
that I need to find the motivation to put forth some effort when cooking for
one, but for now, it’s just easier opening a box and boiling water.
Do you find
it a challenge to cook for one? How did you overcome it? Any great solo recipes
out there that are easy and delicious? I’d love to hear from you. Drop your
comments below.
Since I didn’t feel like belabouring the perils and
challenges of living on my own today, (reverse osmosis system and water softener
acting up, dishwasher dead, hot water tank dubiously working) I decided to sit
down with my trusty old dictionary and pull a word for today’s post. Drum roll,
please. Today’s word is:
Nag—to gnaw, irritate, scold; to find fault constantly; to be
the cause of pain or discomfort (as in a headache that nags); to harass; the
act of nagging.
This word has its roots in to gnaw or bite, which makes sense,
since nagging is like gnawing away at someone until they relent or bite back.
I thought about nag for awhile, but honestly, gnaw itself is
what resonated with me today. Since, it’s felt like life has been eating me
away lately. I’ve felt beaten down, chewed at, my corners chipped away piece by
piece.
I realize I’m pmsing at the moment, and for me, that’s very
much a real thing. My hormones are as good at predicting my mood and my outlook
as a world clock keeps time. Things have been pretty grim lately. And I know my
tone and my words have reflected that, but only in certain moments and only with
those people where it’s safe to be seen, where it’s safe to peek out, without
worrying that my head will get torn off.
I have a couple of those people in my life. But since I haven’t
had a lot of good to say lately, and they’ve been stuck listening to that barrage
of misery for a goodly amount of time, I think things have begun gnawing at
them too.
If you have a person who only wants to bring you happiness,
how are they to keep standing in the torrents of your unhappiness. If you have
a person who only wants to bring you ease, how are they to stand against the
onslaught of your burdens and stress? If you have a person who only wants to
love you, how are they to keep vigil when all you do is live in darkness and
sorrow.
Why on earth would anyone stick around for that, time and
time again? Masochism? Pity? Championing a lost cause?
It seems a cruel fate to subject oneself to that.
I try to let people know how much I care, how grateful I am
for their support and their love. But I don’t believe I’ve been doing a very
good job of that lately. I’ve been so wrapped up in my own pain, my attention
has fallen away elsewhere. And that is wrong, because I wouldn’t be where I am
today, if it wasn’t for every gift they’ve given me. They’ve lifted me up and carried
me on their backs when I didn’t even have the strength to walk. They were a
lifeline.
Life has been meticulously gnawing away at my edges, reshaping
me, retooling me. Separating, starting a new life, building a new identity,
these things are not easy and they are excruciating to bear. But throughout the
ordeal of the past two years, there were moments that were easier than others.
There were moments that reminded me that what I did and the decisions I made
were necessary. My people were a big part of that.
I’m gay. Understandably, that changed a few things.
When I’m in a place of honouring that truth, and not letting
the past and worry about the future gnaw away at me, I can see the potential of
living a life from a space that is no longer fragmented. And while I gained a
new part of me, I also lost several others in the process. I’m just hoping
those parts will one day heal and that space of wholeness and peace will
follow.
For now, I’m a bit broken. I can’t change that. But I can remember
to honour and see those who have allowed me to be seen. I can remember to shine
my light on their tireless, unconditional love and support. I can remember to stop
and reflect that love back.
Nothing has changed this week. I still know my time with my
kids is dwindling down—like watching the last streams of sand empty from the hour
glass—but
over the last few days, I’ve tried hard to look at my experience from a place
of abundance and stop dwelling in a space of loss.
When I cowrote my book Life: Living in Fulfillment Every Day,
I recognized the value and power in perception. In fact, it was one of our
cardinal codes of conduct for a happy life. First, you needed to be aware of your
current situation and if you were unhappy, you needed to decide what you were
going to do about it. Recognizing that there are times when you can’t physically
do anything to change your situation, at least in that moment, it’s important
to realize you do have the power to change your perception, or how you view your
current situation. The final goal post for living a happy life, however, is to
take calculated baby steps (or big sweeping action) toward change.
