Everyone has a story that is interesting if they can find the courage to tell the truth. My truth is cloudy. It is as if the bad memories come to life in the comfort of a counseling chair but fade over time to where I wonder if I made monsters out of people. This blog consists of two separate journal entries, pieces in the puzzle of my intricate, impossible mind. I only skimmed for a few edits, so hopefully, it is not a difficult read.
Part 1
I held some small, white plastic squares in each hand. They had thin cords, like headphone cords, strung from each, connected together, and plugged into a little black box. I was sitting in a comfortable, high backed, paisley patterned chair. That small room, the one I entered every week for years was always a perfect temperature, lighting was pleasantly dim, and the room was accented with earth tones, plants, and optional pillows or blankets. Everything was soft, comforting, and safe.
Before I closed my eyes and ventured into an unfamiliar portion of my mind, I checked my breathing, my heart, and my feet and their connection to the floor. With every breath, I felt the words inside my heart and mind say, “I am safe. I am ok. No one can hurt me here.”
“Are you ready?” said the calm voice of my counselor, sitting in the chair facing me. I turned on the little black box. The squares began to vibrate, first my right hand, then my left, alternating quickly, quickly, quickly. I almost panicked but remembered my breathing, my feet, and I changed the speed to slow. It Buzzzzzed right, then buzzzzzed left and on and on. She said something like, “Where are you?”, and it was time to venture into unknown territory.
I was there because I wanted to be free of pain, restriction, and failure. I wanted my body to stop aching and limiting my ability to work or take care of my children. I wasn’t there to feel sorry for myself or my past. I had seen a plethora of professionals in my pursuit to feel strong and useful. My list includes physiotherapists, chiropractors, naturopaths, neurologists, acupuncturists, massage therapists, herbalists, psychiatrists and psychologists, a medical psychic and a whole bunch of weird, alternative methods, of which I can’t remember the names.
This was Haven Society in Nanaimo, BC. They weren’t funded by the government, but rather, relied on donations as far as I know. They offered, and still offer many services for women and children who have experienced or witnessed abuse, and are experts in trauma counseling. It was after my many sessions here that I first felt some relief from my fibromyalgia, but the road to that relief was the scariest one I had ever travelled. The reward outweighed the fear in the end by more than I could ever put into words.
This recollection of a session is not perfectly accurate but contains elements of various sessions and memories of my experiences.
Eyes closed, I was in a black room with black walls, black floors, black ceiling, and a tiny window. I felt as if my voice would echo if I spoke. It was dark and cold and there was a young girl. Was she there a second ago? I felt sadness as I looked at her, as she was rocking ever so slightly, holding her legs tightly to her body, her face buried in her knees, trying to pull her nightgown down over her ankles, or up from underneath, trying to hide, desperate to hide. She must have been about ten years old, with thin, long, matted, light brown hair, scruffy on the top of her head, her white nightgown with tiny blue flowers still being pulled down every time she rocked forward.
There were no sounds, except my feet on the floor, echoing as I cautiously took one step towards her, then another, until I crouched about a meter away. She slowly stopped rocking, her bare feet placed gently on the floor, face still hidden in her knees.
Fear was crawling up my spine, yet compassion nested in my heart. I wondered, “In a room that echoed with every move I made, how was she so silent?” I reached towards her, slightly, and a tiny face appeared, one eye peeking through messy strands of hair. She slowly exposed her whole face to me, innocent, beautiful, teary-eyed, and scared. Her eyes opened wide and the terror of them turned to a piercing anger as she held her stare. She screamed so loudly and high pitched it was painful. It sent me backward, falling first before I jumped to my feet and stumbled backward, covering my ears, falling against the wall, barely holding an upright posture. She stood, screaming, and flailing as if possessed, straight for me, hitting and screaming, and hitting and screaming, and hitting and screaming. She was so strong and so scared. I finally saw her full face, red with rage, but something was familiar. I thought, “I know you”. She hit me so hard I was winded for a moment, and I thought bruises would certainly appear soon.
“Andrea. Andrea.” said the counselor. I dropped the squares from my hands, tears streaming, eyes open, shallow breathing, heart racing. “Tell me three things you see in the room.”
