I'm Not Weird, I'm Gifted

For years I had a keychain with those exact words on it: "I'm Not Weird, I'm Gifted". Some novelty piece of garbage that I paid over two dollars for, because it really related to me. It related to how ostracized I felt from the main stream kids, how they viewed us 'gifties' as the elite, geniuses, who thought ourselves better than them.

Sometimes we did.

Please keep in mind that this post is based on MY experiences and opinions, and that I cannot speak for my peers.

Most of our class took the gifted testing during Grade 2 in order to qualify for the gifted program in Grade 3, and then we were told from a very young age that we were special, and more advanced than our main stream peers. You can imagine that this inflated our egos (at least mine) and we used to have a huge sense of animosity towards the main stream kids that we shared our school with. Even more so, towards the French Immersion kids that we shared our buses with.

The Gifted Program was designed to provide a more challenging curriculum to children who had the ability to learn faster than our main stream cohorts. This simple sentence was my defence throughout most of highschool, as I had to defend my stupidity and poor grades to throes of my peers who would snicker and say: "But aren't you gifted?"


"Gifted doesn't mean I'm smart," I'd retort, "it means I have the ability to learn faster. I choose not to use that ability."


Then we'd all laugh at my failures in life and move on.


When we came to school in Grade 3 as students of the gifted program, we were told that things were going to be different. That they were going to change. Before, we were big fish in a little pond; now, we were to be little fish in a big pond...not necessarily the best of our class.

Of course, every class has to have a student at the top, and a student at the bottom. In one swift year I went from being the top of my class in my main stream program, to one of the class clowns with one of the lowest grades in the gifted program. It destroyed my self confidence. It became easier (and a deeply ingrained self-defense mechanism) to laugh off my failures, play the fool, and pretend that grades were not important to me.

When we got to highschool, half of our classes were gifted classes, and the other half of our classes were main stream classes where we were split up and integrated into normal classes with normal kids.

It was terrifying.

I had spent 6 years forming lasting bonds and friendships with the other 'gifties' and quite suddenly I was expected to go out and interact with the kids who had been rude and torturous to us 'gifties' for our entire elementary lives.

We had formed no external social skills. No way to meet new people, fit into different social circles, anything. I relied heavily on my class-clownery to make new friends, and for a while I was successful. I was funny, people liked to spend time with me to hear and see all of the crazy antics I would come up with in the span of a class. Then one day, another giftie happened to mention that she...and I...were gifted students.


I lost half of my friends that day. People just stopped talking to me.


Our "advanced" classes were explained to us as 'teaching us the curriculum for the grade ahead of ours'. In Grade 9 we learned the Grade 10 curriculum; in Grade 10 we learned Grade 11; in Grade 11 we learned Grade 12. And then something happened. The gifted program ended in Grade 11 and in Grade 12 we just relearned our prior year's lessons. We were no further along then our main stream counterparts, except that we had been graded harder and taught faster.

When we all graduated we were awarded our 'gifted certificates' along with our diplomas. I've never even seen mine because my mother took it for 'safe keeping', and then disappeared from my life.

It doesn't matter though, the bloody thing isn't worth anything. Not. One. Thing. Not any extra awesomeness on a potential school application, nothing on a job resume, and not a thing to speak of to people. Worthless.



I look at my kids now and I think: "Big fish, little pond? What is so wrong with being a big fish in a little pond? Why would I want my kids to be put in a position where they could fail? In a position where they could lose self-esteem, social skills, a sense of accomplishment; for nothing?"



Big fish, little pond? Bring it on.

The Cycle

"Hey!! Why can't you just listen to me?!" I scream.

"I. Just. Can't. Get. This. Piece. Of. Crap. To. Work." I seethe through clenched teeth before hitting the computer...with my forehead...willing one of the two objects to shatter.

"Go to your room! NOWWWW!!!" the animalistic growls that escape me are hard to describe...and yet eerily similar to the ones I heard as a child.


I never learned what to do with my anger.


As a child I witnessed a lot of anger. A lot. And it always resulted in screaming, violence, belittling, and broken objects. As a child, you learn from what you see.

I often wonder how 'normal' people deal with their anger.

How other parents dealt with misbehaving children.


When I was in elementary school I would get in fistfights with other children. They would anger me and I would hit them, and then some of them would hit back.

I was so filled with rage that I used to 'black out' and not be able to remember what happened during these episodes. There was a lot of thrashing. And screaming.

As I entered my teens I began to internalize the anger. The scars up and down my arms can attest to that. There was still a lot of screaming and hitting things, anything to expel the rage that boiled within. One day I turned to alcohol. The rage wouldn't boil if it was so diluted by litres of booze. I don't think the rage could even simmer in those days.


As an adult, I have tried to teach myself more effective ways of dealing with my anger. I want to teach my children better ways of dealing with theirs. Ways of stepping back and calming down, rationalizing, using words instead of physical force...but it's difficult. It's difficult to teach them things that I haven't been practising all that long.

I have to keep trying. For them.

My Knees

Yeah, that's the whole title. I'm tired. Bear with me.


I have a disease in my knees. A disease in which my knees destroy the cartilidge within them, and then, without the protective cushioning that said cartilidge provides, grind (bone on bone) inappropriate grooves into themselves that can cause mislocation (like dislocation), pain, and popping.

Image from here.

I'd put a check mark beside ALL of those pain spots and more.



When I was 9 years old, I went to the doctor's office to get the results and find out why my knees had been hurting so much when I ran. I used to be on the Track and Field team for running, long jump, and high jump; and they began to throb and burn all the time. I sat in the room all by myself, as my mother was in a different room with Brother. Plus, I was a big girl, I could be alone with no problem.

My little 9 year old self was in for quite the shock when a strange doctor entered the room. He read from the chart and told me that I had a disease in my knees.


"There's no cure, it will only get worse. You'll be in a wheel chair by the time you're thirty."


Then he turned and left the room.


I said nothing to my parents. In my shock, I internalized every piece of this horror, it would be another nine years before I told them. I cried myself to sleep that night, and decided that he was wrong. There was clearly nothing wrong with me, I would just need to let up on running.

The following year I tried to run the 100metre dash instead of the 400metre, and I ended up twisting my knee (in its weakened condition) and sitting out the rest of the events.

The next year, long jump was cut from the list because landing in the sand pit jarred my knees too much, and it hurt to stand after.