I can’t change my current situation—unless, I was willing to try
to forget the fact I am indeed a lesbian and attempt to fit back into my old
shoes and my old life. Since that would be horribly uncomfortable now and feel
utterly wrong, my choice is to forge ahead. But I forge ahead knowing that despite
the potential for happiness this path may provide for me, it has historically lead
to some pretty shitty downward spirals and some crappy outcomes—shortening
my time with kids being one of them (having to shovel a long-ass driveway full
of snow, another).
But since I am unwilling to change my course, I need to
accept where I am and choose a new perspective. Yes, my time with my kids is
limited and finite, but I can alter my world view and be happy with the time I
have now. I need to stop seeing things from the trough of loss, which fuels
heartache and keeps me trapped in a loop of misery, and instead look at the
time I have left and see the gift in that. By changing my perspective, I can
truly enjoy every moment I have with my boys, rather than just waiting for and expecting
it to end.
I appreciate this approach is easier said than done, and it
doesn’t negate the underlying sadness. But living in a place of loss paralyzed
me last week. Rather than seeing my boys for their two-week rotating visit, I
had to delay their arrival because my mental health was unstable and the perceived
loss was soul crushing. Nothing has changed. When summer comes—and
with it full-time work schedules—and fall arrives—with
its potential of in-person school returning—my boys will not be able to
stay here for two weeks at a time. I’ll be lucky to get a day or two visit and
sleepover. But dwelling on that hurt both me and them, since we all had to go
another week without seeing each other.
So this week, I’ve chosen to try to view my situation a
little differently. I’m choosing to focus on loving the time I have with them—purposefully
choosing not to put a time limit or expiration date on it. I will attempt to
keep my negative thoughts out of my two-week visits and just enjoy their
company.
Some days will be easier than others and I’ll still have moments
when I falter and dip into a loss mindset, but this week is better. This week I
have the strength to change my perspective and alter the way I see things, and
perspective is everything.
Why is it that following the path of your truth often leads to immeasurable hardship? Why must growth equal challenge and pain?
I’ve been asking myself this over and over again lately.
I’m sure there are instances where growing out of an old
skin evolves smoothly, with merely a slight tug of discomfort as the old layers
finally fall away, adding to the dust motes in the air. But often, as has
certainly been my experience of late, it is more of a tearing and ripping
sensation. The process is akin to an alien bursting through your chest and splitting
you apart from the inside out.
I know I’ve mentioned this before…. My family unit was
strong. We were close. My ex and I were of one mind when it came to parenting,
when it came to forging a path ahead in life.
Things have changed.
In the days of Kimye and Brangelina, often when partners
cohabitate and coparent, there’s a melding of views and perspectives. Many relationships
grow into an amorphous unit with both people merging into the whole, often
losing a bit of themselves in the process. But when a couple separates, there
is often a learning curve, a discovering of who we are separate of the other
person. Like The Runaway Bride taught us, we have to figure how we like our
eggs, not how we used to eat our eggs—perhaps out of convenience or consideration
of others, or to just keep the peace. We need to figure out who we are now and/or
again. What do we want? What do we like? Dislike? What are our singular goals
and dreams? It’s a necessary process toward growth and healing and, like the
ripping and tearing sensation mentioned early, the process doesn’t always go
smoothly.
My ex and I still love and care for each other, and we each
carry a tremendous amount of respect for the other person, as well as a mutual
desire to continue to foster amicable and genuine collaboration, but that’s not
always easy. In an effort to grow apart there can be sharper edges and shorter fuses.
As our separation has chugged along, it has become quite
apparent that my ex and I have very different parenting styles. The overarching
rules of engagement now depend upon where the children are staying that
particular week. The parental loci determines the lay of the land. This has
far-reaching consequences, as kids are savvy and recognize how to play the system
quite quickly.
