Love Is Love

Tags

Brainstorm Revolution, Connecting, Ending the Stigma, In This Together, Love is Love, Mental Health, Our Story, PTSD, Save-My-Life School, Sisters

This is our story, written with love, by Natalie Harris and Christine Newman

Nat:

Love is like a big piece of chocolate cake with a tall glass of cold milk. It’s like a cool river washing over your feet on a hot August day. It’s like waking up early only to realize that it’s Saturday and that you can roll back over and return to your dream about David Beckham. Okay, well, maybe that example is more of MY idea of love, but overall what I’m trying to get at is that love is gratifying, soothing, and amazingly dreamy. What love looks like to me will probably be different from what it looks like for you … and isn’t that so amazing?! Isn’t it great that we get to choose who we love and why we love them? I sure think so.

Christine:

Love is the desire to see the people you care deeply about succeed in everything they do. Love is rocking a young child and they fall asleep almost instantly (I have a loud heartbeat). Love is when you think of that special person every day when you wake up, and before you go to sleep at night, and you hope that they have the most amazing day ever. Love is not only missing someone when you are sad, but wishing they were with you in your happiest moments, too. Love is the moment where the simplest thing will have you dreamily floating on air. Love is the moment that you recall, because of how you felt when your soul was alive with music. Love is choosing someone because they choose you, too.

Nat:

I am a firm believer in extending my family tree by choice, on one condition – that I love the person who is being added very much. That I connect with them on a level that is cellular … that’s even out of this universe. I have to admire their heart and passions, and feel that I would risk my life for them. I have to genuinely care about their wellbeing and deeply concern myself with their happiness. They just have to be AMAZING – no biggie – no pressure. But they just have to ROCK.

Enter into my life Christine Newman. Via Twitter, through a mutual friend, we meet and click right away. We get each other and laugh together until our cheeks hurt. It doesn’t take long to realize that we are both Empaths and can sense each other’s energies. And almost immediately I knew that she belonged in my family. She was my sister … my chosen sister, and I can’t thank the universe enough for putting her in my life.

Christine:

We all have a past, and mine causes me to take time before I have a comfort/trust level with someone before I would ever allow them to get past my defences, to get close, to know the real me, not what I show to the world. They must be a person who can engage my heart, mind, and soul. There must be love, before anything else. If their biggest passion is to make a difference for all people, they are somebody that I really need in my life, to be part of my family.

Enter into my life Natalie Harris. Wait, I’m not sure that’s the best description. Nat exploded through the door bringing light, laughter, and infinite love! Our mutual friend, Laurie McCann, had reached out to me in the late summer of 2016. Christine, you MUST connect with my friend Natalie Harris! She is @ParamedicNat1 on Twitter. Before you do another thing, make sure you go and follow her right now! Listen my friend, I really, and I mean REALLY, want you two gals to connect and get to know each other. You both work in the same areas of Mental Health, and your personalities and humour are identical.

It’s true, our connection was instantaneous, like we had known each other forever, through every lifetime. Nat regularly tells me that we are one soul, one heart, one mind, shared between two people. We just get each other. We have laughed until we cried; we have shared our thoughts, hopes and dreams; we have shared secrets with each other that no other living soul knew; we just are each other. We have had the same battles with mental health, we have been through hell and are still standing. I know that when I need her, she will always be there, and when she needs me, I will never leave her side, ever.

Nat:

The peer support program I had founded, Wings of Change, was really showing results for people who participated, and there was interest in creating more chapters in other cities. I was also working with my publisher, Heather, on getting my first book, Save-My-Life School, the story of my personal mental health journey, ready for publication very soon. I was speaking to paramedic programs at colleges, and speaking to other groups about mental health. I was part of the group supporting Cheri DiNovo’s bill to get PTSD coverage for first responders. I had a lot happening!

And even with all that, I looked forward to our daily conversations. I am not comfortable spending time on the telephone, so we texted, messaged, e-mailed, and more. Sometimes well into the overnight hours, because we were sharing ourselves with each other, and man oh man, did we laugh! Laurie was right, we are so much alike, it is like we have been connected for many lifetimes. We both love keeping busy, it keeps our brains from going down some dark paths, and we thrive on making a difference for other people.

