Posted on Sep 13, 2022
Where did September sneak in from? Seems like moments ago it was hotter than Hades outside. Now the air feels crisp in anticipation of what’s to come. I personally love the changing seasons—fall being my favourite. I love the changing colours, cooler temps, and autumn scents. And fall fashion has always fascinated me: the rich colours, the texture of the fabrics. It will get monotonous as everything else does; but for now, it’s fresh and new—a sense of readiness is in the air.
Back in June, I wrote about writing akin to breathing. I find I am revisiting that concept as I attempt to write for “my public” once again. What shall I write about? My mind defaults to subjects and musings that would benefit clients. Then I am reminded that this writing exercise is for me. It somehow is a different question to ask myself, What do I want to write about? What part of me needs expression?
I experienced an odd a-ha moment of sorts earlier this week when I realized one of mental illnesses keeps doing its thing even though the symptoms are masked by medication. My dysthymia operates like an undercurrent in a river or ocean: can’t always be seen or felt, but it’s there none-the-less. And my ‘low mood disorder’ did one of its dips end of last week.
I didn’t recognize it at first, thinking it was a Chronic Fatigue crash. But something “twigged” (is that a word?) when I thought of calling my sister and didn’t “feel like it.” Since when do I not want to talk to my sister? And I realized I had lapsed into a depressive episode, not a CFS crash.
Now in the past, these dips were catastrophic in comparison. The Netflix series, MAID, did a fantastic job portraying a major depressive episode using visual imagery. I do not miss the abyss, nor what it took to crawl out. And for the longest time, I blamed myself for these episodes and would over analyze every detail to figure out what I had “done wrong.”
Looking back, major depressive episodes always felt like punishments. Likely influenced by my conservative Christian upbringing. By the way, I highly recommend A People’s History of Christianity: The Other Side of the Story by Diana Butler Bass, if you experience inner conflict about your faith and what it looks like “en masse.” But that’s for another time of writing and reflection.
I will have to sit some more with depression as punishment; but the previous realization is that I have these slumps on a semi-regular basis. These slumps are “just” my illness and in no way a reflection of my personal worth, value, or capabilities. Before being properly medicated, I did learn to ride them out. Like a surfer riding a wave. I think I have lost touch with that coping strategy and have reverted somewhat to over analysis.
This is not situational depression with an attendant sense of powerlessness. Although that can develop if not kept in check. This is an ebb of a tide. I can no more control its existence than I can interrupt the moon’s influence on the ocean. All that being said, there are usually triggers for these episodes.
I suspect it was my participation in the 4P Festival events. I put myself “out there” and conversed with strangers, which is draining at the best of times. Hence my initial assumption I had “over done it” and was crashing. My limited energy (mental or physical) didn’t return. I was concerned about my diminished ability to play my morning word game. My sleep was interrupted. And of course, all signs associated with CFS as well.
It’s tricky having illnesses with overlapping symptoms; but the difference was the overall malaise, with the sister phone call averseness cuing me in. I can talk to my sister during a crash, I just slur the occasional word and have poor word retrieval at times. This was different. And led to realizations and reflections.
I have dysthymia: a chronic low-mood disorder (also referred to as Eeyore Syndrome) with periodic major depressive episodes. While these episodes don’t look or feel like they used to, they are still there. Dips still happen periodically (but not with any predictability). I am grateful for the medications that help manage the symptoms; but I am remiss to think I’m cured or out of the woods, or more aptly, deep water.
The meds are like a life jacket that keep me afloat when my boat capsizes—which it does when the undercurrent pulls too strongly. When simply floating in my boat in calm-looking waters, my meds (aka life jacket) remind/reassure that I will be okay if/when I fall into the water. So the life jacket (meds) serve a purpose during calm as well as turbulent times. Without the meds, my mind is chaotic and my boat is easily capsized. I drown and resurface repeatedly.
Did I know this is what needed expression when I began this entry? Nope. Just had an inkling of where to start. And that is the hope I extend to you—that you find your starting point. Too often we worry about “the end” before we even begin.