Previously, one of my sons had fallen in with the wrong
crowd. Looking for his tribe, he put himself in dangerous situations in his
efforts to seek validation and belonging. This has caused him incredible
hardship. By moving, I had hoped some of that influence would be resolved, and
fortunately it has. But, as is want to happen in life, there are often new peer
groups and new situations that surface, which seem to draw us back into old
patterns of behaviour. He’s found a new group of friends, and this group seems
better (at least as far as being genuine in their acceptance of him) but they
offer an alternative lifestyle that, as a mom, I’m not overly fond of. A bit
too much partying, a bit too much drinking and the like.
Both my ex and I have parenting styles that involve sitting
down with our kids and talking things through. We’ve always been united on that
front and have always had an easy conversational approach to childrearing.
But in addition to trying to steer my children away from
questionable behaviour or slippery slopes, using logic and reason in my
persuasive appeals (even while recognizing that the likelihood of my words
having an impact on a headstrong young man are mediocre at best), my parenting style
also involves setting boundaries and expectations. I can be tough. I also
consider their mental health and any mental illness that has impacted their
lives over years, and I try to analyze where the behaviour might be coming from
and whether this is innocent disinhibition—basically just wanting to have
fun and be free—or if there is a pattern in their actions that could be
precipitated by struggles current and ongoing.
My ex’s style is to also present his views on their current
life choices, but in the end, he gives them the freedom to make their own
choices—and
subsequent falls—in life. Their consequences are the natural outcomes of
their actions.
Both approaches and philosophies are incredibly valuable and
when we lived together and parented together, both views were adopted and
melded into a cohesive strategy. Lately, I’ve been feeling as if my views, my
contributions are not being heard or valued. There is now a sense of
impatience, that perhaps I’m overreacting, or being overly restrictive. For the
record, I’ll totally admit to being a helicopter mom, but I do have my reasons.
And my perspective is still valid.
Most young adults will make their own decisions and follow
their own path, even if we, as the elders, see the warning signs ahead, red
flags a-wavin.’ It’s incredibly frustrating to know as a parent, we can advise
and guide and reason, but in the end, their choices (and subsequent successes
and falters) are their own, and there’s not a damn thing we can do about it.
But I don’t have to pretend I’m OK with poor decisions.
When I see poor decision making, my tone is laced with concern
and disapproval—not of my children—but of their choices and the
consequences those choices may have on their future.
When my ex metes out judgement, he is more accepting of ‘what
will be will be,’ and that gives our kids a great deal of freedom, something
they are quite happy with.
Both approaches allow our kids to act, succeed, fall and
learn. But one has a distinct hint of admonishment and restriction. Kids
however don’t want to be around admonishment, and they definitely don’t want restrictions.
Especially not when they have the choice of a freer experience and environment.
I feel as if I’m losing my connection with them, that they don’t want to be
around the ‘drag’ parent and would rather hangout at the frat house (my ex’s
house has poop emoji toilet plungers). It’s more fun at dad’s. There is less
restrictions and boundaries. There are less expectations to account for
whereabouts and time returned back home.
I suspect these feelings are part of the flying-the-coup
phase of life, where I have to learn to let it and them go. Gone are the days
of having any influence on their actions. One can only hope that all the
morality and ethics and common sense we tried to impart on them growing up is
in there somewhere and will rear its head when its needed most.
I’ve lost my connection. I’ve lost my family and I feel as
if I’m losing my value as a parent—as someone who has always had something
to offer and contribute to my children’s lives.
I may be overreacting, and I may be way off base, interpreting
signs and words and actions through a lens that only sees the disconnect that
my path forward has created.
All I know is, I currently have the distinct impression that
by following my truth, I’m losing parts of my world that I so deeply value. And
I’m not sure how to make my peace with that.
I try my utmost best in life to never use the word hate
because it is a viciously cruel word at the best of times, so this is as
vehement as I get. I despise winter.
I’ve since learned, however, that I can actually dislike winter
even more.