“What?….. Right….. “ I paused. Before I could find three things in the room I had to stop whatever was happening in my body, but I knew that finding three things was the first step. I felt so gross all of a sudden. I felt like I didn’t understand anything. My legs felt weak. But, my parts… my vagina. I questioned, “Why does it feel so disgusting? Why does it feel like it’s covered in a thick slime that could never be cleaned? Like a filthy diseased part of my body that I need to remove? What the hell is going on?” Then the dry heaving began… The dry heaving started, just like the first time I went to Brooks Landing emergency mental health and told a portion of my story.
“Tell me three things you see in the room.” said the calm, safe voice from across the room.
Tears streaming, hunched over, holding back vomit, I looked around, and in a shaky, whispered voice I said, “Clock….. um….. “ another wave of nausea… “Green plant…” breathing slowed, and still holding my stomach, hunched over…. “pen”.
That was the first of many sessions that opened a door into my life, the life of silence and secrets.
Part 2
It was January 12, 2013, and I was hosting karaoke at a small Roadhouse pub located on the Old Island Highway, across the street from a laundromat, behind which there was a tall grassy field that became sandy as it stretched to a rocky ocean shore not more than a hundred metres away. Behind the pub, across a gravel parking lot was a thick forest of Douglas Firs, Cedars and pines towering far above a rustic campground, abandoned for the winter.
Upon exiting my car, I took all this for granted, as I always did. I guess that’s what happens when you are born and raised here. Tourists will rush to the ocean to feel the salty dew on their faces, hike through the wilderness to get away from the city, cars, and pollution. For some, it becomes a spiritual connection with their form of God.
I am sure I took a breath after breath of tree filtered, crisp ocean air, as I stretched over the black bumper of my 2006 Elantra Hatchback to pick up a grey Rubbermaid tub full of chords and microphones, karaoke books and batteries. With my computer in my backpack, heavy tub balanced precariously on my thigh, I reached up with my right hand to close the hatchback door, and, as my usual routine seemed to dictate, I caught the tub before it fell. I walked past the friendly faces of people having their smoke break between beers, chatting and laughing, huddled together under a cedar lean-to. We greeted each other with friendly hellos, as I keep my steady pace toward the pub. One person usually rushed to open the door of the pub for me, and though I can’t remember, I am sure this is what happened that night.
The Crown and Anchor was, and probably is still, a dimly lit pub made of brick and topped with cedar shingles. Some might say it is in an old English style pub, with wooden interior and a brick fireplace. The carpet is dull and grey, mostly there to catch the beer spills, and most of the chairs, tables, beams, columns and the bar are of a rosewood colouring, with chips and nicks exposing the yellow hues of the original wood.
I am told this pub was a favourite of the Hells Angels for a long time, and that might explain the aversion to improvements since they are known to be quite a rough group of bikers. Another explanation might be that since the new highway was put in, very few travelers pass by the old pub, and with the new drinking laws, the few who do pass by are not likely to stop in for a beverage. I imagine the blow in regular income would put any renovations on a back burner.
Looking for new ways to generate income is why they hired me to come every second Saturday. They hoped that offering karaoke would bring people out, and it did. I had a pretty good show most nights, and on the slow nights, I imagine they made enough to at least cover my cost.
I had regulars who became like karaoke family after awhile. Trevor and Eileen showed up early and usually had their songs ready before I was set up. Alex and all his young friends would grab a place in the back, and get ready to put on a performance. They were the reason my songs got updated frequently, as they often requested something rarely found in an average karaoke book. I always commented on Jen’s sexy shoes and the humour of my good friend Julz tended to keep me laughing all night.
We had people come from the guitar building school, which is probably one of the island’s best-kept secrets, as I only recently found out it is one of the best in the world. People came from the Alpaca farm, usually all visiting from foreign places, and often with German accents. We had people travel from North Island and South Island, saying they came because I was their favourite karaoke host. Possibly it was because I promised to pretend to hump tables and chairs like a goat if anyone sang “The Bad Touch”. As you can imagine, almost every Saturday you would hear, “You and me baby ain’t nothin’ but mammals, so let’s do it like they do on the Discovery Channel.” Regardless, it was always a fun night.
One of people’s favourite memories of me as a host was when I lost my voice, so I made a sock puppet that introduced the singers, and its voice came through the speakers from my MacBook in the style of Stephen Hawking. I was strange, but I loved every time I did something that made people smile and forget the worries of their every day lives.
My routine was to set up my equipment, hand out books and slips, and grab one MGD beer to sip on during the first hour, and possibly have a second, knowing that by the end of the show my alcohol levels would not be over the very tight legal limit, and my long drive home would not be a problem. This night was oddly different.