I managed to high jump for a few more years, and after acquiring knees braces I even attempted the hurdling team. As long as I was careful, I had convinced myself that I would be able to manage it.

When highschool began, I started biking to school. It would cause me a great deal of pain, but I tried to ignore it. It was only a fifteen or twenty minute bike ride, after all.

In Grade 10 I joined the wrestling team. I loved it, but I noticed how weak my knees were getting. I couldn't participate in warm-up with the rest of the team. I stretched, but that was all. Walking up and down stairs became challenging. I would tell friends to go on ahead without me, I was late for classes.

I kneeled down in a store to look at an item on the bottom shelf and I couldn't get back up.

The next year, I could no longer bike to school. I resigned myself to the fourty-five minute walk instead. I got a medical exemption from the stairs at school and recieved a key to operate the elevator. If I had to kneel down anywhere, I needed someone to pull me back to standing - and then hold me up while the circulation returned to my knees.

In a wheelchair by the time you're thirty.

It haunted me. I was only 17 and I couldn't walk up stairs or kneel down.

The following year my Scouting group went on a canoe trip. One of my greatest passions.

My knees were so bad that I couldn't sit in the canoe. Angered, stupid, and rash; I left the camp.

The following year Shake'n'Bake was born, and I went to see another knee specialist. This one scheduled me for surgery for the following January.

Waiting for the OR to take me, I lay on a stretcher in my nuddy pants being told by nurses and other doctors how brave I was to have surgery on both knees at once. Brave? Why? Is it a bad idea? Someone? Anyone?!

It was June before I had good use of my legs again.

That was 2009.

It's been two years now, and do you know what I did yesterday? Yesterday we piled Shake'n'Bake and Splat into the new bike trailer that Splat recieved from my parents for her birthday, and Boyfriend and I biked all the way to the pool for our swim. Then we biked home after.

With Boyfriend starting shift work again, I asked to have the trailer hooked up to my bike. That way I can take the girls out when he's at work.


O_o


No dice. A few hills and a gentle incline, and my knees SCREAMED bloody murder. I pushed through it and I nearly made it all the way there and back. I gave the last hill to Boyfriend, we switched bikes.

We're going to move the trailer to his bike for future trips, but I'm rather proud of myself for accomplishing what I did.

I'm also worried that, in time, I may have biking stripped from me again. This time... well, this time I know enough to enjoy what I have. I know enough to push myself while it's still possible, and what to fight for while it's still available to me.

More surgery? Almost definitely.

A wheelchair by the time I'm thirty? Not if I can help it.

Father's Day

Father's Day is a day to celebrate dads. A day to recognize the efforts of those men who make a difference in someone's life.

I have already expressed my view of Boyfriend's 'father' status in this post: #1 Dad

Suffice it to say, I believe that Boyfriend would fall into the category of man whom should be celebrated on Father's Day.

Happy Father's Day to the man who attended baby classes, held me while I cried, carried everything heavy, and changed poopy diapers.

To the man whose big hands are gentle enough to cuddle, soothe and caress.

Happy Father's Day to the man who learned and created Christmas traditions for the most important holiday in my year.

To the man who sings carols, jingles, and nursery rhymes.

Who is patient enough to answer 'But why?' one thousand times.

Happy Father's Day to the man who loves to teach: baking, hockey, soccer, jumping, dancing, singing, and anything else they want to learn.

To the man who wants to learn: dresses, dolls, hair brushing, diapers, baths, songs, wrestling, pony rides, airplanes, flowers, and everything else there is to learn.

You are an angel who has come into our lives, with so much to offer us. With so many memories to make, I know that you will fill our lives with joy. We love you. Happy Father's Day.






Of course, he is not the only man in my life who needs to be recognized on this day.

My Dad.

My Dad is a man who pulled his family out of poverty. Always a strong man, he sacrificed so much for our family...much more than he will ever tell me.

When I was young, I was a bit of a Daddy's Girl. I wanted his approval more than anything. At times, I feared my father. His anger was scary, both of their angers were, but as the years passed and things changed, he has become a rock in my life.

I made poor decisions, and my father was always around to listen. To give advice, but mostly to help me work it out on my own.

He gave me a roof over my head. A place to live with my small daughter while I got back on my feet.

He paid for groceries when there were none.

Money. Loaned for a car, and later school.


My father is many things in his life. Many things to many different people. But one thing that he always has been, and always will be, is my father. My dad.

The man that I am so afraid to disappoint, says he can never be disappointed in me.

And I, his oldest child, his only daughter, am so proud of him. I am proud of him for taking what life threw at him for many years, and for resolving it. For making the best decisions he could, and for seeing everything through to the end. I am proud of him for growing with his children, and for embracing his grandchildren.

Happy Father's Day to the man who held his grandchildren, both of them, even though babies make him uncomfortable because they're so 'fragile'.

To the man who says kids make him feel sad when they cry.

Happy Father's Day to the man who isn't afraid to get down on the floor and play with toys. Even if it is hard to get back up.

To the man who tries to understand what they're saying, even thought Toddler-Speak is an unknown and difficult language.

Happy Father's Day to the man who brings presents for all of the little holidays, but knows not to bring too much sugar because Momma will get upset.

To the man who learned to cook, so he could have us all over for dinner, and who's 'pack-rattery' has helped me on multiple occassions.

Dad, I may not agree with you about everything, but you have taught me that I don't have to. You taught me to think, and to make smart, informed decisions. You taught me to do what was best for my family, and that as long as I am trying, you will never be disappointed in me. You taught me respect, honesty, hard-work, and comedy. I still think of your heroism every time I see a snapping turtle.

To the man who once stopped and put out a forest fire by himself, Happy Father's Day. I love you.

Shake'n'Bake - A Birth Story

After reading through many birth stories over at The Daily Guggie I have decided that it may be time to write out my birth stories, in an attempt to educate, heal, and have them in writing before my memory escapes me.The following post is planning on being very descriptive. You've been warned.








It took us almost a year before I became pregnant with Shake'n'Bake. At barely 19 years old, I was given the news that my uterine surgery was a success and I was able to concieve. My 'now-or-never' option had finally become a 'now'.

I was referred to an OBGYN in my city whom I began seeing. I remember going to his office and having to sit in the waiting room for one or two hours every time, to get in for my five to ten minutes appointment. Dr. M was rude. He would ask his questions and then give orders, never answering any of mine. His go-to reponse for any of my concerns was: "It's a baby thing" as he would exit the room.