You see, when I lived all cozy in my previous family life, I
had four men to shovel the driveway when it snowed. Now, alone on my own two
weeks out of each month, and in a home that now has an obscenely long and wide
driveway, I find myself staring into the barrel all too often of a ridiculous
amount of snow to shovel.
I strongly dislike snow. It’s cold. It’s heavy. It causes
your car to swerve and wander when you don’t want it to. It piles up and
accumulates so you must do something about it. And it’s cold (I realize I
mentioned that part before, but it’s significant because I also strongly
dislike being cold).
Just this week, it took me more than two and a half hours to
shovel said obscenely long and wide driveway and I’ll admit, I was close to
tears a few times throughout the ordeal. I’m not in as great a shape as I used
to be. My cardio has been lacking and my weight training has been non-existent,
so pushing, lifting and flinging was a challenge. However, it wasn’t just the
physical exertion that was overwhelming; it was hard for me to reconcile that I
will be doing this on my own now. It hit home how much things had changed and how
alone I was in that moment. I’ll admit, it sucked.
Nonetheless, I did it. I cleared the whole damn driveway,
licked my wounds and collapsed inside.
Two days later it snowed again.
I watched large fluffy flakes fall serenely from the safety
of my window as incredulity simmered. Again I would have to shovel the damn
driveway. Again I would be confronted by my life choices and how much they had
altered my path and my circumstances.
And then I stopped.
I remembered why I had embarked on this path to begin with.
The choices I made, while difficult and far-reaching were essential, and
despite challenges and hardships, I was here because I answered a siren’s calling.
I acknowledged a hidden truth. I stepped into who I was meant to be.
So, if that meant I had to shovel the fucking driveway, then
so be it.
I popped in my earbuds, cranked up my music and grabbed the
shovel.
Instead of cursing and dreading the experience, I allowed it
to teach me patience and perseverance. I chose to let it guide me into
tolerance—of
myself, my choices and my limitations.
I moved slowly. I didn’t rush. If I felt the swell of
impatience grow, I stopped myself and purposefully slowed down. I allowed the
experience to teach me gentleness and in doing so, it nurtured a moment of
growth.
I came back inside and enjoyed a rewarding cup of hot
chocolate. This time wasn’t so bad.
A weather advisory just popped up on my phone—another
five to ten centimetres on its way.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, they say. (I once
read a card that admitted that was bullshit and I strongly agreed). However, while
I am not necessarily stronger, I am determined to not let the microcosm spill
over to the macrocosm, and if it does, then I need to change the message.
In other words, there’s no use crying over spilled milk.
It’s just snow. Eventually, the season will change, and it’ll all melt. In the
end, I’ll survive this ridiculous ordeal, and yes, perhaps begrudgingly, even
come away stronger for it.
But regardless next year, I’m paying for snow removal
services.
It’s been one month since I officially started my new life.
For the first time, ever, I made my way on my own gumption,
blood, sweat and tears. I moved into a new home, alone, on my own, arranged my
own finances, qualified for my own credit cards and loans (which wasn’t easy
when you basically haven’t existed for 49 years), and began my journey toward a
new identity, a new reality.
It’s been a hell of a month.
I crossed the threshold of my new life at 6 p.m. on January
13, after saying goodbye to and walking through the home where my youngest
child grew up, where my children had found their dearest friends, where I’d
carved a loving life for myself and my ex for over 15 years. It was hard to say
goodbye to the house, not because I was particularly attached to the paint and
plaster, but because it was a symbol of a life being left behind.
In truth, it was gut-wrenching.
But I didn’t have time to grieve. I was knee-deep, full steam
ahead into the chaos of moving day and there was too much to do, too many
responsibilities, too many moving parts to let the swell of emotion consume me.
So, I tucked it back away for another day, hoping another day wouldn’t come. I
was good at that.
Fourteen hours. That’s how long it took four movers and two
trucks to clear out a life of 29 years, catapulting my belongings toward an
unknown future. The boxes arrived in my new home, stacked in corners and
against walls, formidable and daunting in their volume. The furniture, that had
once fit so perfectly in the past, now sat awkwardly around each room,
uncertain where to go, shuffling their feet and nervously tapping their legs as
they took in their new environment and wondered how the hell they were all
going to fit. This was alien territory. We might as well have been in an
outpost on Mars.