On January 12, 2013, I had one MGD and didn’t realize that I had drunk it quickly. It was like water after crawling through a desert dying of thirst. I picked up the empty bottle, surprised and confused but proceeded to order a second anyway. For a moment I wondered if someone else had drunk my beer, but I remembered that when I last picked it up, it was pretty much full.
It wasn’t until I took the sip of my next beer that I realized something was different. I didn’t want to stop drinking. I had never felt that before. There were times I planned to get drunk, so I didn’t care nor monitor how much I drank. There were times I planned to have one beer and never had a debate in my mind about a second, and never craved more. This time, I had a craving, a horrible craving, and it took everything in me to stop drinking after that second beer.
Part 3
I had a lot on my mind that January. The few months leading up to it were very difficult, and I had been drinking to cope but played it off in my mind as a much-needed break. It started with once a week, every Thursday, and I called this, “mom’s night off”. I was a single mom pretty much 24/7 from 2005 forward, and now that my kids were older, 17, 15 and 9, a night out now and then was not unreasonable.
I had been on disability for fibromyalgia and PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), but at this point in my life, I worked hard to not be on disability and start my own business hosting karaoke. Being a karaoke host was something I came up with after I was told by employment assistance counselors that there was nothing I could do because of my physical condition, and I should just collect disability. They disregarded all the testing they gave me where I was in the top 2% on everything. There simply was no job they could think of that I could do.
I could sing without hurting myself, adjust sound, and do minimal entries on a computer, and if I could change position frequently, then I could tolerate the 4 hours of work. The only thing I could not do was set up my equipment because of the weight of the speakers, and I decided that some money was better than no money, so hiring someone to do the lifting was a great option.
My second karaoke show was at The Crown and Anchor and they had their own sound system, so I did not have to lift anything big. These two shows together gave me a gross income of $1100 a month, and with other small jobs I could pick up like singing with a band, and eventually Djing weddings, I ended up making the same or slightly more than what disability gave me, so I decided to no longer collect it early in 2012.
Disability was hard to navigate. When I first started hosting karaoke, in 2011, I went into the office and talked to a clerk about my self-employment income. It now seems very odd that the clerk said to me that if I was only profiting $500 or less and it was cash, to not bother reporting it. I took that as a good excuse to do less paperwork, and because I was struggling just to perform the job, any amount of work could have tipped me over the edge of my maximum abilities. So I looked at the clerk’s words as a saving grace in my struggle to be independent.
I didn’t bother reporting my income to disability because I received $800 a month and spent more than $300 a month on leasing my equipment and paying someone to carry it for me. I claimed everything on income tax, and Revenue Canada was happy with my math, so I didn’t think anything was wrong. My gut though…. my gut always said otherwise, and I should have listened.
I had made the mistake in about 2009 of dating a very disturbed man. He seemed so helpful and nice back when I was hosting a music jam weekly. He would always help me wind up cords, or offer any help I needed, and usually offered to buy me a drink. We had a good couple of months hanging out, dating, playing in a band together, organizing set-lists, and going to campfire sing-alongs. It seemed ok until it didn’t.
He had a spaz at a gig and was knocking over chairs in the pub, very angry, and no one really knew why. I can’t remember his reason, but I do remember that it was not real or true, and I found it strange, and difficult to convince him otherwise.
It was that day my friends suggested I might not be safe. He started getting angry about things that didn’t happen, and one day, when I was trying to console him about something that never happened that he was upset with regarding the band, he threw a water bottle across the room of my house in anger and was raising his voice. It was that day that I broke up with him. I’d learned that you don’t ignore the signs of a potential abuser, and this was the Jeckyl and Hyde I knew all to well from the days of my marriage. That unwarranted, and unprovoked behviour was all I needed to close that door and never look back. The good point in all this was that I was learning. Ending a two month relationship was a huge improvement on suffering a ten year marriage.
While I certainly benefited from my ggrowth and wisdom, I never imagined that daing someone for two months could turn into two years of hell. It was then that things got worse, much worse. He was caught peering in my bedroom window, lingering outside my house, showing up at all my events, making harassing and nasty phone calls from various locations so I could not screen them, and ruining my best friend’s relationship with his girlfriend. Finally, one night, he came to a jam that I was hosting and caused a terrible scene, one in which many men stepped in to protect me from him. It was that night that he smashed the back window of my friend’s car in anger. Previous to that night, I thought he was a bit obsessive, but now I knew he could be severely violent, and I was scared. As you can imagine, if you’ve ever been in my position in Nanaimo, I could not get a restraining order.
