Enough.

woman and man sitting on brown wooden bench
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In February of 2017 my then boyfriend asked me to marry him. We were walking in the off-leash dog park near our house and he thrust his grandmother’s engagement ring at me, and said simply “will you?”.

He told me later that he had hoped to ask in Niagara Falls.

I had put an end to that plan when we’d gotten into a huge argument when he suggested going away for my birthday. It was just after Christmas, I was looking at a mountain of credit card debt, the mortgage and other bills looming, and obsessively looking over our bank records, I knew his contributions were almost non-existent.

He had told me he wanted to take me away for the weekend and I melted down. I shamed him for even considering spending money.

We had been together for 8 years at that point.  Truthfully, most of it not great. There was very little trust on either side and neither one of us seemed capable of supporting the other in any idea. We bickered constantly and had almost no intimacy by any stretch or definition of the word. Our relationship was full of lies and shame and we were both in deep denial of his illness.

He had graduated to drinking in secret. He slept at irregular hours and it was not unusual for his behaviour to deteriorate; he said inappropriate things, stumbled around, and slurred his words. I had forced him to go to the doctor, insisting that if he was not abusing substances there must be something deeply wrong. The doctor said that his sleep patterns could be the catalyst for the strange behaviour and suggested more discipline in his daily routine.

He, of course, did not follow any of the doctors suggestions and responded to my nagging by insisting the doctor was a quack and he was fine. He told me that I was a fool, a nag, and that I should mind my own business.  He was right on most of those points, the doctor did not identify the problem… and by that time, I wasn’t able to focus on myself at all, I had become obsessed with how to turn him into the person I thought he could be.

I initially said “yes” to his proposal. I had been waiting for it, couldn’t believe we’d been together so long without that commitment.  I said “yes” because I thought that was the clear next step towards the kids I thought I wanted with him, the “ever after” I imagined where he was alert, available, and we were no longer adversaries.

On the walk back from the park, all kinds of thoughts came flooding in: the lies, the financial hardship, the person I had become over the time we had been together… When we got back to the house I rescinded my acceptance of his proposal, telling him that I couldn’t think of marrying him as things were between us.

He told me he would do anything to keep the ring on my finger.

I suggested we work on things, and hoped that he would ask again.

Over the next month, he moved the heirloom ring around the house – I’m not sure if that was to punish me, or because it was painful for him to see the symbol of my rejection; probably both. His behaviour became more erratic and I spent an increasing amount of time worrying about where he was, what he was doing, and imagining all the things that would happen to him. In my paranoia, I became worried that he would dispose of the ring, and worried about the impact that would have on his mother.

Then, one Sunday in March, he drank himself into a stupor and passed out on the couch. In a strangely empowered moment, I got his keys, and decided to search his car for the ring.

I found chaos. His car was full of garbage – fast food containers, clothing, cigarette packages, other unidentifiable mess. And then I opened the trunk and found it full of empty vodka bottles.

I remember staring at the contents of the trunk, of the first irrevocable proof of his addiction, and wondering if I could just close the trunk and imagine that I could forget what I had seen. I remember standing there, trying to think of any other explanation for why they were there…

And then I realized I was sick too.  I called his brother and begged him to come and get him.  I packed a bag for him, and waited.  A few hours later, they coaxed him, half passed out, into the car and took him away.

I’ve only seen him once since then, in a bank parking lot about a month after I forced him out of our house. Already skinny, he’d lost more weight, his skin was grey and he looked more ill than I remembered. I wondered if he’d always looked that way and I hadn’t allowed myself to see it.

I spent the first year working through my belief that there was something missing from me which should have inspired him to get better. It took me that much time to realize that while there were things that I could have done better for both of us in light of his addiction, there was nothing I could have done to make him stop before he was ready.

It took me that long to accept that we were not meant to save each other.

Fear, Shame, and COVID-19

woman in green and white stripe shirt covering her face with white mask
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Heading towards the fourth month in Canada of social distancing, the seriousness of COVID-19 has not diminished and the mental health impacts of being socially isolated are starting to become more apparent.  My neighbours, and even myself, have started to take more risks when it comes to the regulations: more “driveway” and social distance visits, more justifications to expand the circle, and more attempts to inject some normal into our lives.

The conversations around this disease are starting to shift as people are making large efforts to be sensitive to everyone else’s needs, comfort level, and risk factors while balancing their own need to get back into more natural social packs.  Historically I would describe myself as more of a “lone wolf”, favouring small and intimate connections over large packs, but this experience has taught me that my need for human connection is stronger than I imagined. I’ve found myself lingering longer with friendly frontline workers, talking about the weather or any other non-COVID topic they are willing to engage in through plexiglass on my supply runs.. and after seeing a few friends for a backyard social distance visit for the first time since this all started last week, I am more aware than ever that I need good people around me to feel balanced.

Something interesting that I am noticing is that most people seem very hesitant to admit that they feel any fear over infection.  Most cite a loved one, roommate, or contact as the reason for their lack of contact: “I’m okay, but so-and-so is so uncomfortable so I stay away”.

I’m not saying that we should lift any restrictions, the threat of this horrible disease is still very real with no cure or vaccine close on the horizon.  It is still important to do our part to ensure the safety of the population and no one should feel more uncomfortable than needed or be placed at unnecessary risk. But – what I find interesting about these ongoing discussions is they indicate a very real problem: there is shame associated with being afraid, and shame keeps people from talking about fear.  I say this because in some of my conversations the same people are blaming each other for being afraid. I suspect this is not always miscommunication, but more likely a reluctance to admit their own fear.