I tried to comfort myself with the knowledge that he may be a poopy person but he was a great doctor.

So I thought.

I had been given a multitude of different due dates for Shake'n'Bake throughout my pregnancy. The one that they finally settled on ended up being incorrect...somehow Dr. M had managed to use the wheel wrong and had calculated my due date 40 weeks and 2 days from the first day of my last period, instead of exactly 40 weeks as it should have been. The discrepencies never should have happened in the first place due to the fact that we were trying to have a baby, so I was using the calendar and an ovulation prediction kit to track my days. I knew (and still know) the exact date of Shake'n'Bake's conception.

As the date approached I became excited. Dr. M became bored. I would often be seen by his resident (to whom I was never introduced) instead of him, and still no one answered my questions.

Her due date passed, and at my appointment two days later, I was told that I would need to be induced. Induced? What the hell? I stood between Dr. M and the door so he could not escape, and asked him what the harm was in letting her stay in my tummy and come out when she was ready.

He told me that there was danger that she would grow too big and would not fit through the birth canal if she stayed in much longer. That if she did not fit or got stuck, that I would need to have a C-section. A C-section was not what I had planned. I wanted a vaginal birth, and if being induced still gave me that option...plus if she was in danger inside me...

We got to pick the date that our child was to be born on. More or less. Book the day for induction, and you would have a baby that day or more likely, the day after.

That Wednesday we went out to lunch on the way to the hospital. A bit of a ceremonious send-off for non-baby lunches. I ordered some form of omelet I believe...or perhaps a sandwich...I remember having some light contractions during lunch and thinking that they were just nasty Braxton Hicks (practice contractions). At one point I went to the washroom in the basement to pee, I was struck with a particularily big contraction and remember thinking that if these kept up, someone would have to carry me back up the stairs!

My (now-ex) mother-in-law drove us to the hospital for the induction, my Dad and Brother were meeting us there an hour or so later, (after I had been given the induction medication) and then they were going to take us out for dinner. Chinese food! Mmmm.

After I was put on the examining table, a strange doctor whom I had never met was given the task of inserting a drug-soaked tampon into my vagina, and then hooking me up to monitors for an hour. I was supposed to move as little as possible, but at one point a nasty contraction caused me to change positions and the monitor on my stomach shifted off of her heartbeat.

This one and only dip in her heart rate (even though I explained what had happened) caused them to keep me in the hospital for ANOTHER hour for monitoring. Even though the second hour passed uneventfully, the night doctor determined that it would be best if I stayed in the hospital anyways. For funsies I guess.

I was pissed. I was fuming mad. I did NOT want to be in the hospital right then. I was supposed to go out for Chinese food, not have hospital take in. I threw a massive fit for them to let me leave, and eventually was told that in order to go I would have to sign release papers - releasing the hospital of any liability should something go wrong.

These papers scared me, and apparently my dad too, since he advised me that maybe I should just stay. Logically it was what was safest for the baby, right? Right?

Dad and Brother drove out to a Wendy's and brought us back some meals. When we walked down to meet them, I couldn't make it all the way to the door without crouching on the side of the hall, focusing through my contractions. (FYI: elevators + labour = burning desire to vomit everywhere)

I managed a mouthful of Coke and two fries before I threw up into that stupid kidney bean shaped vomit cup hospitals give you. I promptly gave up on my meal and tried to get some rest before it was baby time.

I asked to walk at one point...the hospital staff was very hesitant about this. They asked me why I would want to walk around, I told them that I was fairly certain it was good for a labouring woman and they just scoffed me. I was only allowed to do it once, a brief lap of the labour floor, before I was returned to my bed to labour on my back.

When the pain became too much to bear, I asked for relief. I have now learned that lying on your back can make contractions much more painful, and I had been in the same position for many hours. The nursing staff gave me a shot of Demoral (sp?) that was to 'take the edge off'. Time passed, and the pain was right back up to awful again. When I requested a second shot, the rude nurse made a big deal about how she had already given me one. She then said that if I was going to be asking for so much pain relief that maybe I should get an epidural. I told her that I planned on getting one when I couldn't handle the pain anymore, and she told me that I would 'have to make up my mind' they would need to wake the anaesthesiologist up.

"Then wake him up" I retorted.

What felt like hours later, the anaesthesiologist made his way into my room. Apparently he was a very nice doctor, I don't know. I was so focused on the pain that I barely acknowledged his existance. I do remember him saying that he would have to insert the needle in between contractions, to which I angrily replied: "There is no between contractions."

The first attempt only numbed the left half of my body, so the needle was pulled out and reinserted. Success! I then became a zombie. I called my Dad and my then-mother-in-law to let them know that the baby was on the way. At 2am. At 2am I called them and said "I'm going to have a baby tomorrow." To which my Dad asked: "Do you mean today? It's two in the morning."

When the sun rose, I was given the go ahead to start pushing. I didn't want to. To this day, I still don't know why I said no, but I did. I refused to push. I told the nurse that maybe we'd try in half an hour. After reading the birth stories of many other women, I wonder if some unnumbed part of my brain knew that I need another half and hour. Regardless, half an hour later I began to push.

Dr. M made it to the hospital when it was good and convenient for him. He showed up in my room in jeans and a striped golf shirt, holding his extra large Tim Horton's coffee. He made some snide comment about my current state and turned to exit the room when the nurse stopped him. (My pushing nurse was one of the sweetest women I met there.)

"Dr. M," she said, "I think we're close. You should probably stay." He consented to watching one push, and (I guess) saw my baby's head. He then sighed, mumbled something about wanting to go back to the office, and then left to get his resident.

For my entire delivery, Dr. M leaned against the back wall making comments and drinking his coffee. His resident, Dr. L, washed up and delivered my baby. I had never been informed that anyone other than Dr. M would be delivering my baby. It shocked and upset me, but I am grateful for the hard work that Dr. L provided to me.

As Shake'n'Bake started crowning, I started tearing. Dr. L told me that I was tearing, and asked if I wanted an episiotomy.

"Well of course she wants an episiotomy!" Snapped Dr. M from the wall.

