I sat in that bus, on my way to work, on my way to make a living and I saw you. I have no idea who you are, your name or age; but I know you are someone’s son, someone’s friend, and yet there you are, dying on the street. One person, one out of the dozens all around you – including me – stopped to help you. I sometimes wish I was the type of person to bang on bus doors, to cause a scene, to act in impulse, but I’m not, and I’m sorry. I should have ran to help him, help you. I watched from that seat on the bus as he checked for your pulse, but your skin was so grey I doubt he found one. No one else even seemed to care, I looked around the bus to see if anyone else felt the way I did, and not one person looked phased by the idea that you were dying. There were 5 other people on the side walk where your body laid and they didn’t do anything but stare and walk away. I tried so hard to hold it together, to act the way everyone else did, but I couldn’t. I cried for you, I cried because I know something happened to bring you to where you were, I cried because no one wants to get involved, no one wants to help. No one sees that you are just a kid with serious demons, just a person who struggles with memories of the past. You are so much more then an addict, you are so much more than a junkie, you are a human; you are here for a reason, you matter. It’s not okay, none of it. It’s not okay that someone or something hurt you to the point where you had to find a way to escape your pain. It’s not okay that you ended up addicted to a drug that ruined your life, it’s not okay that you have to use to live. It’s not okay that a drug dealer is making money off your addiction, or that they are cutting drugs with poison. It’s not okay that society labels you, but doesn’t help you. It’s not okay that you died. It’s not okay that people didn’t stop. None of this okay, none of it is acceptable. We need to stop building giant shopping malls, and invest in mental health, in better schools, in affordable homes, in people’s lives. My only hope is that you are now feee of pain. God has you in his arms now, along with all the other human souls that died because of greedy drug dealers, and shitty people. Society, you disgust me.
Like the bottom of the ocean, the vast night sky, it captivates me. Everything seems so silent, all around me the world is sleeping, dreaming. & here I am, lying awake in the darkness that surrounds me, trying to find ways to escape the nightmares you left me with.
How cruel it was for you to leave this world, without answers, without explanation, without saying goodbye. I am haunted by you, your death, and the people you left behind every night in my dreams – my nightmares. I see you, I feel you, I feel your pain, I watch you die, you come alive. You bring your son to a dinner I am at, and you disappear just as he tells me he’s happy your back. But you never come back, you’ll never come back, your gone. Your body is now in its final resting place, your soul is no longer in the physical world, you are no longer here. My heart breaks. My heart is broken. You had so much life left to live, didn’t you know that? Didn’t you know how many people loved you, how much we all cared about you? How much we miss you? How none of us can sleep, how much we wish we could have helped you. I’m sorry we didn’t, I’m sorry you suffered so much: I’m sorry you left.
I don’t know the reason. I doubtI ever will but an amazing friend, father, and man ended his life on October 31 2017, at the tender age of only 29 years old. He was my rock through so many of my depressive moments, and he was always so strong. I wish I knew in those final days what changed in him. I’m so embarrassed to say that I had stopped talking to him weeks before his death, and can’t help but blame myself for not being there for him. Shane Charles Whatley, I hope you are at peace; I miss you so much, I love you, thank you for taking the time to break down my walls and showing me that all men are not the same. I will remember you forever.♥️
Its Sunday, and It’s raining today, for the first time in who-knows how long, the tiny rain drops fall like wet kisses upon my head.
And I think of you.
I think of how, like tiny drops of rain, your tears fell from your eyes the last day I saw you. And how you planted wet kisses upon my head whenever you’d say goodbye.
I think about the day you left, and how the sky cried for you. How I tried, oh how I tried, to disguise the pain I felt and the gloomy cloud that somehow followed me wherever I went.
I think of your laugh, your infectious laugh that I can still hear in my dreams, and I think about how wonderful each moment spent with you was, how Sundays were filled with visits to your house, the best peanut butter cookies in the world, and spending time with you.
As each raindrop lands on me I smile, engulfed by the idea that each drop of rain is a kiss from you, and each time my tears mix with the rain I am restored with faith that you are all around us still.