Happy Travels! Barb
By the way, I’m still having troubles with images in my blog. If I want it seen via mobile or tablet, I get doubles in desktop view. If I set featured image, it doesn’t show up in mobile or tablet views. If you know code and how to change it, I’d love to hear from you. Or even better, if you know Word Press and how to fix this double image in desktop view, I’d love to hear from you! I’d also love to hear about your adventures in life, so feel free to comment.
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Posted on Oct 19, 2021
Today is my 50th birthday. While that is a non-event for some, for me it has significance beyond the culturally conditioned issue with women aging. But let’s start there. In today’s society, there are plenty of mixed messages to choose from regarding women aging. At one end we can embrace it, or, we can purportedly fight it with the proverbial potions and lotions as well as supplements, medications, surgery, and a host of other treatments. It is a billionaire’s dream industry. I find it sad that we, as women, literally buy into this phenomenon, trying to make ourselves into someone that we are not: nubile. Young and sexually desirable.
The first point of contention is objectively undeniable. We are no longer young according to the calendar and passage of time. The second is subjective. Sexual desirability is personal and age exempt. What turns on one person won’t arouse another. There are young people with libido issues as well as aged. Desirability is what you make it –for yourself being desired as well as what you desire. Emotional connection based upon consistent attention and affection is the foundation for a satisfying sex life, which includes knowing what is arousing to you and your partner. Chemistry and desirability between a couple includes appearance (which we know changes over time and circumstances) as much or as little as you choose. Hygiene notwithstanding. 😉 It is not a sole question of finding certain physical traits appealing—again subjective. What is appealing to one person is repelling to another.
My point is that we are buying into a lie when we chase “nubility” as a legitimate course of action to accommodate aging. That would be denial. We are in denial about aging and succumbing to shame messages that we are not valuable unless we are youthful looking and sexually desirable as per an industry or cultural standard. It is a sad state of affairs.
I just finished reading a book entitled On Turning 50: Celebrating Mid-Life Discoveries by Cathleen Rountree that was published in 1993. I found it engaging, inspiring, informative, and in one aspect, disheartening. For the most part, I had to remind myself the book was published 30 years ago given the relevant content. In all likelihood, some of the women who participated in the book are now deceased, or at the very least, octogenarians. What saddened me was how little has changed in 30 years. We, as women, face the same challenges and obstacles today. The only advantage we have is improved access to information about aging and the openness to talk about it. So thank you to all the women who have shared their experiences and paved the path for all who follow.
In mythological terms, women are usually categorized as the maiden, matron, or old crone. Personally I look forward to being an old crone: the wise old woman who lives in the woods. 🙂 Some days, I feel like I embody her already. Other days I feel my mid-life. I think we mistakenly view our 50s as the halfway point of our lives (I certainly do no wish to live to 100!). I have come to perceive our 50s as the midpoint of adulthood given our brains are not fully developed until the age of 24 or so. I can see myself living another 25 years, maybe a bit longer. That in itself is a revealing statement given my struggle with depression and childhood trauma.
There was a time I could not see myself living past my mid-thirties—the age my birth mother died. After reading Motherless Daughters by Hope Edelman, years ago, I was somewhat prepared for this and able to normalize it contextually. Sometimes it still is a surprise to think I have made it all the way to age 50. And there are, admittedly, days when I do not want to live out a full adult life when the depression seeps in and steals my joy. Those days remain very real for me. Thankfully not as frequent as in my youth—a stage of life I would not return to for all the billionaires in the world!
I, personally, have no desire to be nubile. I was going to say ‘once again;’ but at my core, I have never seen myself that way. However as I look at old photos, I can admit that I was young and desirable, in the stage-of-life sense. I have always struggled with fitting in, being appealing to the masses, socially acceptable. However, like many women, I learned early on that “nubility” makes you vulnerable to being taken advantage of and/or traumatized for a lifetime. It is a catch22 to be desired. Our sense-of-self may require it until we learn better; but it also puts us in harm’s way as well as steals our power and authenticity.