Even though they caught him on tape smashing the car, somehow he convinced them that he was just upset that night and it wasn’t his normal behaviour. The “friend” who’s car was smashed was convinced somehow to not press charges, and while that seemed strange at the time, it might be part of an unsolved puzzle in my life, but that is another long story in itself.
I had a feeling this was not a one-time thing, and I decided to message his ex-wife. I didn’t hear what I wanted to hear. I wanted to hear that he has spazzes, and obsessive moments but they gradually fade. She told me the opposite. She said, “He never stops. You need a restraining order. He is capable of horrible things.” There was nothing I could do. I had to hope he would find a new victim and forget me, not that I wanted anyone else to be harmed, but what could I hope for?
Then something else happened that required me to make another tough decision in life. His ex-wife had been battling to keep sole custody of their children with supervised visitation for him. He, in the same charming way he got out of the charges for smashing my friend’s car, was convincing the court that she lied and he was perfectly capable as a father. She and her lawyer asked if I would sign an affidavit stating only the truth about the smashing of the car. I did. He lost his rights, and she protected her children. Regardless of what happened next, I don’t regret that. I will always protect kids.
For the next two years, he did everything he could to make my life hell. He talked to various establishments about me, people, etc, trying to convince them I vindictively took his kids away from him when it was none of my business. He tried, but in the end, he failed. People knew me, and most would not believe his lies.
He never gave up though, and when I had my jobs hosting karaoke, an anonymous complaint came to the owner of the Wellington pub about my hosting and thank God they thought it was malicious rather than true. Within a two week period, Revenue Canada was called about me, The Ministry of Children and Families, and I was reported to Disability services, which spurred an audit regarding 2011.
Three out of the four complaints were dismissed instantly, but Disability was a different matter. I submitted all the paperwork I had, which was the same for Revenue Canada, but disability found me guilty and told me I owed them over a thousand dollars. This information was relayed to me in November of 2012. I was no longer receiving disability at this point, as I had built up my repertoire of karaoke shows, and was tired of having to submit detailed paperwork every month for the possibility of maybe $200 more. So my income was pretty much the same as what I got on disability, still below the poverty line, but I at least felt independent.
For most people, a thousand dollars would not be much, but when your total income was not enough to properly support you and three kids, against all odds you were trying your best to work, and you prided yourself on your honesty, it was a huge hit. It was a hit that came just after I almost lost my son.
October 31, 2012, was a horrible day. I had taken my son Jeffery to the emergency of Nanaimo General Hostpial the day before, and in my mom gut, I knew he should be admitted, but wanted to trust the doctors. I was not one to rush any child to the Emergency, as I had been raised to deal with all illness at home, as had my mother, and her mother before her. The art of nursing and diagnosing various levels of sickness was a skill that had been passed down, so rushing to a hospital was left to true emergencies.
In this case, Jeffery had a fever which I could not bring down, and he was vomiting, had diarrhea, and severe stomach pain. They checked him in Emergency, concluded it was a virus that should settle, but to bring him back in the morning if it was worse.
The reason they sent him home was likely because they asked him to jump, and he did so. If it had been appendicitis, they concluded that he would not be able to jump. I told the doctor that this child, my third child, had an extremely high pain tolerance. I knew this from when he was knocked in the head with one of those large park gates, causing several stitches above his eyebrow. He didn’t even flinch or cry at all when this happened. But, the doctor did not take this into consideration and sent us home.
My gut feeling was still there, so I spent the night on the floor beside my son’s bed, watching him intently, knowing we would go back in the morning. When I went back this time, I insisted this was something serious, and we were not leaving. After they called a specialist, finally, and a camera was put inside Jeff’s belly, I got a very solemn apology and my son was rushed into surgery. As he was being prepped, the surgeon came to talk to me, apologized, and the look on his face was that of fear. It was the type of fear that causes someone in an emergency to go dead calm and serious like my mother would in emergencies. He said he was sorry, and that Jeffery’s appendix had ruptured and the infection was spreading. He was about to be performing emergency surgery and I would be updated as soon as possible. He promptly left.
It was a miracle that happened that day, Halloween, in 2012. After the surgery was performed I could see the relief on the Doctor’s face as he told me it was a success. He said that the infection was quite severe though, and Jeffery would need to stay in the hospital, be on iv antibiotics, and be monitored for the next few days.