I was determined to make it work, somehow blending the past
with the future in a way that would create comfort or at least a sense of
familiarity amongst the raw grit of uncertainty. It took weeks to settle into a
fit, where things felt right, or at least, reasonable. I knew it would be a
while yet before this felt like home, but with each passing day, my environment
became more welcoming, my surroundings less foreign.
It was a hell of a lot of work.
Sorting, organizing, finding each item a place and a place
for each item. It was a formidable task, and I made good progress, but there was
a startling amount of boxes stuffed with things that didn’t fit anywhere at all—things
that belonged to my past, that had no space in this new future. Those were relegated
to the garage, a remote outpost crammed to the brim, trapped between two
worlds. Unable to part with them because of sentimentality or the inability to
find the energy and strength of will to sort through 29 years worth of marriage
and companionship, they stayed sealed and forlorn, out of sight, out of mind.
Everything else found a place, even if that place sat cheek by jowl on or
beside something else. I swear, by the time I was finished, I had packed and
unpacked over a thousand boxes in total. This past week was the first time the
waste disposal team were finally greeted to a recycling day without an alarming
stack of boxes that needed to be crammed in the truck. I actually received a
grateful wave.
I’ve moved before, and moving in and of itself is brutal, but since my ex and I were moving to two
different locations and I was in charge of packing everything, I had been
packing for months. Months of preparation and planning, staging and moving—it
never seemed to end. Given the emotional toll combined with the physical
exertion, the amount of energy required was unparalleled. It was exhausting—physically,
mentally, emotionally and spiritually.
And that was just the move.
With moving day behind me and a routine finally shifting
into some semblance of order, one of my sons tested positive for COVID-19. Unfortunately,
before he started developing symptoms, he unknowingly passed it on to one of
his brothers. The whole house went into full quarantine and the boys were
relegated to their rooms.
Hands sanitized and masks on any time they left their rooms,
my ex was in charge of feeding the brood, delivering them their meals through a
crack in their door. In fact, they jokingly referred to their dad as the Warden.
It was a time of heightened anxiety, but they kept their spirits up and tried
to make light of the situation, though they all took the matter quite seriously.
For my part, I had to sit and watch from afar, since they
had been living with their dad since the first exposure. For a helicopter mom,
it was excruciating not being able to care for them. Though, I had no concerns
about their dad’s ability to ensure their well-being, it was difficult not
being there to help, or soothe.
It was four weeks of anxiousness as I prayed for a quick
recovery and healthy outcomes for everyone in the house. Fortunately, all went
well. No one else became sick and all infected are fully recovered. Then, with
a clean bill of health, all three boys made the trip to stay with me for the
first time—for
their first two-week stint back and forth.
I was nervous as hell.
My new home only had three bedrooms. I had one, which meant
two boys had to share. As young men, this was an unappealing prospect. I
promised a curtain to help divide the largest room, so they could have some
private space, but I knew it wasn’t the same as having their own room—one
with a door and complete privacy and alone time when they wanted it. My new
home was also much further afield. Not quite as far as Mars, but to my boys, it
seemed pretty close.
In order to be able to afford a living arrangement that
would fit us all as comfortably as possible, I had to look a tad outside the
community they were coming from—thirty minutes outside to be exact,
and only one of them had a car.
This created a further inconvenience.
Where work was once only 10 minutes door-to-door, now they would
be travelling a half-hour or more to achieve the same goal. They would also be a
half-hour from friends, though with a COVID lockdown and stay-at-home orders in
effect, that was irrelevant, however, at some point in the near future, a small
social circle would once again be possible, and that circle was now much
further away.
Other than my offer to chauffeur, two of them had no other means to see their friends, since regional transit doesn’t exist on Mars.