When my book was released, we had a book launch and signing in Barrie. I know Christine was disappointed that she could not be there, but was checking the iBooks store multiple times per day so that she could buy a copy to read the moment it was available. She texted to let me know that it was available for purchase, and she was about to download a copy and start reading. Funny, of all the people in my life, I wanted most to know what she thought of my writing. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I texted her, “How is the book? What do you think? Honestly.” “Nat, the only way to say this is, you were in my mind, looking around. Section 1 of your book, you were telling my story, too.”

Christine:

I call Nat my kid sister. People think it’s a blood connection … it’s better! We chose each other, we adopted each other, we declared ourselves to be sisters, and we never hesitate to give voice to how much we love each other. It also explains our Empath connection, we literally feel everything the other is experiencing. If one of us is having a rough day, guaranteed the other sister will send a message to check in, and just be with each other, not always having to talk, just knowing we have got each other, always.

I know when she needs a good laugh, and will do my best to make it happen, because I love the sound of her laugh. I have heard her cry, and the pain in her tears is so heartbreaking. I want to see her succeed and soar to new heights, because she is what the world needs more of.

I dove into Save-My-Life School as soon as I downloaded it. I didn’t tell Nat that I had messaged my editor, that I would be reviewing her book for the magazine as soon as I could get my hands on a copy (print copies FLEW off the shelves, local stores were always sold out). I always read reviewed books twice, the first time for content, the second time for style. The second read was almost complete when Nat texted me. There were tears each time I read her story. Those moments when you wish you were the only one to know the hell of mental illness, and how your heart aches when you find out that those whom you love the most have experienced it, too. What I found most inspirational about Nat’s story, is that every time she emerged from the fires of the hell that is PTSD, she was carrying buckets of water for everyone else still battling. I had the spark of an idea, but I wouldn’t say anything to her just yet.

To my surprise and delight, the senior editor at the magazine was reading my column as each page uploaded in our publishing software. I thought I would have a nice surprise after the weekend; yet, within minutes, I had received the e-mail notification, the column was already published, it was live on the website and the links had already been posted on social media. I sent the link to Nat, “Hey Sis, surprise! Read this and let me know what you think.”

Nat:

I was truly honoured. We had not even met in person, and she wrote this amazing review of my book and how much it meant to her. In a magazine. Online. It was everywhere instantly. I was smiling from ear to ear as I read each sentence. Then she totally surprised me in the last paragraph. She spoke of something she has said in lectures, that coming out is a lifelong process. Not just about who you are attracted to (she says, “who you snuggle up to at night”), but in every area of your life.

I never knew that this was a whole new conversation for her, that for years of her published writing, she had never mentioned this. Christine came out to her readers about her own mental health issues. About battling PTSD, depression, and anxiety. About surviving suicide attempts, and so much more. She wrote that I had inspired her to be at the same level of openness, that the only way to end the stigma was to have all voices heard. I was so proud of her! And I was moved to tears, to think that somehow I could inspire that to happen.

In the coming months, we talked about everything possible. I knew she had a series of lectures coming up, and on one of those dates, I would be across the road for a book signing that evening. She invited our whole crew, Heather, Kim, and myself, to sit in and watch a few hours of teaching hearts and minds. A few days before, she said, “I thought of this when I was reviewing your book, Sis. I cannot pass up the opportunity to introduce my students to one of my greatest heroes, my source of inspiration … would you be willing to get up and speak as part of the lecture?”

OMG yes! It was going to be a significant day for both of us. This was her first time delivering a lecture in a huge theatre instead of a classroom or lecture hall, and I could not wait to get there so we could finally hug, talk, and more. I was getting anxious in the car on the drive down to the city, I did not want to be late, and I could not wait to finally meet her in person!!