Its Sunday, and it’s raining today, for the first time in who-knows how long, the tiny raindrops fall like wet kisses upon my head.
And I think of you, and how grateful I am to have known you.
Change is the end result of all true learning
As an infant, we were taught to speak and our parents rejoiced when we half heartily mumbled the first mama or dada. We are encouraged as children to learn and expand our vocabulary, knowing that we may never use these long complicated words in everyday life, yet we are praised on our intelligence. Everyday we are expected to communicate verbally, whether it’s at work or in your personal life. But what happens, or what consequences are we faced with when the one thing we were encouraged and praise for becomes something that’s used to hurt other people? Why can’t we – as a generation – learn to speak and listen without blame, without judgement, without fear that our words, thoughts, or beliefs will be disregarded or used as a weapon in destroying our self worth. Better still, why are we so careless with the words we use?
We, as a whole, have a rather bad case of speaking without thinking, of judging without knowing, of disregarding what other people have to say if it is opposite of what we believe. I remember visiting my dads side of the family as a child and being told to be quiet, not to speak out of turn, and basically, to be seen but not heard. I never understood this, I never understood why I was being discouraged to speak around my family. Particularly because my mother’s family rejoiced in noise and talking and laughing. I couldn’t understand why I was told to be quiet in class, yet told to speak louder when asking or answering a question and I was unable to defer the two, especially at 6. I never understood, I still don’t understand, how its okay to be loud when people want you too and yet you are judged for being loud or “obnoxious” when you are having fun with friends. Why is the volume of one’s voice so important to other people? Why are we either labeled quiet or loud when we are simply just human? We are a generation, a human race, that sit behind computer or phone screens proclaiming that our beliefs trump those who disagree with us. We have bred wars, we have encouraged hate, we have teleported back in time where race is the most important thing of our lives. We have ruined the world out forefathers (and mothers) worked so hard to create. We have allowed ignorance to cloud our perspectives.
I digress often.
Perhaps I’m aging myself, but who remembers that little rhyme we’d say as children “Sticks and Stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me”? It was in those words that we minimalized the impact that insults an gossip truly hurts. The bruises your sticks and stones leave, the broken bones, the scrapes and cuts will heal, however words stay with you. My mothers’ favorite line was “they’re just words” and I suppose that was the way she was raised, but in my personal, and not so personal, experience words cause just as much, if not more, damage. Damage that is irreversible once they fester, damage that no cast or band aid or kiss can heal. We blurt out insults and judgements and think that a simple word – sorry – will take away that hurt, when in reality it doesn’t help. Sorry is just another word, another half-hearted compound of sounds that we have given too much power too. We are expected and encourage to act like nothing happened once a person says sorry, like the knives that were thrown into our souls didn’t cut us.
Our words have so much more power than people like to believe, or care to acknowledge.
Again, maybe its just me; The way that words and phrases that have been said to you stick with you. Like the first time you were rejected or the first time someone told you they loved you. The syllables and compounds that come together to form words replay in your mind, the entire memory engulfs you and you relive the happiness, excitement, or pain all over again. This happens a little too often to me and it cuts a little deeper each time. How can someone who claims that they care about you mutter the words they know will hurt you. Why would someone who “loves you” spew cruel and degrading insults at you?
I grew up with so many unstable people, so many people who spoke without thinking, and used my insecurities and downfalls against me. I grew up caring too much about the words people said, and now words are my biggest enemy. I am constantly fearful that I will be judged and ridiculed for the things I say, that I wont be deemed truthful. I fear these things based on my past, based on the things that happened to me, the way the people around me did things. But I know consciously, now that I have had the time to grow, that I cannot be consumed with what happened in the past. I cannot live in the rear-view mirror if I ever want to get ‘better’. If I ever want to be healthy and happy again I need to internally change. I know nothing is built in a day, but I have begun to deal with my past. I have been able to speak openly about the things that happened in my life, from the sexual assault that I allowed to ruin my life, to the loss of my dog and everything in between. I have been able to address and confront the people and words that have torn apart my soul. The things that use to be my dark secrets are now just another part of my journey and I am proud of that now.