"Uh-bup-bup," I silenced him with my finger, "what's an episiotomy?" Dr. L explained that it was a cut that she would make into my perenium (the skin between the vagina and the anus) that would enlarge the vaginal opening for the baby's head to fit through. She explained that since I was tearing towards my clitoris, if I tore anymore I would have a difficult time urinating, and may require surgery to fix it.

I then consented to the episiotomy, and when she was finished, I pushed my baby out. Dr. L placed her on my stomach as the nurses began wiping her down. I looked down at my baby girl and felt nothing. No tears of joy streamed down my face, no feelings of elation welled up inside me. I forced my hand up to touch her, and was shocked that I was not interested in feeling her at all.
(This is difficult to admit, bear with me.)

I cut the umbilical cord when I was told to. She was then taken to the warm-table to be cleaned and weighed and such, and Dr. L pulled my placenta out by the cord.

Then I began to hemorrhage.

For those who do not know, the placenta is called 'afterbirth' and it is an organ that is grown to provide nutrients to your baby. In healthy pregnancies, it is firmly attached to the wall of your uterus while your baby is in utero, and then after you deliver your baby you continue to have contractions that detach and birth the placenta.

Pulling the placenta out tears it from the uterus before the blood vessels can close. This can increase the risk of hemorrhaging and death.

Panick ensued.

I was given three shots of two different substances to stop the bleeding, but to no avail. Dr. L then started a 'uterine massage' to encourage my uterus to contract and stop the bleeding. A 'uterine massage' involves digging one or both of your hands into the front of a woman's stomach as aggressively as possible, and then trying to jam them downwards into the pelvis, as if you were stuffing a sleeping bag.

Except she wasn't stuffing a sleeping bag, she was stuffing my hemorrhaging uterus down into my pelvic girdle. Despite having the epidural still functional, I could feel the most intense BURNING, SEARING pain that I have ever felt in my life.

As my mind went back into shock, I looked over at Shake'n'Bake in the warming table - her father near by - and thought that he would take care of her, it was okay for me to die. So I stared at the ceiling and waited for death to take me.



Death never did come for me, but it took me a long time before I was willing to touch my baby girl again. Luckily, she tried to suckle for security, and the prolonged contact to her helped me to feel something.

I was very aggressive when family members wanted to hold her, I still can't place exactly why that happened, but at the time I clenched my fists in anger whenever anyone else picked her up.




Still to come: Splat - A Birth Story...later... This is mentally exhausting.

Mother's Day

The last time I saw my mother for Mother's Day was 2008.

Well, actually it was April of 2008 for our Mother's Day visit.

We were supposed to get pedicures together (see: spend time together) but she decided not to.

This will be my third Mother's Day without her.

This post is about someone else.

Image from here.

Mrs. Johnson* is the mother of one of my dear friends. All throughout elementary school she would volunteer for various programs, bake the heck out of something for students, and love her two boys as much as any mother could.

When we reached highschool age it never surprised me how smart her children were. How super polite they could be, and how they just oozed compassion and empathy. After spending ten or twenty minutes with Mrs. Johnson* it was pretty obvious where they got it from.

I never had the pleasure of spending any time with Mr. Johnson*... just an unfortunate series of scheduling conflicts... so Mrs. Johnson* gets all of the credit.

Whenever I think of my goals for motherhood, of the woman that I want to be for my children, this one particular woman jumps into my head. The warmth that she exuded for all of the children that walked into her life; the compassion she had for the problems of my youth; the time that she spent with me. Me. A child who was not her daughter, for whom she had no responsibility for, and yet she loved me, and she listened, and she cared, AND IT MADE A DIFFERENCE.

After Shake'n'Bake was born she gave me books. She told me that no matter what, I should always find the time to read to my children. Always find a few extra moments to share something as magical as reading with them.

The sentiment was echoed by her shortly after Splat was born. Read. It will make a difference to your child.

So I do.

I do because I have a passion for reading; because Shake'n'Bake has developed a real love for reading; because language skills will develop. I do it for all of these reasons, but most of all I do it because she told me to. When Shake'n'Bake asks for one more book I read it, because it is what I believe she would have done with her children.

When my kids need help with their homework, when they need a ride somewhere or a ride home, when their friends come over and I learn to love these children as well - I will owe at least a part of it to her.

And so, to Mrs. Johnson*, you have influenced me in ways that I cannot put into words. Thank you for everything that you have taught me about loving unconditionally. Thank you for spending those few extra minutes with me when I needed it most. Thank you listening, for hugging, and reassuring me when I could not see the light. Thank you for slicing apples and baking cookies when we came over, even though we were much too loud and we drank all of your canned pop. Thank you for picking us up every Friday and giving me precious memories of friendship and joy.


Thank you for being the best mom I know, and Happy Mother's Day.


*name may have been changed to protect the innocent

My Precious Baby Boy

8:05am

You enter the world. Dead.

The panic button is pressed and the emergency team rushes the room. You are swooped out into the hall without so much as a word. Your umbilical cord was wrapped around your neck and you suffocated during delivery. Your tiny, unmoving body was blue. I had no idea what was going on.

Every second stretched into minutes, waiting, wondering, and then you cried.

9lbs 1/2oz, small clenched fists of confusion and upset, you were a miracle within minutes of your birth.

You are a miracle to this day.

I remember not being able to hold you when you came home from the hospital. Some neighbourhood children came to visit and they held you without fear. Why couldn't I do the same?

I remember making your lunches for school. The walk there was fun, I believe we even held hands the first time. Venturing outside the home was a newer experience. And the first time you rode a bus! I'll never forget how anxiously we waited for that big yellow beast to pull up.

I remember when you'd get in trouble at school, or fight the children on the bus. Those little brats...they completely deserved it, you never started fights.

I remember the funeral we had when your pet worm fried in the sun. And then later, when your first (and second) hamsters died. I remember how we held each other after our first dog died. How you would look into my eyes and tell me everything would be okay.

We fought. Oh, the violence, but we didn't know. As time passed we learned to treat each other as safe havens. As sheltered ports for the storms. We came to rely on each other, often seeking the other's advice.

I threw you once... and cracked your ribs. It was an accident, but I remember waiting in fear for the ambulance to arrive. I was prepared to never forgive myself, and then you forgave me first. It would have been selfish for me to hang onto that guilt when you so easily released it.

I remember you teaching me how to play video games. Or how to work the computer properly. Or removing the viruses that I accidently allowed on to the computer with my naivety for the internet. Always helping me, without judgement.