Christine:

That day was memorable on every possible level. I arrived extra early, I wanted to map out a few different routes to get from the theatre to the bookstore. I know how much I appreciate it when the organizer of an event thinks ahead, and finds me the best route to get from place to place. I had found three different ways to get there, and was back in the lobby waiting for Nat, Kim, and Heather to arrive.

I saw a sudden flash of movement in the corner of my eye, and there was Nat, running from the door to where I was standing! We were bursting with excitement, hugging, and talking as fast as possible to say everything we wanted to say while making up for time missed!

I still remember going up into the seats to bring Nat to the front for the Q&A session with the students, taking her by the hand so I could ensure she didn’t trip on the cables, and her exclamation as we walked quickly to the stage …

Nat:

“OMG Christine, you’re holding my hand … I love you!!”

There are times that I am still amazed at how our connection was so instant, a sudden spark, and has only grown deeper since that first time we spoke.

It was a difficult summer, with so much happening, a nasty roller coaster ride. Yet, true to our word, any time we needed each other, we just knew and were there without delay.

I love this quote so much,

Choose people who choose you.

We choose each other, with lots of love, every single day.

And on those days when I needed it most, when I was sobbing uncontrollably, she would send me a message, we’d talk, she would make me laugh, break the hold that depression had me in, and erasing the sadness I was feeling, too. That rope ladder made from turkey twine still makes me laugh!

Christine:

We were attending an event together at Toronto Police Headquarters. We had both had a rough few days, and we really needed to lean on each other that day.

We had not realized that our friend, Kim, had taken a photo of us, sharing a quiet moment together, which she would send to us later that day. Kim told us,

Whenever the two of you are together, we all know that we need to give you some time alone, to quietly connect and just be with each other without interruptions. Today, when I saw this moment and it lasted for a few minutes, I knew I had to capture a photo of it to share with you. I think it speaks volumes about the two of you, don’t you?

It does! That photo radiates love, and we shared it with all of our friends and networks.

That evening, I saw Laurie online, and I sent her the photo with this comment, “You, my friend, are totally responsible for this.”

Nat:

We still receive notes from friends who work as first responders, “I have just had a shift from hell. Would you please find a reason to post the photo again. I really need a reminder that love and hope still exist.”

Both of us will share the photo again, to give them that boost.

Christine said that they felt this wave of love all throughout headquarters on that ice cold November day. Some of you know the photo, we were having a quiet moment, we were hanging on for dear life in a soul-rebooting hug, with waves of love shared, and that moment meant everything. The two of us, together, with an abundance of love, was the only safe place on the planet that day.

Christine:

Last Spring, I was out of town attending a dinner with some really amazing women, and I could not wait to get home to tell Nat every single detail. I love that thought. Any time something good happens, my first thought is, “I can’t wait to tell Nat about this!”

As we wrapped up our conversation that evening, Nat said to me, “I’ll love you forever and a million days more.”

I was speechless briefly, and then replied, “I’ll love you forever and a million days more, too.”

We posted our promise to each other on social media that night before we went to sleep.

Now, it is how we always end our conversations. It’s so perfect. It is who we are.

Nat:

We made a little change to the lullaby from the book Love You Forever, written by Robert Munsch. This is our version …

I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, for as long as I’m living, and a million days more.

Christine:

I remind my Sis often: I choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.

A few years ago, I asked my wise friend, Joie, “Sisbro, I’m worried. You know I have this whole conversation stuck in my head about being “damaged goods.” Is it possible to love and be loved when you are broken? What does your Buddhist spirit say?”

“Sis, my Buddhist spirit says the same thing that my cousin Lin-Manuel said at the Tony Awards, Love is Love is Love, and that’s all that matters. If you love each other, everything else will fit perfectly. Just enjoy the beauty of your relationship.”

Nat:

I LOVE that speech!

We live through times when hate and fear seem stronger; We rise and fall and light from dying embers, remembrances that hope and love last longer; and LOVE is LOVE is LOVE is LOVE is LOVE is LOVE is LOVE and LOVE cannot be killed or swept aside; I sing Vanessa’s symphony, Eliza tells her story, now fill the world with music, love, and pride.