Again, I find myself digressing from the topic I am trying to address.
I allowed a boy’s – he’s an adult now, but he’s still just a boy in my eyes – drunken words to fool me into thinking that I was enough for him. I allowed his broken promises and dishonest “feelings” to break me into 10,000 pieces and I never once confronted him about it, until recently. I finally stood up to the one person who always had the one up over me because I let him. I finally stood my ground and in a way, it back fired. By standing up for myself he is no longer in my life, by voicing my opinion and speaking up against him I lost who I thought was my best friend. Twice in one year I am faced with the sobering reality that I am without the two beings that knew me the best. Jayda and Peter knew everything about me, and I shared so much with both and to have neither one of them here for me or with me feels like my entire life has changed; and it has changed, I have changed. I realize now that by removing him from my life I have lifted a rock that was crushing me. I can breathe again, despite the pain. I use to think that our friendship could withstand any storm but failed to realize that he was the storm. His passive aggressive comments and mentally abusive tactics formed waves that engulfed me and pulled me back into the water no matter how hard I tried to escape. I thought that without him I would be lost, but it wasn’t until I was at my lowest that I found that he kept me lost. He spun me around in circles until I was weak and unable to see straight, and then left me to figure out where to go afterwards. His compassion was tainted with selfishness and pushed me away when I needed more, he dangled a dream in front of me just far enough away that I couldn’t reach and then gave a piece of it to any aboriginal, dark eyed girl he could see. He killed parts of me, parts of myself I use to like. I gave so much to someone because I fell for the words he spoke, because I believed fabricated tales of a life we could make together. I have learned to hard way that I must learn to fall for actions and not words. I fell to rock bottom, but it was there I was able to rediscover what I need and deserve.
Rest In Peace Sweet Jaybug.
You have been such a constant loving soul in our family. You taught us more about love, life and unconditional love then you ever knew. My sassy princess, my beautiful baby dog, I miss you more then I ever thought possible. Your attitude, your bark, your little “tough” stance. I miss your snuggles and your adorable head tilt; I miss your gentle licks and your “give me attention” bark and scratching. I miss you so much and its only been a day.
On June 8th 2016 you went to be with God, Dad, buddy and beaner.
I can’t imagine what was going on in your tiny little body, what kind of pain you must of felt. I’ll never know if we could of saved you because your warrior soul wouldnt let you be weak. But I remember the day I knew I wouldnt ever see you “normal” again.
Sunday morning you got sick, a white foam all over the couch – which you NEVER have done before – that seemed to never stop. You wouldnt drink, you wouldnt eat. I went to work unaware of what the day would unfold. Mom said you werent doing well when she came to pick me up, her worried expression scared me beyond belief. My tiny baby, so small and fragile looked so dazed, so confused. I took you into the bathroom, thinking maybe you were just to hot, and cooled your tiny body down. I dried you off and kissed in between your ears, tried to make you drink, and laid you down in your bed. Out of the corner of my eye I see you fall over on your side – Watching you have a seizure was the worse thing i’ve ever seen in my life. The rest of the night I worried about you, worried about if you would live through the night. At 2am I heard you having another seizure. Your lifeless body laid on the floor of your cage, your tongue hanging out of the side of your mouth. I begged for you to breath, to get better. I took you into the bathroom again, trying to calm you down; It didnt really work, your eyes were hazed over and you were zoned out looking at the door and then you had another seizure. I knew I couldnt be selfish anymore, I told you I would never leave you, because you never left me. I lightly patted you, I told you, you could go. I brought you out to the living room so you could lay on your bed, and laid there with you. All day monday you paced and circled, you didnt bark, you didnt eat, you couldnt walk or stand. I knew your body was tired. Late into the afternoon, right before 3pm, you laid down on the floor looking at the ceiling while I lightly patted your side. Your eyes slowly closed and your breathing labored, I was sure, again, that it was time. But you jumped up and “shook it off” and tried to hide behind the television. Mom came home and told you not to go, that you were to young and I saw – for a moment – your strong spirit glimmer in your eyes. You didnt have a single seizure all that night, you woke up and tilted your head when mom said good morning, you looked into your food dish like you wanted to eat and we knew we HAD to take you to the vet to try to fix whatever was ailing you. At the vet that night you had two more seizures, your kidneys and liver were in acute failure, your little body was infected with bacteria; Sepsis they say, an infection of the blood, from what we’ll never know. We had to make the hard decision to end your suffering. You said goodbye to mom and slowly fell asleep before they even administered the medicine, and it dawned on me. All those times I thought you were gonna leave, you couldnt because you had to say goodbye to mom.