I remember giving you the talk and then having you tell me that you had already learned it in school. Sigh.

I love how open we always were with each other. How it wasn't a big deal to say: I'm depressed, because I was never afraid you'd stop loving me.

Time is my worst foe, and in these last dying moments I reflect upon my precious baby boy, everything he was and is to me. I mourn his loss, but in his place I celebrate the man he has become.

8:05am

The year was 1991.

Very very shortly my baby brother will be 20 years old. He will no longer be my precious baby boy, but I can be nothing but proud of this strong loving man who has taken his place.

I love you.

Life - Part 3: Relationships

Yay! A third part to the Life Series! *excitement overwhelms*

Calm down now. It's okay. Everthing will be fine.



Part 3: Relationships

This is a continuation of my previous rant(s?), Part 1: Eductation, and Part 2: Children. This section is about...Relationships.

Dictionary.com defines a relationship as:

re·la·tion·ship

/[ri-ley-shuh n-ship]

–noun

1. a connection, association, or involvement.

2. connection between persons by blood or marriage.

3. an emotional or other connection between people: the relationship between teachers and students.

4. a sexual involvement; affair.

But my opinion is that society views it as so much more. Allow me to present my interpretation of the modern definition.


re·la·tion·ship

/[ri-ley-shuh n-ship]

–noun

1. a public connection, association, or involvement.

2. connection between persons by blood or marriage, by which we compare ourselves to all others.

3. an emotional or other connection between people: the relationship between teachers and students, that is monitored and judged by peers and strangers.

4. a sexual involvement; affair, that you must judge your worth and value upon.

5. a goal that must be achieved. Must be.

Obviously this doesn't apply to every person on the face of the planet, but this is a lot of what I see. And even moreso, what I've lived.



When I was in elementary school (around grade 6... 12 years old) boys and girls began pairing off into 'couples'. They would one day announce that they were Boyfriend and Girlfriend, then they would beging holding hands and cuddling on the playground at recess. Perhaps they would do similar activities if they could organize a group date to the movies, or even better, a double/triple/quadruple date.

Although the activities involved with being in a couple were still quite juvenille, it became apparent early on that you either were in a couple, or were deemed unfit.

Oh God I wanted to fit in so badly.

Now don't get me wrong, I had feelings for almost all of the boys that I was Girlfriended to, but looking back now it seems sad/funny/ridiculous to have been with so many people. I got into the habit of asking girls if they had a boyfriend, and then as my awareness of different sexualities increased I changed the question to an all encompassing: "How's your love life?"

I became a bit of a joke in highschool. Having so many boyfriends led to people asking me "Do you have a new boyfriend?" The way one would ask if that was a new haircut. The saddest part is that a good portion of the time I would have to answer yes.

Even now, when I talk to a person whom I haven't spoken to in a while, they feel the need to volunteer the current status of their love life...even though I no longer ask. I don't know if it is something that my old friends had come to expect from me, or if more likely it is something that everyone has come to believe is must-know information.

I met up recently with a friend I haven't seen in five or more years. When I asked her what was 'new with her', the first sentence out of her mouth was: "Well, I still don't have a boyfriend."

Another friend and I were catching up late one night when she chose to volunteer her "not-boyfriend, but, oh I don't know, it's tough," which I don't mind hearing about (DEAR FRIENDS, PLEASE DON'T STOP TELLING ME STUFF ABOUT YOUR LIVES. I REALLY DO CARE!!!) but I was concerned with the "mirroring" that she was doing throughout the story. Almost as if she were judging whether or not she was worth the trouble a relationship might potentially put on this boy.

A third friend: took her self-esteem and flushed it down the toilet due to some crap luck with boys, even though she knows that relationships are all just potluck.

A family member: negativity oozes out of every pore. She remarks all the time about the boy she can't wait to have, but then ends every sentence with how unmatchable she would be due to being weird/unattractive/naive.

Another family member: is waiting for boys to stop breaking her heart, pouring out her pain and emotion every time another one hurts her.

A third: swearing off men...again, because of how much pain it causes when a relationship falls through.




And it hurts. It hurts like the devil.

And it makes us all feel like shit.

It shouldn't. But it does.



I have a desperate, crushing fear of being alone.



[I would like to stop for a second and say that even though all of my examples were female, my rant applies to both genders and whichever gender they choose to pursue. Being in love, and then finding out it's not meant to be, SUCKS.]


I had boyfriend after boyfriend in highschool because I was looking for Mr. Right. Mr. Right didn't go to my highschool apparently... but there was no possible way for me to know that. It turns out, Mr. Right wasn't a lot of people, and that means that I got hurt a lot. And that a lot of Mr. Potentials got hurt too.

"You should just be single for a while and figure yourself out."

In highschool, after breaking up with another boyfriend, I began to believe this sentiment. After all, I was one half of every failed relationship that I had been in right? Therefore, I was the common factor in every failure. So it must have been me.

SHUT UP.

If you ever ever ever think about saying this to someone, don't. I don't even care if you truly believe it. It is a hurtful statement that we are programmed to say as an automatic response to another relationship failing. Instead of being comforting, which is what our programs have this listed under, it is a destructive sentence. In saying this, or accepting this as a personal truth, you are taking the blame off of the circumstance, off of the situation, off of poor compatability, off of Mrs. Wrong, and putting it on your friend/self.

Figure yourself out? Ridiculous. Every person on the face of planet needs to figure themselves out. We all grow and develope each and every day of our lives. Perhaps this failed relationship will lead you to discover something about yourself, or about other people, but that is not a requirement of ending a relationship. This isn't a community service punishment doled out to those incapable of maintaining a healthy and stable relationship. This is ridiculous, and this is what we force onto ourselves.


*anger*


Try to be loving and understanding instead. This person who was just halved is hurting. They had love and now it is gone. GIVE THEM LOVE AGAIN. Everyone deserves to be loved, and one day everyone will find it. It won't come from a parent, a sibling, or a best friend because that is not the type of love that is desired, but in the meantime you can assure this person (or yourself) that it will happen.



You are capable of finding love.


You deserve someone who will love you for who you are because, let's be honest, you're a really freaking awesome person.


You deserve someone who won't compromise themselves or ask you to compromise yourself to be with you.


You will find someone who will grow with you and celebrate in your successes, as you will find true happiness in theirs.