I much prefer being 50. I quite enjoyed my 40s. I think the subtitle of the book says it well: celebrating mid-life discoveries. Something I have never done before: look forward to what’s ahead. My struggles with depression included suicidal fixation in my adolescence; which I was fortunately able to downgrade to a tiredness-of-life-in-general: wanting the end to come sooner than later, simply because I tired of the ongoing struggle. But after a near-death experience in my late twenties, I realized that my end would come when it was “time” and not a moment sooner. I was spared for a reason. Even now, on the low days, I ponder about that reason being fulfilled and hence the end can come whenever my allotted time is complete. When all is well with my mental health, I look forward to what is left to discover about myself and the world around me.
If I struggled with believing I am a person of worth and value in the first half of my life, I hope in the second half of my adulthood, I can celebrate more of life’s discoveries. A significant part of embracing aging is being our authentic selves and knowing what we have to offer. Understanding we all have the gift of life, it is up to each one of us how to make the most of that gift both in what we receive in this life and what we give. May your life have purpose and meaning rooted in a strong inner core/sense of self—not defined externally by industries and shame messages.
My birthday wish today is that you all experience a wonder-filled aging process—wherever you might be on that path.
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Posted on Sep 10, 2020
Last month, I received the news that my former canine therapy
assistant, Elsa, died of intestinal cancer. This was a hard blow for a number of
reasons. One is that I had been thinking of her as she reached her tenth birthday—the
senior years in a dog’s short life—wondering if she was showing her age yet,
that sort of thing. Another is that I learned of her death via indirect
channels—which triggered dormant “divorce trauma.” Third is the bond she and I
had. I have missed that girl greatly. She was not only my office assistant, but
also my “therapist with four legs and fur.”
I’ve blogged about her in the past.
http://www.thewindingpath.ca/july-2012-inner-alpha/
http://www.thewindingpath.ca/october-2012-alpha-update/
http://www.thewindingpath.ca/april-2014-a-dog-story/
http://www.thewindingpath.ca/december-2014-winter-solstice/ http://www.thewindingpath.ca/january-2015-crazy-life-fresh-starts/ http://www.thewindingpath.ca/january-2019-fail-forward/
Mostly dealing with anxiety—hers and mine. We taught each other a lot. And she proved to be incredibly empathetic. A natural therapy assistant—instinctively knowing what each client needed—snuggle, kiss, curl up at their feet, keep a safe distance or a watchful eye. She knew the art of “just being” in the moment and of “just being there” for someone.
It’s also a strange experience grieving the death of a pet that you already lost in a divorce. I had not seen Elsa for 3 years; yet the news of her death hit hard. I think it was the finality of never seeing her again. There must have been a part of me that held out hope for one more visit. A strange silver lining to this finality is that it also slams shut the door on my marriage. I was about to write “failed” marriage; but to me that is inaccurate. While the marriage did not last until “death do us part,” I do not perceive it as a failure. It is by far more a success story that I kept working at it for 20 years.
I see it along the lines of a completed marriage. It served
its purpose. Its time had come. If I were to remain, it would have continued to
steal my soul until I was an empty shell, going through the motions. Elsa
played a significant role in those last 5 years. I think she preserved my life,
protecting me from the complete loss of my Self. Her behaviour issues demanded
I stay in the present and face my own. This is not to diminish the role played
by many concerned friends who witnessed my demise long before it surfaced in my
consciousness. However, the “daily-ness” of dealing with Elsa held me
accountable—I could not bury my head in the sand.
My first attempts at leaving the marriage all centered
around Elsa. I hoped to stay nearby to have “shared custody” as she was such a significant
part of my life and profession. However, in the end, I had to sacrifice that
bond for my Being. She could not be the defining factor in my preparations. It
also meant living with unknowns. I had no idea how my ex-husband would cope
with her behaviour issues on a daily basis. In my heart-of-hearts, I assumed he
would give up and ask that I take her. This was not the case. Somehow he
learned to manage; and she, by all accounts, continued to thrive.
As have I.