I find this especially sad, because I believe most people genuinely want to do their best for others.  If there is something I can do (or not do) in order to make you more comfortable and at ease in your interactions with me, I would be happy to do my best to accommodate. But – if those conversations don’t happen, I don’t know how you’re feeling and I can’t do my part to help you feel better.

I also understand that admitting fear is not an easy thing to do. I grew up in an environment where it was not okay to feel negative things. It was wrong to be scared, to require reassurance or accommodation. To this day, admitting I need something is still peppered with shame… but, I will say, that “normal and healthy” people do not make you feel worse for having a negative feeling. It is okay and normal to be scared, and it is worth pushing through the discomfort of shame to have better quality connections, especially in this time where connection is more challenging than it has ever been before.

Black Lives Matter

Just when we thought 2020 couldn’t get any more challenging, the tragic and avoidable death of George Floyd happened.

It’s so hard for me to articulate how reading about George’s final moments have impacted me.  The image of police officer, Derek Chauvin, kneeling on his victim’s neck for painful and bottomless minutes is beyond words. Reading that the catalyst that lead to this mistreatment was suspicion of a counterfeit bill used to purchase a pack of cigarettes makes me furious.. and sad… and other things that, again, seem beyond my ability to articulate.

Something I haven’t shared on this blog is that there was a long period of my life that I dreamed to be a police officer. I wanted to make the world a better, safer place.  I wanted to be part of the solution that would reduce violence, oppression, and suffering.

I even took a police foundations preparatory diploma at a community college.  As a part of that program we learned the principles of use of force. This is the model by which officers are supposed to base their action and choose the appropriate amount of force required to compel compliance by an unwilling subject. Basically, it is a doctrine that helps an officer assess the minimum amount of force to use to ensure that people, including themselves, don’t get hurt.

In that program they stressed that judgement is not an officer’s role, it is the restoration of peace and subsequent empowerment of the courts to deliver appropriate sentencing for interruptions to that peace.

Reading about George Floyd is personally upsetting to me for a boatload of reasons.  The officer did not keep to his oath of protecting the peace and, even worse, he underlined a fundamental and sad reality about society: not all life is considered equal. His actions suggest that he saw George’s life as less valuable than the pack of cigarettes he suspected him of stealing.

And this is unbearably upsetting to me.

Like many people worldwide I can’t help but wonder if the officer would have acted differently if George had looked different.  And sadly, I think he would have.  If George had not been black, but made the same choices he had that day, I suspect he would still be alive.

I recently saw a post on Instagram that said “privilege is when you think something is not a problem because it is not a problem to you personally”.

I think we are seeing that rejection of privilege expressed today in protests and social media blackouts from people of all colours. Although it’s unfortunate property is being damaged, killing innocent black people has to stop.  I am encouraged that the loudest voice right now is insisting that all life should have equal and irreplaceable value. No one should have to spend their last moments as George Floyd did, and no officer should forget their oath to restore peace but not impose judgement.

Acts of hatred and violence happening in our communities are unacceptable and heartbreaking. I condemn all acts of bigotry and stand with the black community with all my feelings of pain and fear that come from those acts.

Life matters.

The Worst Part

young troubled woman using laptop at home
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I’ve read a few articles on the ongoing psychological impact of social isolation resulting from COVID. While the long term and actual effects of the unprecedented civil order to maintain distance from strangers and loved ones outside the household are still under investigation, I personally don’t know a single person who isn’t impacted and off balance.

Recently, like some kind of competition that no one wins, my connections have started speculating more and more on the “worst part” of COVID-life.  These reasons stem from the mundane and shallow to the seriously sad.  What I will say, before sharing my own “worst thing”, is that whatever challenges you are facing are valid and real. I understand the daily struggle that comes from being committed to doing the right thing, even if it is painful. And – regardless of your level of comfort with the idea of catching and surviving this disease, most of us understand the big picture of why we are taking this measure… we don’t want to hurt others.

My partner and I live in a century home in a small town in Southern Ontario which we moved into weeks before the world shut down.  Like most old houses, there have been challenges with foundation deterioration and one of our first actions on moving in was locating a contractor who could help reinforce the 100-year old joists in the basement. Unfortunately, due to this settling, the ceiling in a few of the older untouched rooms have sagged and adjusted with the home. Busy with other more critical tasks, we’ve been putting off addressing this damage.

Yesterday, we were sitting inside.  It was raining, a National holiday, and we’d exhausted all the low-hanging Netflix fruit (#fuckcarolebaskin).  Our couch time has increased steadily over the last few months as we’ve tackled all the house projects we can complete without assistance, are unable to easily acquire materials, and struggle with the tumultuous Canadian spring weather.

Mid-afternoon, after a few quiet hours of mucking around on the Internet, he turned to me and asked if I would like to demolish the ceiling in one of these rooms. I agreed and he quickly started collecting crow bars, masks, garbage bags, and other materials to complete the task.

For the first time in days we laughed easily, conversation flowed, and we enjoyed each other with a lot less effort than we have since the stress of pandemic entered our lives. It occurred to me that the worst part of this situation for our relationship is not the lack of services, restaurants, the financial strain, or the anti-aphrodisiac effect of wearing the same track pants for weeks on end.  It is the lack of spontaneity. Without personal choice and options, it is like the volume is turned way down and a grey fog has settled. Every day is almost exactly the same and while that same is much better than it has been in the past, without the ups, downs, and outside influence, it lacks perspective. I have trouble appreciating how amazing my life is compared to how it was when this blog started.

With that in mind, I remind myself to be grateful, humble, and compassionate. I remind myself to widen my tunnel vision, challenge my narrow perception, and acknowledge how far I’ve come.

I also want to ask you for inspiration; what is the worst part for you and how are you coping?