I strategically managed my financial resources so I could
put a small desk in each of their rooms, so they could complete school work or
play their computers in their free time. I bought the fastest internet speeds
rural living could muster, to try to ensure their gaming, learning or teaching
would not be dramatically impacted. I installed shelves and closet rods, where
closets were non-existent. In short, I tried to anticipate every creature
comfort they were used to and match it as closely as possible.
Because this would be very different.
For the first time in their lives, they had to travel back
and forth between mom and dad’s place, and I was terrified they wouldn’t make
the trip, or once they got here, decide the trip wasn’t worth it, despite
getting to see their mom, whom they loved very much, because the distance and
amenities created too many challenges.
I’m still not sure where they all land on the subject. Their
rooms look like hotel rooms. Clean, orderly, but without a single touch of
personalization. Dad’s place has posters and memorabilia, keepsakes and prizes
displayed. In fairness, they had nothing else to do during quarantine but set
up their rooms for a month, so my home feels like a temporary, transient
arrangement, with dad’s place being where they will call home.
For someone who prided themselves on how close their family was
(and still is), it’s difficult to accept that this change in life circumstances
may have precipitated their move away from me faster than had life stayed the
status quo.
Let me explain.
If we were still living in our old home, in our old way of life,
the boys wouldn’t have to jockey between homes or wrestle with alternatives.
They were content to stay at home while attending school and getting their lives
in order. They were in no hurry to fly the coup. They were comfortable. They had
it pretty good and they knew and respected that. I’m pretty sure had nothing
changed, they would have stayed with us until they were in their 30s, saving
and setting themselves up for a good life with a solid foundation, financially
and emotionally.
This dramatic change in circumstances, and the subsequent choices
I was forced to make for financial and personal reasons will create a faster
track to an empty nest. I see the inevitability of this looming. Had things
stayed the same, I would have had more time with them. Now, I know I do not. And
it rips my heart out.
But despite the inherent and expected heartache and hardships,
there are some interesting things I’ve discovered since being on my own.
There are moments for example, when its quiet, when no one else
is around. When I become acutely aware that I do not have anyone else’s needs
to meet. When I can stop being the person who looks after everyone else, who gives
everything I have to everyone else, and finally take a moment to give back to
me.
I can give myself moments to grieve or moments to just sit
in the silence with no expectations. Those moments have been few and far
between with the busyness of this new life, but when the silence comes, I now
welcome it. I explore it. Sit with it. Make friends with it. For the first time
in my life, I appreciate it for a gift.
I’ve had a few gifts on this journey, including the love of incredible people—my children, my ex, my friends and my beautiful girlfriend. But it’s been a long road. Nothing is easy anymore. Everything has changed.
In the past, I wrote blog posts with the intent to inspire and motivate, my words a beacon to light the way for those who were lost, a siren’s call to grab life by the horns and take control. I wanted to lift people up. I thought that was my mission in life. But these days, I just can’t seem to find the words. Gone are the days of eternal optimism and finding the silver lining behind every cloud.
These days I’m often lost myself, wandering alone in the
dark, wondering when the ground is going to finally give out beneath me.
I’m hopeful that one day, the light will come back, that one
day in the not-so-distant future, I will once again find the hub of the wheel
and sit in a place of inner peace.
But I’m not there yet.
It’s been one hell of a month. Here’s hoping the next one is better.
Today’s random dictionary point and post is brought to you by the word pin.
Pin: 1) a small thin pointed piece of esp. steel wire with a round or flattened head used for holding things in place, attaching one thing to another etc. 2) pin down — to a promise, arrangement etc. 3) force a person to declare his or her intentions 4) hold a person down by force.
The word pin certainly has a lot of different connotations, but there are several that will suit my purposes for a blog. The derivatives of the word all seem to revolve around the action of or the effect caused by a physical pin. It forces, holds and reinforces things. Much like society and our upbringing.
We are often pinned to stereotypes and dogmas at an early age. Depending on what kind of home, community or country you grew up in, you will have a very different perspective of the world and will have accumulated a variety of unspoken contracts unique to you that you’ve been unconsciously pinned to.