You are not defined as a 'half', but when your true love finds you, the two of you will multiply each other's greatness exponentially.



*phew* This tangent is wearing me out.

I know it must seem easy for me to rant and ramble about this since I'm not currently single, and if I was single I don't know if I would be able to write this. I believe so wholly that this is truth, that if I was placed back in the situation in which I believed myself to be undesirable, worthless and permanently alone I don't know if I could conquer my fears and depression to be able to face these truths head on.

Instead, I write for the me of the past. I write for a potentially angry and humiliated me of the future. I write for my children, your children, my friends, and strangers. YOU ARE NOT ALONE. IT IS NOT STUPID TO HAVE THOUGHT LESS OF YOURSELF BECAUSE OF HOW YOU WERE TREATED BASED ON YOUR RELATIONSHIP STATUS. YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL, DESIRABLE PERSON WHO WILL FIND HAPPINESS.


Why?


Because I said so.

 And because it's what I truly believe.

Butting In and Out

I am a non-smoker.

I am a smoker.


I am a non-smoker.

I am a smoker.



I am a casual smoker.

I am an occasional smoker.

I am a social smoker.

I am a smoker.

I am a non-smoker.


Are you confused yet? I know I am.



I started smoking when I was...17? I'm pretty sure it was 17... stupid memory. Oh, and here's a story for you, the story of how I started smoking.



Disclaimer: I am WELL aware of how stupid this all is. Please don't feel the need to tell me. I have yet to hear a good reason why someone would start smoking.



When I was 15 I had a crush on an older boy. He had tattoos and piercings; his own apartment; and he flirted with me. He was soooooo cool. I sat in his lap all the time, he held my hand when we walked together, and when his friends all lit up their cigarellas, he would share his with me. Cigarellas are small, flavoured cigars, some have plastic filters, some have paper filters. Smoke, flavour, no nicotine - but all the habit.

For the next couple of years I would smoke these cigarellas whenever I felt the urge to. Mainly for social outings, occassionally I would take the screen off my bedroom window and smoke them on the roof. (My poor parents...sorry Dad!)

When I moved out of my parents' house, I moved into a party house in which we would drink like fish; smoke pot; and of course, the cigarette-smokers would smoke their cigarettes. The cigarellas became a routine again, making an appearance most nights out of the week. I reasoned with myself that they weren't cigarettes so they weren't addictive. There was no nicotine and I could stop smoking them whenever I wanted.

I started my Carpentry Apprenticeship and most of my new friends smoked. In an effort to be actively social with my classmates I bought more and more packs of cigarellas (expensive little buggers) and went outside with everyone during smoke break. I recall Dad finding my Zippo lighter one day, and the only words I could form were: 'It's not for cigarettes'. When the work became stressful (or whichever emotion or excuse someone wanted to voice) we would all pine for smoke break and rush outside in a frenzied mob of togetherness. This burning desire for the friendly break associated with smoking is what finally did me in.

My class went to a big school about an hour outside of our normal one, to use a bigger wood shop with more tools. I brought what was left of my pack of cigarellas (as I would on any other day) and we all left our cars back at the school and took a bus. Being too cool for a coat (or perhaps the weather didn't call for one...I can't remember) I had only my hoodie and my toolbox. When the shop heated up I removed said hoodie and tossed it on top of my toolbox, cigarellas in the hoodie pocket.

Tool after tool refused to work properly for me, my project was taking longer and looking poorer than I wanted. I craved the break, and as such, craved the smoke that was associated with it. Amidst F-bombs and other curse words, flying pieces of frustrated projects, and the clanging of tools being tossed on the ground; you could only hear the murmuring of the impending smoke break. When the time finally came, everyone swarmed towards the doors in a big angry mass. I made a beeline for my hoodie, snatched my pack out, and practically ran to catch up with the others.

Some guys had already lit up, others were passing or fumbling with lighters, but there was a palpable relief in the air. Oh God, I was looking forward to this one. And then I opened my pack.

My best guess is that my hoodie fell off my toolbox...and somebody stepped on it...and then picked it up and put it back on my toolbox.

Dust. They were all dust.

I stared at my dust for a solid fifteen seconds, then put my hand out and said:


"Somebody give me a cigarette. Now."


I smoked six cigarettes that day, and I never smoked less until the first time I quit.





At this point I have probably started smoking and successfully quit five or six times.

I am currently smoke free, but does this mean I will never smoke again? I don't know. I honestly don't know. Smoking is like a small parasite that implants itself in your brain. My parasite attaches itself to feelings of intense stress (mainly the relief of said stress) and fitting in socially.

One thing I do know is that if I ever do start smoking again, I will quit again. And I truly believe that I will quit every time I start. After all, I only need the quitting to stick one time.

A Taste of Delusion

de·lu·sion

[dih-loo-zhuh-n]
-noun

1. a mistaken or misleading opinion, idea, belief, etc: he has delusions of grandeur

2. psychiatry: illusion {see also: hallucination} a belief held in the face of evidence to the contrary, that is resistant to all reason

3. the act of deluding or state of being deluded 

-vb
13. to give birth to or produce
14. to nurture,  protect, etc.

1. a mistaken or misleading opinion, idea, belief, etc

We would arrange “Girls’ Days” when we could go out shopping, have lunch, and just talk. She would tell me about work and her marital problems, I would tell her about school and various gossip. We were friends. Friends. Looking back now I realize that she was living teenage years that were ‘stripped’ from her, or whichever way she chose to look at her poor decisions. We would go to movies together, shop for clothes, drink (underage for me) together, even curse at one another. She used to tell me that she would ‘never in a million years curse in front of her mother’, but she encouraged the behaviour from me. She started borrowing my clothes without asking (much too small for her anyways), and buying me revealing outfits that I wasn’t comfortable wearing. One Christmas she got us matching hot pink Playboy Bunny pants. I wore them as pyjama bottoms. I have a memory of being invited to a friend’s birthday party in high school. It fell on the same Saturday that we had our ‘Girls’ Day’ planned. I told her about it and asked her to reschedule. She pouted for weeks on end about how my ‘friends’ were more important than her. She would ask me advice about her marriage...or parenting her son...as if I were a close friend or coworker of hers. In her mind we were friends...I had enough friends...