It feels like just yesterday that you were this tiny little puppy; who cried to be snuggled and was to scared to jump off the couch. My little tiny baby dog that dad knew I wanted so bad.
Your tiny little tail – or lack there of – that took your entire backside with it when you were happy in its wag. I can’t help but remember The way you slept on my dirty clothes when I wasn’t here, or how you would curl up in the corner of my single bed at night and sleep next to my head. You brought so much happiness into my life, and I hope you were happy too. Your snuggles cured even the deepest of hurt and I loved being greated by your “where have you been” bark. You are the best dog I could have ever asked for, your patient and you were so content sitting on my lap, in my purse or hidden in my jacket. You are such a beautiful dog, and I hate that you got this sick, I hate that I couldn’t help you, and I hate myself for that. I’m sorry jaybug.
I love you so much, Rest in sweet Peace.
So this is where we part, My Friend,
And you’ll run on, around the bend.
Gone from sight, but not from mind,
new pleasures there you’ll surely find.
I will go on; I’ll find the strength,
Life measures quality, not its length.
One long embrace before you leave,
Share one last look, before I grieve.
There are others, that much is true,
But they be they, and they aren’t you.
And I, fair, impartial, or so I thought,
Will remember well all you’ve taught.
Your place I’ll hold, you will be missed,
The fur I stroked, the nose I kissed.
And as you journey to your final rest,
Take with you this…I loved you best.
Sometimes I wonder why I even try to beat this, this overwhelming self hatred isn’t going to just disappear because I am popping pills or because I am admitting to people that I am depressed or anxious or that I have been sexually assaulted. I am never going to be happy, and I know that sounds so emo and unproductive but let me finish.
I am never going to be happy stuck in this place, stuck in the exact place ive been since the day my innocence was stolen. Surrey, yes I am finally admitting the place I live, always felt like home. This is the place I was born, the place I learnt to talk, walk and this is the place my life evolved in. I have walked the same streets over and over again and it always felt safe and like nothing could possibly hurt me here because the faces of people I trusted filled every corner and every alley of these streets I now fear. I use to feel safe walking to the mall with ear buds blasting music and my mind in the clouds or walking through the short cut in the forest to the pool. Not because I was naive or unaware of what could happen but because I knew I had places to run to if anything happened. I trusted the people I knew, I trusted the neighbors and the faces I grew up around and then my life up and changed. When my dad got sick I still had my “safe” neighborhood, my familiar streets, a person I could run to on every street corner. When my grandma died I had people close enough that I could call them to come over and chill so I didn’t have to be alone with my thoughts. When my ex boyfriend came out I had people around that would meet me at a park or mall or a random parking lot so I didn’t have to dwell in my sadness and pain.
But then we moved.
Life happens; things that are completely out of our hands get thrown at us and I understand why we had to move. I understand that housing was hard to find and increasingly harder when we had to factor in that my dad was gonna need a wheelchair in the near future. When we moved I lost more then anyone else. I lost my ability to call up someone and meet them down the street, I lost that sense of security. I couldn’t see my friends as often because it was out of the way & no one drove. Getting to school was almost impossible and I ended up missing a lot and regretfully dropping out. I was alone with my thoughts, locked in my room alone for the better part of my day because I couldn’t just sit in the living room watching my dad deteriorate. I lost most of my friends because it was always a fight to go hang out with them. I lost everything that kept me sane and slowly I began reliving the painful experiences alone and so I drank. I drank to forget the pain, I drank because it gave me a reason to leave the house, I drank because if I drank enough I could fall into a dreamless sleep. I drank with people I didn’t know which lead to the sexual assault I speak about often. The sexual assault that I had to deal with alone because the people I told didn’t believe me.