These are things we don’t even think about. Do you respect your elders? Do you hold the door open for someone else? Do you have an idea of what a boy or a girl should be when they grow up? Or what toys they should play with or how they should dress when they are young? Do you have access to higher education, good jobs, unlimited potential? Some of those will depend on socio-economic factors, other contracts like unlimited potential may have been reinforced by messages we received when we were young like, ‘You’re not smart enough,’ ‘You’re not good enough,’ You’re not pretty enough,’ ‘You’re not skinny enough,’ etc.
What you do with those contracts is up to you. At some point, you may decide the world hasn’t upheld it’s end of the bargain. Perhaps it’s let you down, mislead you and/or betrayed your trust. At some point, you may decide to rip up the contract(s).
The good news is, you can rip, toss and/or burn any of your contracts at any point in your life. There is no actual paper you signed with infant blood. You didn’t lay your hand upon your heart as a newborn baby and declare you would readily accept everything you were told and everything you saw.
You are free to make your own decisions, to weigh the pros and cons of every situation and experience and decide for yourself if things are favourable or not. And you get to walk away from past tendencies and old knee-jerk reactions at every opportunity.
Just because someone programmed us into thinking a certain way, doesn’t mean we can’t go in and figure out how to change the code. We are not pinned to anyone else’s ideas, judgments, expectations, biases or opinions. Release the latch on your life and make new contracts that resonate with you. Embrace who you were always meant to be.
Otherness: (n) 1. the state of or fact of being other or different 2. A thing or existence separate from or other than the thing mentioned and the thinking subject.
Years ago, I had a blog. I wrote about anything and everything, but eventually, I couldn’t come up with anything relevant or unique to say. What on earth was I supposed to blog about? I really wasn’t that interesting, my life not nearly fascinating enough.
They say, ‘blog every day and they will come,’ but you can’t pull blood from a stone. How was I supposed to come up with creative, riveting and compelling anecdotes and stories on the daily? I needed help. I needed inspiration. So, I turned to the dictionary.
I came up with a plan. I would close my eyes, open the dictionary to a random page and point. Whatever word I landed on would be the inspiration for my next blog post. It worked. The stories didn’t always present themselves right away, but the dictionary created a conduit for ideas and thoughts to flow, until eventually my fingers found their way to the keyboard and the blog post materialized before my eyes.
Today, I tried again.
Otherness. That was the word that glared back at me. I glanced heavenward, wondering where the joke was. How appropriate I thought. For my first blog post, I was going to discuss otherness, the state of or fact of being different or other.
Well, yeah, I got that. When I was younger, I felt other. I was bullied; I cried myself to sleep at night, all because of my otherness. I didn’t fit in, but I tried. I tried with everything in me, begging for acceptance, begging for belonging. Eventually, I assimilated enough that I passed for one of them. I had an identity. I became an ideal. I’d made it.
But deep down, I was never truly happy. Deep down, like a restless thrum through my veins, I sensed the otherness, but I would always swallow hard and force it back down. Otherness didn’t fit into the life I was creating.
And I succeeded, at least for a little while. I masterfully created the veil, manufacturing the perfect façade, until the image became so opaque, even I couldn’t see through it.
Until one day — it was a Wednesday — I saw through it. Suddenly and in brilliant relief, for the first time in a long time, I felt the other. And everything was different. I was different. Everything I’d ever known morphed and flickered in front of me, like a hologram blinking and fading out. My reality was no longer real. I stood at the center of my universe without an anchor, without a compass and without an oar. I was adrift in a sea of otherness.
Who the hell was I? Really?
I made my first journal entry on March 7, 2019. It was my attempt to confront the otherness screaming inside me, to make sense of it, to tame it, to control it. But that quiet thrum had turned into a banshee’s wail, and it was not interested in fitting back into my old-world views.