The next few days became the next five days, and I never left his side, except when I had a friend stay with him and I went home to shower and come back. I slept on those oh so comfortable putrid green plastic pull out chairs every night, though I didn’t really sleep except for the times when exhaustion overwhelmed me and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
I listened to my son’s every breath, and sadly, he developed a lung infection which, at one point stopped his breathing briefly, causing me to worry once again. I am thankful to the pediatric portion of Nanaimo General Hospital, as the nurse was able to help and Jeff got through his ordeal with a smile on his face.
I, on the other hand, crashed emotionally once everything was said to be fine. We came home after those five days, Jeff still tired and on antibiotics, and he spent days on the couch watching tv.
It was then, when I was finally relieved enough to feel all the fear I had been holding back for days, that I got the call from Disability to say that I was audited and owed them the money, and I became hysterical. Already in a state of enormous emotion and fatigue, the fight or flight in me was in overdrive. I said, “I might as well kill myself, as I can’t pay that money.” This would not be a normal thing for me to say, but after a week of little to no sleep, poverty always looming its ugly head over my family’s circumstance, I blurted it out and hung up the phone. I then cried and screamed in my pillow and ignored the phone. Not answering my phone to console myself with a pillow was a decision I would soon regret.
A very unwanted knock came at my door. Me, and my puffy-eyed, tired face, answered, and there stood the police. Disability had called the police, and I don’t blame them. Back when I was well and working for Veterans’ Affairs, we had that as a protocol if someone did what I had just done. I felt embarrassed and certainly didn’t want Jeffery to know the police had come to check on his mother, so I closed the door behind me as I stepped into the hallway.
There were two police officers, and I quickly went from feeling guilt and sadness, to be made to feel like a criminal. The one officer who obviously had seniority was cruel and ready to take me in. I wish I could remember exactly what he said, but I know I was once again in tears, trying to explain that I should not have said that, life was really hard as of late, their audit was unjust, I haven’t slept in for most of a week because my son almost died from appendicitis, etc. Had I not been so tired and felt so falsely accused, I might have just said calmly that I was not suicidal and I am sorry, that was a mistake. The one officer was aggressive and I looked at the other officer at a few points in the conversation and asked him, “Can you help me please?” He actually looked concerned, but I could see the angry officer was obviously his superior.
This white-skinned, bald, hard-faced man, aggressively said he wanted to come inside, and I said, “No, I do not want to disturb my son who is still sick and resting on the couch.” He insisted, saying he would arrest me and take me in if I did not let him in. I actually felt unsafe with this officer but also felt I did not have a choice. I said, “Please give me a second.” There was no second given. He followed me, and I said to Jeffery, in my most un-panicked, loving mom voice, “Hey Jeff. There is a police officer who just wants to check on you to see how you are doing.” Jeff seemed to think this was not strange, I imagine because he had just been so sick, and had so many people checking on him regularly, and didn’t know it would be odd to have anyone other than a doctor or nurse check in on him. After saying a quick hello to Jeffery, the officer’s angry face changed to something I recognized as guilt or remorse, and without further aggression, he promptly left.
It wasn’t long before the phone rang again and this officer apologized for his behaviour and asked if there was any way that they could support me in this difficult time. In my head, I was like, “You fucking asshole. You kicked a woman when she was down, and now you are obviously caught in your error, and probably against your will, and certainly against your ego, you are calling me to try to avoid my complaint.” Did I say that? No. My answer was something short like, “No thank you. I appreciate your call.”
I struggled to host karaoke, but it was my creative way to have some sort of job. I wanted to be an example to my children, and I felt ashamed of collecting disability. My family is full of hard workers, who push past any obstacle, and I could give you a long list of accomplishments that might amaze you and explain my feelings of shame, but I’ll just give a couple of examples. My dad is in 4 halls of fame and completed the iron man when he was 50 years old. One of my brothers set the record for the swim/bike portion of the iron man. That year, my brother set that record, and 6 km into the run, ripped his Achilles tendon. That would be a good time to give up, but no. He had someone tape it up and hobbled the next 26 kilometers to finish the iron man. That should be enough to explain my family and why I think disability is shameful.