What I always failed to share was that it happened in the same area I grew up in. That the streets and mall that once seemed so safe became a reminder of the night I wish I could forget. I would be on edge every time I stepped foot into my old neighborhood fearful that I would see him. Fearful that I would run into people I knew before the assault, people who knew me before the depression and anxiety lead me into an inactive, unmotivated, sad and tormented person I allowed myself to become. A huge part of my insecurities come from losing my safe place, losing the people I always had to run to, losing my angels that helped me keep my demons away and then, from losing the good memories of my safe place to the torment the assault left in its place.
This house, this neighborhood that homes the faces of people I have nothing in common with, people I do not know, has taken more from me then the good memories we built in it. I am resentful, resentful that this house took so much away from me. That within the walls of this house my heart has been broken so many times. That this house has more bad memories then good memories hidden within the walls. I feel like I am living in a prison, locked in a nightmare reliving all the pain and suffering this house has made me deal with. I feel unsafe behind these walls or walking these streets because I have no comfort, no safety, no one I can run to if something happens because they would rather turn a blind eye and pretend they aren’t home.
I sit in a house my dad use to sit in, but he never lived in this house. He deterioted here, he suffered here. He adapted to life here, he choked and almost died here; the ambulance took him from here and never brought him back. ALS stole him from us here And now his ashes are here. But he never lived here.. He never worked on cars or spent hours trying to repair something in the drive way here, he never made memories here that were positive; no, he didn’t live he existed here.
I lay in my own bed in a room my nephew was conceived in, in a room that my sister brought him home to but that wasn’t a joyful time for me. I love my nephew more then I could ever explain, his intelligence and his attitude makes me both proud and amused everyday and I am grateful to have him in my life, however my sister never wanted children and everyone always said I’d have a baby first. Yet she was the first one to have a successful pregnancy and there I was dying inside, unable to be touched or trust a man watching my sister live my only consistent dream. Watching her prepare for her first born and seeing my moms excitement to have her first grandchild killed me. I didn’t want my pain to show, but it probably did. I didn’t want to show my jealousy, but I know it radiated in the way I acted. I didn’t wanna admit how much pain her pregnancy brought me and how much it killed me. The birth of my nephew, a happy time, was one of my lowest and most painful times. It’s still such an emotional and painful topic for me. I still cry because I took out my pain on an innocent baby. I wouldn’t bond with him because I resented the fact that he was hers and not mine. I hated these feelings, I wanted to be happy for her, to be excited that I had a nephew but I couldn’t. I wanted to be okay with the bond my mom had with her first grandchild, but I was jealous that it wasn’t my child. I wanted to put aside my resentment but I had no one to vent to because moving to this house took my ability to maintain my friendships.
I have dealt with so much suffering in this house that I can’t possibly fathom ever being happy here. This was the house I came home to after being sexually assaulted, the house my heart was broken in, the house my favorite uncle stole from. I can’t blame my short comings on a house, I know that, but moving here didn’t help.
If these walls could talk they would share stories of a broken family, share stories of fights and arguments, tears and hopelessness. They have witnessed our downfalls and trapped the memories within the drywall and studs. I don’t know how much longer I can live here, how much longer I can relive the painful memories this house holds.
I’m homesick for a place I’ve never been;
Where my heart is full and my mind is at ease.
When does the pain stop?
When does this empty feeling go away? When does the useless feeling, the lost feeling subside? When will I be happy? “It gets better” they say, “just give yourself time to heal.” Tell me, please, how I am suppose to repair a broken heart and soul.
It’s been 11 long years since my life fell apart; I was confident and happy, my eyes sparked with hope of a happy life and then that hurricane hit. I can’t stress how crushing it is to have a guy come out as gay especially at 14 after you slept together for the first time just three months before. I can’t begin to explain the depth of the pain that brings me, the demons anxiety invited in tell me daily that I was responsible for his decision. Even after being told over and over again that it was nothing I did, that I didn’t “turn him gay” a huge part of me still believes that something I did turned him off women.