I sat down, tears streaming down my cheeks, my heart wrenched from within and wrote, “Yesterday, I realized I was gay — it was a Wednesday. I’d like to say it was a shock, and in some ways it was, but in others it was not. But whatever it was, it became real when I spoke it out loud. I was suddenly forced to confront feelings and suspicions that had up until that moment gone unspoken and unacknowledged. It was a reckoning, a time to face the facts, a stop-pussy-footing-around-the-issue kinda moment. And it was 47 years in the making.”
I’d been brought face-to-face with my otherness. Gone was the manicured safety I’d enjoyed for so many years. Here, in this new space, I would have to confront that feeling of otherness when I wanted to walk down the street, my fingers intertwined with those of the woman I would one day love. I’d have to walk into a room, wondering if there would be whispers of disapproval or disbelief. Gone was the security in privilege and conformity. I stood on the other side. I’d become someone else.
I still wasn’t sure how the shoe fit. I just knew my life would never be the same.
I’ve learned I’m an extroverted introvert. That’s my lesson from social distancing and learning to navigate a new world blending family commitments and responsibilities while still providing comfort and reassurance to those that need me.
I can give only so much before I’m just emotionally and physically drained.
Working from home provides very little opportunity to find down time during the day. In addition to the demands of your job, it’s a very noisy, constantly on-the-go type of environment with kids, pets and other working-from-home people interrupting your focus and time.
Everyone is settling into a new normal, so things will balance out, but the constant demand on my energy is taking a toll.
As a giver, I try my damnedest to ensure everyone’s needs are being met. I will do this at the expense of my own. Until one day, I can’t. I can no longer push away the exhaustion pulling me under. At that point, I need to shut everyone out and close down shop, shuttering the windows and battening down the hatches on my time and attention. I need to reset and recharge.
Trying to keep everyone happy is a 24/7 task. One I take very seriously and try my utmost to achieve. But there does come a point when I just can’t do it anymore.
I reached that point today.
After two weeks of social distancing measures and the constant needs of others, I’ve had to step back.
So, I’m writing my blog. I may crack open the novel that I’ve not forgotten about but been unable to look at in a year. I may have a nap. I might watch some Netflix. I may nap. Did I mention that last one already?
It’s important to monitor energy levels throughout this crisis. Take a break when you need it. Let others know you’re not available for a few hours. Have a bath. Lock yourself in a room. Go for a walk. Sit outside by the water or amongst the trees, wherever you can find some solace and opportunity to recharge. Listen to soothing music. Nap. Whatever you need to do to reset the metre and find your balance. Take the time to do it.
We are going to be chilling in this new pandemic world for a while longer yet. Our peace of mind is of utmost importance to get us through this ordeal stronger, while still being of service to others. But in order to achieve that, we must take the time to honour ourselves and what our bodies, minds, hearts and souls need. Listen carefully.
“I think I’m gay.” The words came barreling out like a runaway train careening toward an unfinished bridge ahead, warning lights flashing, signs pleading to stop or turn back.
But there was no turning back.
I sat across from my husband of almost 30 years, over filet mignon and twice-baked potatoes, on a long-awaited date night and watched the shock and fear register in his eyes.
I wanted to throw up. I wanted to die. I wanted to take everything back, rewind time and start again, pretend nothing had happened. But the words hovered above the table and reverberated through the crowded bar, echoing in my mind. My mouth dried up and I reached for the wine, inhaling its contents as if it were oxygen and my life depended on it.
Needless to say, date night was ruined. The movie we were going to see, cancelled, and we both left in separate cars, having met after work and school, hoping to enjoy this rare opportunity to escape from responsibilities and children and just enjoy an evening celebrating us.
He drove home, and I drove around for an hour until I found myself parked in the dark corner of a church parking lot, gasping for air as tears broke me while I collapsed under the weight of those words.
That was Wednesday, March 6, 2019. The day my life changed forever.
If you’d like to read my story from the start (as they follow a sequence) please click on the category ‘My Story’ and explore Episode Two. If you’d like to read my everyday reflections and thoughts, hop over to Everyday Ruminations.