-n
1. a female who has given birth to offspring
6. a female or thing that creates, nurtures, protects, etc, something

2. psychiatry: illusion {see also: hallucination} a belief held in the face of evidence to the contrary, that is resistant to all reason

I had decided to become pregnant. It was my only chance at having children. She decided that this made her old. She looked desperately for ‘cool’ names that seemed younger. She would text message me suggestions from cultures all over the globe. None of them seemed appropriate. Why Yaya if we weren’t Greek? Why Momi if we weren’t Inuit? Despite her only seeing me twice during my pregnancy (once was when we helped Dad move out of their house, once was when she brought her new boyfriend and my replacement – his granddaughter – to meet me) I asked her about her plans for my labour. She wanted me to text her after it was all over. Let me know how it went. I was disappointed, but I honoured her request. She called me after she got the message, asked the required questions, and then expressed her disappointment that I had an epidural when she had done it au naturelle both times. She came down to my house two days later to see my daughter. She stayed about an hour and then left. It would be the only time she has seen either of my children. In emails later, I would be blamed for the relationship dissolving. “Too preoccupied” with my new life to make time for her, it became more and more obvious that after the spotlight was no longer on her, she no longer wanted to be in the play.

moth·er 
mə{thuline}-ər

3. the act of deluding or state of being deluded 

She dramaticized our relationship’s death by playing the victim to her friends. She would make special efforts to hurt me, texting to ask if I was married because she ‘didn’t know’, spreading lies and rumours about Brother and I, plotting with her friends to put us on the spot, and then she would send polite emails – inquiring about the state of my life. Awkwardly she would continue to send Christmas gifts, mostly for the children. Labelled with nicknames she had never called them, signed by a person they’ve never known. She would have to pass them through a string of people, as if we were all children and this was a game of broken telephone, because she has no idea where I live... as I have no idea where she lives. Cutting herself off from us all, she began a new life. Nothing to tie her down or hold her back from her wildest dreams, she is finally free from the all the burdens having a family gave her, the age group it placed her in, and the adulthood she never wanted.

Now, she paints her nails pink.

Attack of the Nachos

When Brother and I were little little little we would share the double bed in the basement at the cottage.

The basement was just one room at the bottom of the stairs. It included the second fridge, 'pop-fridge', the access door for under the cottage (see: scary as hell), and a door to the back/bottom porch thing outside.

When my parents would decide it was bedtime for us, they would usher Brother and I down to the basement to go to sleep. I would check the locks on both the doors (creepy creepy creepy doors) before crawling under the 'McDonald's characters comforter' that my grandmother had acquired God-knows-how-long-ago from God-knows-where.

We would then explode into fits of laughter over the stupidest things our small minds could create.

One night Ronald McDonald and Grimace sparked a conversation about food that isn't really food, and Brother and I ended up talking about the toxicity of Lunchables.



Image from here

I don't remember the exact thought process that led up to the Nachos being able to fly, but they could, and they were vicious. They would aim for your face and eyes, smashing their fake-corn-chip-y goodness off your precious skin, drawing blood and bruising.


It was a brutal event.


One that stayed with Brother and I long after the black mould grew on the ceiling in the basement and we moved upstairs to the shaky bunk bed.


Long after we stopped going to the cottage every other weekend.


I was at the cottage last year and I walked down into the basement.

Our old bed is covered in garbage: pieces of the ceiling, black mould, mouse nesting; the pop-fridge barely runs anymore; and the access door is locked by a giant nail.

I stood in the wreckage wondering how we were ever allowed to sleep down here, when I heard them.

tick        ticktick          tick            tick          tickticktick                  tick

I looked at the windows, and sure enough: a pack of Nachos, flying up against the window, looking for the way in.



They remembered me.

My Fourth Car

More than a year after the accident.

I was living with my Dad again (to get back on my feet after leaving Scout) and was attending a local College to get a Biology prerequisite course.

By local I mean a twenty-five or thirty minute drive by car.



I took public transit.



Every morning I would wake up at 5am, shower and dress, and wake up Shake'n'Bake at 5:30. I would dress her and then we would have breakfast together, before bundling up and making the twenty minute walk to the GO Bus stop.


Bus #1 would take us through three cities into the one where my College was. We would get off at the bus terminal and transfer onto Bus #2.


Bus #2 would take us on the highway, out of the city that my College was in, to a train terminal where we would transfer to Bus #3.


Bus #3 would take us to a different city farther North, we'd get off and walk the ten minutes to daycare.


I would say my goodbyes to Shake'n'Bake, abandon my stroller on the front porch of daycare (don't get stolen, oh please don't get stolen), and run the fifteen minute-walk to catch Bus #4.


Bus #4 took me to the College.


Approximate arrival time? 8:10am.


O_o


And then, at the end of every day, I would make the same trip in reverse.

I was spending between five and six hours on the bus every day. At least four of those hours included my one year old.


o_o


It was time to get another car.



My Uncle (Uncle #3) was in the used car business, so Dad talked to him about finding me a suitable car.

He asked me what I was looking for.


"Well,  this is my budget: $XXXX. Other than that...tires...a steering wheel...ooh! A four-door would be nice, but that's not a requirement."



My Fourth Car was a blue 1998 Chevrolet Cavalier.

I didn't even look at a picture to draw this one.


Beautiful! This car was a God-send.

Suddenly three hours became one. Rain became a non-issue. Strollers became irrelevant.

I was soaring.

* * *

When I moved out of Dad's house, Brother and I got a place that was a ten minute walk from the College. When the weather was nice I could drive Shake'n'Bake to daycare, then come home and not pay for parking and walk to class.

Oh it was awesome.

One day it was very difficult to steer my car. So difficult in fact, that I didn't go to class that day. Instead I dropped Shake'n'Bake off at daycare and drove my car to my Uncle's shop.

He hoisted it up and determined that the Power Steering Line had a small leak in it.

Car-mechanic-mumbo-jumbo and presto! My car was fixed!

Yay!

* * *

I finished my Biology Prerequisite course and began working fast food to pay the bills before my online College course started.

My little pregnant belly starting to blossom, Brother would babysit Shake'n'Bake while I went to serve pizzas to angry people.

One night as I came home, my headlights shone through the front window to indicate my arrival.

Or so I had thought.

HeadLIGHT would be more accurate. One of them had stopped working.

Brother tried to fix it (I was really hoping it was just a fuse) but to no avail. There was a wiring problem that was just not in the budget.


"dys·func·tion, isn't it illegal to drive without two working headlights?"