My sane mind knows being gay isn’t a choice, but most of the time the demons scream louder then my same mind can.
It didn’t make my fears and insecurities any better when he came back into my life. 4 months of passive aggressive and just plain aggressive comments dimmed every star that use to sparkle in my eyes. He controlled my entire life, using threats to achieve his own personal goals. I lost friends, I lost my self worth and I felt tired and worn from carrying his sucide threats, from battling with his “I’ll go full gay” comments if I made him angry. I felt trapped and alone; alone because he was often unreachable. He was never there when i needed him to be, I called him for hours after my grandma died and heard nothing from him; I couldn’t reach him on nights that I was up all night crying about my dads diagnosis. He was my first love, my last relationship.
His problems kept me from my family for that awful 10 months. Kept me away from one of my favorite people; my beautiful grandma. Her soul was so genuine, her laugh was contagious and she loved deeper then any person I have ever known. I still have the last time I saw her burnt into my brain. The hazy memory torments me, sitting across the room from her watching her cry. It was Christmas, it was beautiful chaos, it was comfortable and it was home; she always felt like home even though I never lived with her. Her best friend died and she was missing him, missing him the way you miss someone during the holidays, that bittersweet feeling of joy and pain. I kick myself everyday that I didn’t make more of a effort to see her, I was consumed with my own pain that I couldn’t see that she was suffering. I remember the day she died often, it hit me so hard hearing those words. It felt like a part of me died, that my heart was ripped from my chest and that my home had burnt to the ground. It was so unexpected, she was improving the nurses said, they must be wrong, why? Curled up in the fetal position crying so hard I couldn’t breath, memorizing the time and day God took my angel, I fell into a restless sleep only to awake to a new reality I couldn’t deal with..
Like a unsettling storm that picks up speed with every passing second I was thrown into a whirlwind of emotions; A moment of peace seemed to be closely followed by hours of unrelenting spinning. Lets go back a few days, it was a Tuesday and his diagnosis was over shadowed for a moment because of grandma’s heart attack and untimely death. My strong, resilient dad was handed a death sentence at only 44 years of age and for the first time in my life I saw fear in his eyes. Life has a not-so-funny way of doing things, we get pushed to our limits and learn from it; well we’re expected to learn from it. I never understood that, that ridiculous notion that we must suffer to become stronger. I have watch people deteriorate and kill themselves slowly, I’ve see pain and suffering that never really goes away. I have only learned to fear, to doubt and to build walls to protect me. I have learned that blood is not stronger then water or drugs, that people and things are thrown away if they are broken. I haven’t learnt or grown from the sorrows threw my way, I have not understood or accepted. I continue to suffer in silence over my own and everyone around me’s issues and pain
Watching my dad slowly deteriorate was one of the hardest things I ever had to do, it killed me inside. I had no motivation to do anything my depression took a hold of me and my anxiety made my think the worst everyday thoughts like “I’ll come home and he
wont be alive” ran through my head and I had no room in my head to learn. I began missing school, a lot. My grades were falling and I didn’t care, I failed most of my first semester courses in grade 11 and barely made it a month into second semester before dropping out. It was almost exactly two years after my grandma’s death and my dad’s diagnosis and I struggled a lot with my decision, especially so close to graduation but we were only given a certain number of days with my dad, he out lived the 18 months but I had no idea if he would live longer then 2 year and I couldnt deal with the anxiety that surrounded the unknown and only felt some relief if I was home with him. A few weeks before I dropped out of school I met this girl, I’m going to refer to her as K because she doesn’t even deserve to be fully named. K lived with her biological dad’s ex girlfriend (M) and her kids and on the weekends they stayed at M’s boyfriend’s house. M’s boyfriend had 4 other kids from a previous marriage and one (S) was close to mine and K’s age but old enough to legally buy alcohol; we drank a lot, the three of us and his various friends. I never have been a big drinker but at that point I was desperate for a momentary break from reality and so I drank as fast and as much as I could to kill my sorrow and when I did I spent the night. I never once had any issues and slowly their family and friends became mine until one night in May. It was a warm night, I was drinking and stumbled back to the house as the party ended, I had been at my boyfriend at the times house and preferred to spend the evening with him then at a party. There was only Ryan and K and S and his brother still hanging around when I got back which didn’t bother me because Ryan, S and his brother never seemed like a threat; oh how naive I was. K and I usually slept in S’s bedroom because there was a huge bed and he didn’t mind sleeping on the couch, this night was different though. We ended up in S’s room to continue to drink because his dad was sleeping. In that room, in a bed I had slept in many times I was molested; K sleeping next to me, inches from my face yet I could not move to wake her up. The terror that Ryan brought into my life still haunts me, why couldn’t I move or speak? My nightmare wasn’t over though, no not even close . Nothing is worse then being sexually assaulted and not believed, being made to feel like I asked for it and not being able to tell anyone in fear that you would be doubted again. After everything I had been threw with males I felt like I was even more damaged then before. I have not been soberly intimate with someone since his cold fingers made their way down my body and underwear, I haven’t had a pap smear or trusted another man since.