It has been a gong-show year for most of us. Yet we all hang
in there somehow. I have come a long way in the last 3 years—even if my life appears
in disarray at the moment with numerous projects on hold: partially painted
bathroom, tarp on my roof for winter, broken tooth, paused fence construction, persnickety
stove, and the latest—snow blower in need of repair before winter.
But if life with Elsa taught me anything, it was to live in the moment, always be curious, cherish the ones you love, be there for others, and deal with it when “life happens”—even if you’re learning new ways of doing that. And never take for granted the kind souls you meet along the way who make the journey worthwhile.
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Posted on Jul 31, 2020
As evidenced by the absence of blog entries, I haven’t written much lately. Not even in my personal journal, which had me puzzled. In the “real world” of writers, it is common practice that one must write at least something every day. It’s certainly not for lack of pondering. And I wouldn’t label it as writer’s block. More along the lines of missing motivation than inspiration. Reluctantly, I admit to moments of losing interest in the idea of maintaining a regular blog. I don’t know how daily or even weekly bloggers do it.
I love words. Always have. I enjoy the actual process of
playing with combinations of words to create just the right nuance or picture.
I appreciate the power of words—to uplift, encourage, challenge, inspire, heal,
connect, engage, interact; but most of all, the ability to make sense of the
senseless. The healing power of meaning can only be conveyed via words.
Many weeks ago, I made an attempt at writing a blog entry to
“use my words” to process anger I was experiencing at the time. This proved
helpful and produced a seed or nugget for a future blog. I even liked what I
wrote at the time; but instead of pursuing that line of thinking, it is time to
unpack this supposed “writer’s block.” After mulling it over for quite some
time, the reason finally occurred to me: survival mode.
For quite some time now I have been in “survival mode.” Not
the kind that lands a person on a survival skills TV show—although some would likely
challenge that assumption living in an ongoing renovation project—but the psychological
kind that engulfs a person in a shroud of self-preservation stifling creativity
and spontaneity. However, I didn’t recognize it as survival mode. I was
sheltered, fed, clothed. All the essentials. Finances are tight; but somehow I
am staying afloat—or as I like to say, keeping the wolves from the door. I have
never been healthier (all things considered). My mental health is in check.
So what was I surviving? Turns out my mental health may not
have been as stable as I was leading myself to believe. I went into survival
mode because the normal routines that keep me sane were being challenged daily.
I am no longer a neat-, clean-, or control-freak. I can live with more
ambiguity than ever before. However, my house was in limbo for several months waiting for its electrical
upgrade to be completed. Wires hanging about. Fixtures waiting to be homed.
Opened cavities in my walls.
Two things I remain terrible at handling: waiting and
disorganization. With my actual house in a state of disarray: Paperwork piled
up; Messes piled up; Dust piled up. I couldn’t properly clean anything. Objects
couldn’t be put back in their places. My house (and life) was in a state of
limbo. And for the most part, I was powerless to make anything happen not being
an electrician and circumstances being beyond my control. So my two Achilles
heels combined into kryptonite (mixed metaphor, I know). I was forced to wait
in an environment of disorganization.
The cornerstone of mental health is maintaining routines. I
was barely managing to keep up with the basics, so some things fell by the
wayside. I am slowly returning to my full morning and bedtime routines with
positive results. And my house is inching its way back to habitable. I am once
again feeling the creative juices flowing—whether writing or making home
improvements. Structural cavities have been filled, primer and paint are
gradually making their way to my walls.
So I do find it interesting that survival mode does not mean
lack of productivity. Many projects have been completed in the past few months.
My home and yard are continually evolving into my own little paradise and
sanctuary. But living in a state of chaos does impact my sense of self and
well-being. My brain focuses on the practical, day-to-day stuff only. Part of
me shuts down as it were. My mind can’t relax and wander where it will. My
spirit retreats to safety—waiting for the imposed disorganization to pass.
Survival mode.
Interestingly, recently I spoke to someone about waiting—which
in retrospect clarifies my survival mode. Waiting is generally associated with anticipation
and excitement—or annoyance and frustration. But for those of us with traumatic
childhoods, waiting is linked to danger: waiting for the other shoe to drop;
for the mood to change; for the blow to hit; for the storm to pass. Our brains need
to be retrained to the many nuances of waiting—not just danger.