I had several awards growing up. I was always on the honour roll, though I got in trouble if ever I got a C+. I was in advanced classes whenever they were available. I was first Allstar at almost every Provincial Volleyball Championships I competed in from grade 6 to grade 12. I was second in BC for judo. I won the BC under 12 golf championships. I had important or lead roles in several plays and was a top musician in Band, Jazz Band, and Jazz Vocals.
My best memory of any award though, was when I received a citizenship award in grade 9, and my mom told me that above all other awards and accomplishments this was the one she was most proud of. I will never forget that. I never tried for or even knew there was a citizenship award and I had no idea what I did to deserve it, but I knew my mom was proud of me for being kind to people.
So I struggled to be the best at anything I did and felt utter defeat if I was not obtaining my goals. This continued all the way to 2012, where this portion of my life story begins. There was the Disability audit, the nasty police officer and my poor son’s condition, then December came, and things got worse.
I look back and wonder why I felt a need to drink more and more,. How did I manage it when I was so poor? I’ve gone over it in my head several times. People bought me drinks without me asking mostly because I was fun and generally entertaining, so that took care of most of the financial part. I budgeted for two drinks every Thursday and felt that was reasonable for a mom in need of a break. I had friends who had a lot more money than me and were aware of my financial situation and also that I never expected them to buy me drinks, so they never seemed to mind supporting a drinking partner. I think that was the gist of it because I managed to pay my bills and feed my kids somehow.
It was December 17, 2012. The snow was falling, roads were icy and I was having a severe fibromyalgia episode that had lasted for a couple of days, and after my last karaoke show, I had left my equipment in my car. My boyfriend at the time had driven me home in my car and helped me walk into the house, as I shuffled and almost collapsed several times. I remember thinking I heard a truck pull into the parking lot around 1 am, and I thought this was odd because no one was out driving in the snow, and our parking lot was very icy. I remember clearly my gut said to go outside and look, but with my legs barely moving, and my pain, I decided to not get up. Always listen to those strong gut feelings. Always, always, always listen.
I was robbed. Absolutely every last piece of my equipment was stolen from my car and I felt raped and destitute. I didn’t have insurance for theft from my car, and I later found out that there was nothing that could have covered me for that anyway. Merry Christmas. Not only was there next to nothing to go under the tree that year, but now my tools for my only source of income were gone, and there was no way the police were going to find them. What did I do, after I reported it? I got drunk. I got drunk probably for days, but I am not sure. I know one night when I ran out of my large bottle of red wine, I called a friend to take me out to the bar and he happily enabled my continued drinking. Those who knew I had just been robbed bought me drinks, and I escaped for a moment. But the truth is, though 2012 had started with a once a week karaoke night, it had already progressed to 4 drinking nights a week because I had to hang out with all of my “friends” from different circles. There was the karaoke crowds, the jammers, and the soccer moms. No one really thought I was a big drinker because they maybe saw me once a week, and I usually only had a few drinks. Most people I knew normalized the binge nights of once a week or so. But it was being robbed that put me in such a state of depression and anger that the drinking was such an escape that when it got to January 12, 2013, it was no longer my choice, or at least it seemed.
You might be wondering how I had equipment for January 12th. That is a story of incredible kindness. Many people all over the city of Nanaimo from music stores, to other DJ companies, offered to loan me equipment until I could get new equipment or my stolen gear was found. I can’t explain my gratitude to this day to the many people who helped. Then my best friend Todd and another friend, Darlene hosted a fundraiser near the end of January where enough money was raised for me to purchase new equipment. On one hand, I was slowly dying inside and hiding my pain, and on the other hand, somehow I had touched the lives of many people in such a good way that they went out of their way to support me and told me so.
I don’t feel like boasting about my kindness because it totally negates anything good I’ve done, but in order to accept the help I received, I had to know that I somehow deserved it. I’m still not sure, but certainly, since that day, I am even more committed to helping those in need whenever I am able, and whenever someone wants to pay me back, I tell them straight up that I have been given more than I could ever pay back, and if they feel strong enough at some point, then pay it forward.
Now I can tell you about the three circumstances that led up to that date to explain the quick spiral that ensued, but there is more. There is, in fact, a foundation of sorrow stemming from a very dark place. I have had times where I feel like I am a victim with no resolution. I have had times where I yell at God. I have had times where literally smack my self in the head and say “Stop being so pathetic. A lot of people have it worse than you.” None of it erases the truth.