**Disclaimer, this is not completely true. My best friend is a male, he has always believed me, and been there for me. He is the one of the most amazing men I have ever known and he reassures me that there are trustworthy men out there, I couldn’t continue this without acknowledging how amazing and trustworthy he is. I owe him more then I could ever give him. **
I have stayed away from alcohol and the idea of drinking sent me into a whirlwind of angry and painful emotions that always ended in a panic attack and a turned off phone. On the rare occasions that I did drink, which weren’t often, I would either drink too much or sip on one drink and hand it to someone else. I mastered the art of fake drinking in situations I felt unsafe in and would only sleep at other peoples houses if there was no chance of other people being there and if there was I would taxi to my best friends house and crash in his bed. There were a couple times I drank so much I lost all sensible behavior and ended up in a bed with someone. I hate admitting that, I’m not that person but thankfully both of the guys were old friends and were nothing but respectful after and during..
This is a pattern my family knows well, Drinking and sleeping around has been a family tradition as far back as my great grandparents. This is not something I am proud of, or something that I ever wanted to do. Alcohol and drugs have taken so much from me and my family I don’t know why I ever put myself in the situations I put myself in, or why I didn’t learn from my elders mistakes. I changed my ways, I didn’t want to have that reputation. I didn’t want to follow in their footsteps so I stopped.
“I’ve seen my whole family struggle, with money, with drugs, with alcohol, and I thought there must be a better way. As you mature, you realize you don’t choose your family. It’s not your fault what they do and you should not be ashamed. “
Shortly after my grandma died, my dad got sick and my “first love” came out my family was hit with yet another challenge. My uncle, a tall-ish man with a temper and personality to match, suddenly stopped coming around, he stopped being a part of our lives and when he was around he was often in his own little world. I never knew why, I didn’t want to come to terms that he was battling his demons with drugs or that my uncle wasn’t perfect. I looked up to him so much, I looked forward to seeing him and he was without a doubt my favorite uncle. I decided a long time ago that if I got married and my dad had passed I wanted Uncle Bill to walk me down the aisle because he was the only other man other then my dad I would trust to give me to my future husband. I don’t want to get married anymore, trusting males never got me anywhere and even if I did I’d walk alone, there I go digressing again. We didn’t see or hear from him for about a year, his addiction killed the only uncle I loved unconditionally and in kind of glad I didn’t see him in that condition. His demons picked at him and his inability to cope with his moms death led him to a pipe, a white crystallized substance that was to blame for losing his entire family and no where to live. A little over a year and a half later his entire life was controlled by his addiction, he was so consumed with trying to get high or finding a way to make money for drugs his personal relationships fell apart. His common-law wife kick him out of their house and he was left homeless and broken. My mom has the biggest heart, she would give her last dollar to someone she loves even if she needed it, and without a second thought opened our home to him.