Hence, in the framework of waiting equaling danger, it makes
sense that my brain entered survival or shut-down mode. Even though it was
innocuous waiting—for the electrician to be done and my house to return to being
my sanctuary—my brain didn’t know the difference. It just knew we were waiting.
And waiting means impending danger. To make matters worse, I could not rely
upon my usual “go to” to self-soothe: organization; amplifying the angst attached
to waiting. Now that this is part of my consciousness, I can work on retraining
my brain and its associations with waiting. Maybe next time my life is
surrounded by chaos, I will be able to self-soothe more effectively and not
enter survival mode. The healing journey continues.
As you continue on your own journey, here are some questions
to consider: What is your kryptonite that sends you into survival mode? What does
it look like when you shut down? What negative associations hinder your ability
to self-soothe? What changes need to be made to your framework?
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Posted on Jun 17, 2019
So. Where to begin? It’s been an interesting week; and I’ve
been mulling over this blog for a couple weeks now, without gaining any solid
traction. There are a few things I want to say; but I’m unsure how to piece it
all together or put it into words. Funny how thoughts can be like that: flashes
of inspiration or insight keeping just out of word’s grasp.
My musings began by thinking about the tight integration
between how we are parented and how we relate to the Ultimate Transcendent
Being (Creator, God, Universe, High Power, Author of the Cosmos, Big Bang,
insert your preferred label here…).
Even with years of therapy, a long and winding faith
journey, and deep self-recovery work, I still struggle relating to the
Transcendent Being via any masculine reference, whether it be Canadian
Aboriginal’s Father Sky or the westernized Father God. I continue to mentally
back away from that imagery.
And then it struck me that God doesn’t care what name is
used, God is simply thrilled to be on speaking terms with any human: whether we
refer to the Ultimate Presence as our Rock, Fortress, Shield, Mama Bear, Mama
Eagle, Mother God, Mother Earth, or any imagery that helps us connect. God isn’t
bothered by any of it…but humans are.
My sister recommended a documentary series exploring the
development of Christian Art within its context of history, political
movements, and culture. That’s the sort of information that should be doled
out—not doctrine or dogma. Very enlightening series based in the supposed Dark
Ages. I can’t share all the gems here, but it was very informative. The key
“take-away”: humans have always been drawn to a fluid understanding of the
Ultimate Being, needing both female and male representation.
As intriguing as the historical perspective is, it is also
terribly disheartening to have a bird’s eye view of how political figures have
influenced the evolution of religion—so much so that it hardly resembles the
simple origins.
From politics to parenting, our perceptions of the Ultimate
Being are just that—perceptions, maybe even allusions. Sometimes, I daresay, delusions.
Subconsciously, God becomes a demanding authority figure, a fairy godmother, a
magical old wizard, a powerful force to be reckoned with—but we don’t actually
visualize those images. We dress them in more culturally acceptable costumes. So
our experiences with God become extremely frustrating when our wishes (aka
prayers) aren’t granted, political forces aren’t abolished. Our demands are not
met, we pout, and God yearns to connect and comfort.
And therein lies my problem. When using male language, I do
not relate to God in any positive ways. In fact, I withdraw. So I approach from
another safer angle, and am met with connection, comfort, instruction, guidance.
God doesn’t care. God will morph to be my safe place. Maybe I should start
referring to my Higher Power as the Shape Shifter (with only pure motives).
Here is my tie in for all these musings. Never take
parenting for granted. It is so important with long-term implications. Not only
for how we relate to the Ultimate Being, but also others and most importantly
our Selves. If we do not reflect back to children what we see in them, and if
they cannot see themselves in adults, they grow up to be very confused and
rudderless. They expect the world to function a certain way. And when it
doesn’t co-operate, they don’t have the skills to navigate difficulties nor to
spread kindness and well-being wherever they go.