I am somewhat afraid to write in more detail about mental health issues, partly because I don’t want to sound like a perpetual victim, and partly because our society still looks on mental health issues as a weakness and not an injury or serious condition. The truth is that I have experienced every form of abuse, and each form has been experienced many times. Most people accept the story of where I felt I escaped death and fled an abusive relationship with my three kids in 2005, and the terrible struggles that ensued for years. I accept it because I was validated repeatedly by people who saw frequent public abuse, and years of counseling helped me to come to terms with many aspects of that marriage. Sadly, over the years, more and more memories have surfaced, like the wearing away of a rock in a raging river. The water hits hard over and over, and tiny bits wear away, slowly, and when you think the water might ease up, more is revealed and it wears away slowly, and so on. Once it starts, it doesn’t stop.
This is that battle I referenced earlier, the path I was about to trudge that would become the hardest of my life. The one that started long before the counseling chair, but was hidden in the refuse of denial, disguised as strength. Re-opening of this path started in that small, dark room in the recesses of my mind, with a young, angry version of me, wondering why she was so alone.
I could question whether or not my fibromyalgia came from my many car accidents or from my many other traumas. I can’t be sure of the number the times a male tried to or did take advantage of me, whether it be my naivety in childhood and youth, peer pressure, outright assault or with the aid of a drug placed carefully in a drink. I can’t remember when I started living in fear of physical abuse, and if or when it really stopped. I suppose now, today, I don’t fear it, because I choose not to fear death, and more likely because at the time I am writing this, my children are almost all fully grown and on their own.
I wanted to be healthy, to work, to be an example, to love and be loved, to always do the right and the best thing for not only my friends and family but for all of society. So, I did not only sit in that counseling chair but the moment I realized alcohol was beginning to control me, I found the first and most recognized solution.
January 12, 2013, I was at my karaoke show at The Crown and Anchor Pub, and because I had other people’s equipment, I felt an added responsibility to make sure I took care of it. That night, after my second beer, I stopped drinking. There is no doubt that I was desperate for another. There is no doubt that it took all my willpower to not drink. A strategy for my cravings was convincing myself that I could pack up quickly, drive that long drive home, drop the gear off, take a cab downtown and get more drinks before the bar closed. This was my goal, and it kept me from having another drink that night. When I got home it was too late to go anywhere, and for that I am grateful. The next day was the start of a new chapter.
Part 4
In Alcoholics Anonymous they say that drinking is a result of an underlying problem or condition. So when I finally quit drinking January 13, 2013, and went to an AA meeting for the first time, I could certainly agree. I don’t attend AA now, and counselors have suggested that I am not a true alcoholic, but they also agree that AA can be helpful if anyone is struggling with drinking. “The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking.” This was my purpose, and so I attended for years and followed a diligent program of abstaining from alcohol, doing their twelve steps several times, volunteering, having a sponsor and being a sponsor.
I fully immersed myself in their doctrine and called myself an alcoholic at every meeting when I was asked to speak. I believed it because I have so many of the obvious symptoms of an alcoholic.
That last night of drinking on January 12, 2013, where I was, for the first time, desperate for another drink and using all my will power to resist seemed like the final switch that put me into the category fully.
Alcoholics are those who have one drink and can’t stop. They are those who make plans to have one drink, but never stop at one, and the more they drink, the thirstier they get. Some say it is a physiological condition where there is an abundance of an enzyme that is active when drinking and has a purpose to break down the poison of alcohol in your system. For some reason, supposedly in alcoholics too much is produced, causing a craving, and so the more you drink, the more you want to drink. That is one explanation I have heard. I am told that maybe that last night where I had a craving, a switch went off in my brain or in my body and I was changed forever, destined to be an alcoholic for life.
Its seven years later now. January 14, 2020, and if I was still in AA, I would probably be taking a 7-year cake. It’s like a birthday celebration because your life changes drastically when you quit drinking, so it is much like being born again. But, I didn’t take a 6-year cake, I don’t go to meetings anymore, and I had a few sips of alcohol this year, so I’m out.
But it sort of feels weird because I immersed myself so deeply for so many years and prided myself in being sober for so long, so much so that it became my identity. It was something I was successful at regardless of circumstance and it made me feel strong. It was reinforced by others praising me for my continued success. It was reinforced when I was being stalked by someone I dated in AA and I was praised for attending meetings regardless. It was reinforced because I did all the steps, and I could quote verses, and I was looked up to by my peers for being so good.