I have to admit, I felt as though we would finally have the old him back and we would finally have our family back together; little did I know the severity of his addiction or that he was not the only one that was battling addiction. I have so many fond memories of that short-lived time he lived here. He was involved in our lives, he was a breath of fresh air and gave my dad an opportunity to feel like his old self. My uncle did not sugar coat the world or treat him different, they joked and laughed and our home was alive again. It was short lived, the good times usually are when dealing with addicts, he met a woman who was just as sick as he was and stopped coming home. The day my parents kicked him out my mom’s camera went missing and he was automatically blamed, even though my dad’s brother and care workers were also in and out of our house all day, and my heart broke again.
Sadly, he wasn’t the only one in our family that was addicted to drugs or negative behaviors.
My youngest uncle, he’s only 15 years older then me yet acts like a child. He drinks, does drugs, brags about his sexual activities and claims he was in porn. He has never had a serious relationship and I’m sure has a few unknown children, born and unborn, around somewhere. He was the first to point out my uncle’s problems, he was the first to gossip about his drug using yet was never a man enough to admit that he was also just as sick as his brother. The one huge difference between my Uncle Bill and this idiot is that Uncle Bill had no kids that his actions were effecting. How can you call yourself a father while you are out dropping acid, bragging about being in porn and snorting cocaine to stay awake? How can you bring a child, let alone a daughter, into this world and not show her how a man is suppose to act? She is now just as messed up as he is stealing checks and cashing them, drinking all weekend and sleeping around. He would refer to his choices and actions as “being an adult” and had the audacity to bring another life into this world when he wasn’t even capable to raise the one he has. A mini him now runs wild in this world, 5 years old and already swearing and unruly, a product of two addicts who continue to use and abuse drugs. He is the first to speak ill of Uncle Bill, to spread lies about how he’s not working or smoking meth, yet will never admit that he is too. That he is living a double life or that his web of lies are so tangled he is unsure of what it real. He often calls my mom asking for money or a ride, he is in an unhealthy relationship that effects 4 innocent children and has the maturity level of a 10 year old boy. To say that I dislike him would be an understatement. In my eyes he is just as untrustworthy as they make my uncle appear to be.
I am in debt for 20,000 dollars because I decided to go to Vancouver Career College instead of a public college. I was only told, by many potential employers, after I was already done that most places see Vancouver Career College on a resume and throw it away. I am in debt for something I can even use.
In addition to all of this, I have watched my sister struggle relentlessly with a custody battle between her and her children’s father. Her pain and sorrow is evident, especially when he first left, whenever there’s a family holiday or birthday and her and the boys are left without the missing piece. Her only wish was for a happy family, a mom and dad together. We weren’t raised with separated parents and we never had to divide our time between homes, and she didn’t want that for her boys either. The exhaustion and pain I see in her eyes on a daily basis is heart wrenching and so unnecessary. This and so many other little situations I’ve experienced showed me that love doesn’t conquer all, that love isn’t taken as serious as it one was. It scares me to see how easy people throw away their families and their wives/fiances/girlfriends and I know I would be shattered if I ever dealt with the pain and broken trust that my sister, and many of my friends have dealt with.
Every time I try to heal to move on from my tormented past something else always gets thrown at me or someone I love.
Now I understand that we all go through things and the way we handle them reflects our future, however how can you stay optimistic when it feels like everything is working
against you. Even if I some how overcame everything from my past the one thing I have always wanted will still be so far from my reach because of tiny little cysts that line my ovaries. I’m just so overwhelmed and unmotivated. My entire life just seems like a waste and there are so many days that I don’t want to get out of bed and try because it doesn’t matter what I do, say or take nothing gets rid of this pain. This feeling of being a failure. I’m so broken and messed up my body cant produce serotonin yet It will grow cysts. How am I learning anything being a sales associate/keyholder/cashier? I want to do bigger and better things in my life but my self doubts and past haunt me. I feel so lost and hopeless. Maybe one day I can look back on this and I’ll be married with kids and a career and most of all I’ll be happy.
Until then I’ll put my trust in god and dream of better days.
From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed; lead me to the rock that is higher than I” – Psalms 61:2