Yes! Why yes it is! You are so astute and observant!

Continuing on...

* * *

I backed out of the driveway on my way to work.


"Odd...it's very hard to turn...must be...cold..."


Straightening out I realized that it wasn't the cold, it was my power steering again.


o_o


I bought more power steering fluid, asked Brother to put it in for me, and then stood there in disgust as it poured out onto the ground.

* * *

The steering stayed broken, giving me many problems in the future.

Especially when I had Death and was too weak to force the steering wheel.

"dys·func·tion, isn't it illegal to drive without functioning power steering?"

Most likely!

* * *

Money was getting tighter.

My belly was getting bigger.

My landlord had to sell his house and we had to move.



In a last-ditch-budgeting effort I called my car insurance company to see if they could help me out.

After they told me 'politely' where I could shove my problems, I asked a broker from a different company.

She shopped around and found an insurance company that would take me for less than half the price of my current one.


Deal. Sold.


So I cancelled my old policy (lost a little money there...) and gave my 'first-and-last' payment to the new one.


Excellent, right?


Not so much. New insurance company changed their mind. They couldn't insure me any more.

And for whatever reason, they couldn't give me back all of my money.


So I lost a little more money.


I took the one week of insurance that I had left, moved my tired and broken car to my new apartment, and parked it.

On the way over I managed to puncture a tire and get a flat.


O_O

* * *

She still sits there today, making sure the driveway doesn't blow away in the wind.

My Third Car

You may recall that at the end of the post about My Second Car that my credit card limit was increased again.

Unfortunately, when one has very little income, credit card companies are a little less willing to give you more money to spend.

This resulted in us borrowing money from my parents and his mom AND increasing the limit as much as possible.



I just wanted another car. Something with wheels and doors, but noooooooooo. He wanted a van.

My Third Car First Van wasn't even technically mine. Even though Scout was unable to legally drive (no license) he was quite insistent that the van went under his name for "tax purposes".


O_o


That fell through.



It was a light blue 1997 Dodge Caravan.

No matter how hard I tried, my scanner would not pick up any more of this image.
O_o

What do you know? I can't draw vans either.

It turns out, ALL of my cars have been blue.

Neat.


This newest purchase cost six times more than the previous vehicle, and yet, it was still a piece of garbage.


o_o


Imagine that.

* * *

Within the first month of owning it, the brakes stopped working.

Being as poor as I was, the repair job was...less than ideal.

* * *

February 29, 2008.


We were driving to my Dad's house to pick up Brother. He was supposed to come and spend the weekend with us.

A massive snow storm hit. The worst one that winter.


I was driving.


My cell phone was on my lap in case Dad called, I could hand it to Scout to answer without having to dig it out of my pocket.



The front left tire hit a block of ice.

It felt like I had run over a basketball.

The van went up and down and then turned towards the concrete median.

All I did was correct. Such a gentle movement of the wheel.

I guess the van was on ice...



It spun 180 degrees (completely around backwards) to face oncoming traffic.

The force behind the spin, and the fact that it was so slippery out sent us careening towards the ditch - driver's side first.

We hit the pile of snow on the side of the road with such force that the tires peeled off and we began to roll.
I thought we were going to die.

In that moment I knew that I had killed every person inside my van.


I shut my eyes.



The van rolled onto the driver's side, breaking out all of the windows. My head hit my window before it exploded into shards.

It then rolled onto the roof, caving it in. Another collision - head to roof...or should I say roof to head.

It teetered in contemplation before deciding to roll back on to the driver's side, filling the van with snow, burying me in my seat.


These pictures were taken at the tow shop days later.




The tires peeled off from sliding on the driver's side.




The roof caved in.




Driver's door wouldn't open any more. It was crushed.




The part of the roof that hit my head.



I could hear Scout calling my name and I realized we hadn't died.

I tensed the muscles in my back, feeling for a break or bleed.


Nothing.


Next my thighs, then shoulders, ankles, arms - nothing seemed broken.


I used my free right arm to dig my face out of the snow. It was so cold.

I spit snow and glass from my mouth and brushed it gently from my eyes.

Scout climbed out of his window (the new 'roof' of the van) and began trying to flag down help.


I realized that my head was throbbing in pain.


I reached up and touched it, then looked at my hand to see blood.


My first aid training kicked in and I remembered that your head bleeds a lot for small injuries due to an increase of surface blood vessels.

I shrugged off my small injury and continued digging myself out.

I was digging snow out from in front of my chest when I found the rearview mirror.

Being in shock, I laughed hysterically.

Then I sighed and used it as a shovel.



When I finally dug myself out, I unbuckled and climbed on the steering column.

Standing on the wheel, I was still too short to climb out the passenger window unassisted.

Finally free, I stood in the snow... in the ditch... and shivered.

My phone was long gone, it had flown out a window.


A passerby had stopped and called 911... then left.


Another couple stopped with their van. They offered us a warm place to sit while we waited.

They were on their way to the airport, but they stopped. And they stayed with us. I don't even know their names. I am so grateful to them.

I asked for a tissue or napkin since my head was bleeding.


"I don't want to bleed on your seat." I had said so eloquently.


The tissue led to the discovery that it wasn't my head that was bleeding - it was my hand. In my state of shock I forgot to check my hand before I touched my head. A few small scrapes from the glass on my palm had caused a little bleed. It was really nothing.


The tow truck showed up within the first five minutes.

It was 30 minutes before any emergency vehicle arrived.


Fire was there first.


They kicked Scout out of the warm van and made him stand outside while they talked to me.


When the paramedics arrived they seemed perturbed to be there.

I explained the situation, saying specifically that I had hit my head twice and was PREGNANT.

They told me that 'babies are hearty at that age' and said that we didn't need to go to the hospital.


O_o


They wanted us to call someone for a ride and wait in the snow for them to arrive.


O_O


I requested to go to the hospital.

The said I didn't need to go, so they weren't going to take me.


o_o


Then I got angry.


"I am pregnant! I will start making up symptoms. You are taking me to the hospital now."


They took us to the hospital that was farther away from where we lived, although we were closer to the one in our hometown.


Everyone was fine, luckily.


The van was totalled.


By the time we could get back to the tow shop, the fees cost more than the van was worth. So Scout signed the ownership over to them.


Hence, My Winter Anxiety.




It would be more than a year before I drove again.