Oddly enough, I learned that Christian Art reflects humanity
more than any divinity…and that my sensitive soul seems out of place in this
world. I really do feel like an alien on this planet when kindness is rewarded
with meanness. I’m tired of being a human punching bag. Which is another way of
saying the Universe is guiding me to make some changes.
The Dark Ages: An Age
Of Light Four Part Series – Timeline – World History
Documentaries https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M4o1dc41r28
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Posted on May 24, 2019
I am conflicted about what to write this month. I began by writing about my Mother’s Day experience. However, that wormed itself into the abortion/adoption issue which morphed into human equality. I initially titled this blog Mothers & Mentors; but mentors were all but forgotten in my first draft. Then I took a meander down memory lane as I worked on crafting a 50th birthday card for my brother. And I realized how much I miss the relationship we once had, plus all the adventures we shared. The thread of all these musings? Attachments.
I went from sharing a personal experience, to sharing thoughts on a tender topic. However, as passionately as I believe in human equality, connection, and compassion, social media is not the platform for changing the world. And quite frankly, the world doesn’t want to change. So I considered my intentions for communicating. I get quite discouraged by the discourse, or lack thereof, in “popular controversies.” I cannot change people’s minds; but I sometimes think I can educate people into changing their minds. After all, education has changed my mind on several occasions. However, one’s mind has to be open to be changed. As long as we have closed minds, no amount of education will make a difference. Compassion is also a necessity for change.
Which brings me back to attachments. If we adhere more strongly to our beliefs then we do to people with, compassion and empathy, we completely miss the point of life: connection. We cannot connect if we are judging, focusing on right versus wrong. Life isn’t black and white. But one can never go wrong with putting people ahead of agendas. And if you do think in black and white, then you are missing out. I know. Because I have been there—on both sides of the coin—the judging and the judged. It does not bring people together or ease anyone’s suffering.
So, in the spirit of sharing for supporting those who
suffer…
I had a surreal yet visceral experience this past Mother’s Day
during a walk in the woods with two fur babies: I talked to my two miscarried
children. I have never done that before. Oddly, a Mother’s Day first for me.
Even asked them to say hello to their grandmother for me.
As profound as the experience was of connecting with my
somewhat imaginary children, it was very peaceful and soothing. I didn’t want
to have children; so I was very conflicted about being pregnant. And yes, I
will admit relieved when I didn’t carry to term. However, there is an
unbreakable bond that forms when one conceives (knowingly or unknowingly). On
Facebook I posted: Whether you have lost children by choice or by tragedy, know
they are caring for you from the other side and you are loved.
These unborn souls have no resentments. It is like they are
still in their purest form. The world hasn’t had a chance to twist perfection
yet. And I believe they understand that they were not meant for this world.
They do not hold a grudge about being aborted (forced or natural). Now, this is
where my blog goes awry; and I veer off-course by going cerebral instead of
remaining personal.
When I stay with my own experience, I sense deep sadness and
grief; not for my miscarried children, but my own insecure childhood. I wish I
could glibly “move on” into adulthood; but it is much more complicated than
that. Education and compassionate presence from caring souls have helped me understand
my lived experience and find ways to cope; but it’s a struggle to know that it
will always be a struggle. All because of the lack of healthy attachments as an
infant, child, adolescent, and young adult. This is why I am passionate about
human equality and connection. I do not want others to struggle like I do.
I also understand today’s sadness a bit better as I miss the
inexplicable bond I once had with my brother. In our culture, we take bonding
for granted and/or are ignorant of its importance with its long-lasting effects
of both secure and insecure attachments. And what it means when we lose those
attachments. My most secure attachment was with my brother. The second was with
my dog, Gracie. I am grateful for the bonding that has developed with my (half)sister.
I do not develop bonds easily; and when they are lost, it is truly devastating.
If I could have a single wish granted, it would be for the
world to grasp the importance of human bonding and connection. I would like to
think the world’s ills would be greatly reduced by that subtle change. In the
meantime, I will continue to pursue spreading compassion and connection in
whatever ways I can, and live with the disappointments. For that is the nature
of Life: an intricate dance of joy and sorrow.
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