AA was what I used to satisfy that little girl in me, the overachiever from a family of overachievers. Every month I got an award for being sober! It was like getting that first place ribbon when I competed in the 800 meters in grade 6 and my brother was on the sidelines so proud because he had trained me. Alcoholism must have been the reason for all my worries and now I was like a saint for overcoming this problem. I didn’t look at it that way at the time. I was an outright mess, confused, wounded, looking for any answer to make me feel better. When I did the steps, I confessed everything about me that I thought was horrible no matter how scary it was to share. I apologized to friends and to my kids for anything I ever did wrong that I could think of, and I was broken down but also relieved to admit my wrongdoings. The thing was though, that it was in my personality to admit when I was wrong anyway, so being broken down further was not the solution. I imagine it is not the best solution for many women and men who have suffered significant abuse.
But, AA was not about being totally broken down. The idea was to remind yourself that you are only human, and quitting any addiction could not be done on your own. AA promotes a spiritual solution, like leaning on God, or in the agnostic or atheist circles of AA, they suggest relying on the power of the group, or anything outside of doing it alone. Any addiction or habit can be hard to break on your own, and the methods in AA have great results, and although I don’t go, I still recommend it for anyone who is struggling.
For me, the ex-boyfriend who would show up to meetings I attended, no matter where I went became exhausting. When he shared, he would target me with his words indirectly, and I did not feel safe to share when he was there. I tried women’s only meetings, meetings out of town, private meetings at my home, but in the end, I left.
Thankfully I was getting trauma counseling at Haven Society, and I was getting better! We were able to process many memories and my body even began to feel some noticeable relief from Fibromyalgia. When I talked to my counselor about AA and the ex-boyfriend, and meetings, etc, she was able to convey an important message. She did not put down AA as a whole but suggested that it is not the best place for women who have suffered trauma, and professional help is certainly safer.
There were two big reasons I remember her discussing with me. One was that the “breaking down to build back up” method was not healthy and in fact very detrimental to women who have suffered abuse as they are already broken down beyond any point they should ever be “broken down” to. Humility was not something these women needed to learn, at least not at the beginning of addressing the trauma and trying to get better. Empowerment, boundaries, healthy communication skills and safety plans were far above any thought of reinforcing humility. Women of abuse are needing a purpose, something to feel good about within themselves, and they are so vulnerable.
That brings me to her second point which is vulnerability. Sadly, there are a lot of sick people who attend AA, some of which could be categorized as “predators”. While some might be unknowing, there are others who are purposeful, and when an abused woman is vulnerable and struggling, a seemingly friendly word from a seemingly stand up guy is a trap that will always catch a mouse. I attended AA when I was beyond broken and within the first month, a man asked me to go for lunch, and thinking it harmless, I did go. He was so knowledgeable in the ways of AA that I melted in observation of his sainthood. That was the man I dated who later stalked and harassed me. I will say that I finally spoke to what one might call an “elder” in AA and explained how bad the situation was and that I was leaving the group and I would miss him and everyone. He was noticeably angry about the man who had dated me, and I imagine he spoke with him because I did not see him at my music gigs anymore, and did not get any more nasty messages from an “unknown Facebook profile”.
I did a lot of counseling and truly need more, but there is a huge waitlist, and not enough funding to support all the women who need help who live on the poverty line. With all this said, I have to say that I don’t want to drink alcohol. I don’t crave it or need it. I have torn thoughts about whether I am actually an alcoholic or not, but I don’t know that it should matter. I think it is simply the doctrine of AA that enforces the guilt I have. This year, I had three times where I had alcohol. Most people wouldn’t keep track and be worried about it, but again, I had prided myself on not drinking as if I were constantly winning a prize. So I had a beer one night out with a friend. I had a few sips of various drinks when my good friend took me to the Butchart Gardens and said there are certain liqueurs that go with the items for tea. The third time was when I had a half glass of red wine with my cousins at my Aunt’s funeral. That was it, and I didn’t feel a need to drink more. It is funny how I feel like the beer and the tea could have been skipped, but I don’t feel any guilt for the wine at my Aunt’s funeral.
In fact, in my life, I have so much guilt that hits me over not doing everything to the overextension of my abilities, that I can skip the guilt on this one. I still don’t know every right from every wrong. I still don’t know if I truly am some sort of addict, or if the symptoms of PTSD are so similar that I get confused about what exactly is wrong with me.
But I do have to say, that I quit drinking as a regular activity 7 years ago, and it has done me good, and I am grateful.
Tales of Life 