Nat and Christine:

I PROMISE, I’LL LOVE YOU FOREVER AND A MILLION DAYS MORE.

I’m eternally proud of you, Sis.

For us, it is quite simple … Love Is Love.

*This work had its debut performance on stage for Goddess Day at Buddies In Bad Times Theatre in honour of International Women’s Day 2019.

Advertisements

The Last Narration

Tags

First Responders, Mental Health, PTSD, Trauma, Understanding

First time in years I will post something on this date. I prefer to avoid it as best as I can. I wrote something years ago, but have no idea where it went. So, rather than answer the question dozens of times today, sit back with a coffee and I’ll tell you a story, and it will be the absolute last time I will share this.

The pictures are a few that I had without people in the foreground. Those folks are memories that are mine only.

I had a new camera, it was the 90s, and this fancy-arsed bit of gear could take photos in three different sizes by flipping a switch on the bottom of the camera. Film was in a sealed container, you put it in the camera, pressed a button, everything auto-loaded. The negatives were still in the container when you got your prints back, you had a 3×5 print with thumbnails of the photos on that roll. Pretty nifty technology for the times, considering digital photography was still some ways off, and cell phones made phone calls and that was all they did.

It’s why I avoid the 24 hour constant drumbeat of the various things today, that will flood the media and online sites.

I used to work in Tower 1, and had actually been there the week prior to 9/11 because of a last minute change in scheduling, otherwise I would have been making my way that morning from the World Trade Centre Marriott, out for a coffee and a cigarette with the usual crew, and then heading upstairs to get busy. It was one of two companies that I worked for at that time.

Liked the corner we had, if I leaned back in my chair at the right angle, I could look out the window, through the gap between two other buildings, and watch the ships in the river.

That fountain, I recall it being put in a park after the attacks, as a place for people to meet up and check in. It’s where we would gather for lunch or breaks, or if working late enough, dinner, and enjoy the sights and sounds and the multitude of languages that sounded like a chorus in the area. And always the space for all of us smokers (we were many more in that era!) to gather and laugh and could spare a light and a cig for someone who came out without theirs.

Or the guy behind the counter at a local deli, at the old offices in Murray Hill, saying to my friend Tas, “c’mon sweetheart, I ain’t here for my good looks, pick up the pace!” That typical New York ‘tude. Little did he know that she could give as good as she got, and they became fast buddies and would razz each other mercilessly when we popped in for a bagel and a coffee. The move to the WTC was such a big thing for everyone, bright sparkly new office space, all new furniture and equipment. You know the drill.

This morning, 9/11/01, nice sunny day, clear skies, into the office in the financial district at home extra early, had a technician from one of my vendors in, and we were hard at it in the computer room from early in the morning.

I had popped out to get something out of my desk drawer, and my phone was ringing, and saw it was Mom’s office number. I answered, and she said, “is there a radio near you?” No, nothing like that, open concept. “How about a television?” Lunch room beside the computer room, it should be on by now. “Good, go put CNN on and call me right back!!”

I walked into the lunch room as the second plane hit, live on the news.

DAFUQ??!!

Immediately, my thought was, what the hell are they running some SciFi movie at this time of the morning for??

Then they replayed the first plane strike and the fireball, then the second, then the first again.

If anyone wonders, when they share pictures of the planes exploding into the towers … that’s triggering as hell.

I went back to my desk and was just reaching for the phone when my vendor’s tech came out and said, they were just paged, everybody to evacuate downtown and return to the offices north of the city. Sent him on his way and called Mom back. “When are you leaving? I’ll meet you at the train.” They haven’t said shit about anyone leaving yet… far as I know, we’re still working today. “Fuck!! Okay, the second they let you go, call me and I’ll meet you at the train!” Mom’s offices had moved from near the airport out to the very west end of Mississauga in those years.

Some people said bollocks, and weren’t going to wait for management to get their finger outta their asses, packed up and split. Just to be sure, we had a quick meeting for the key peeps in I.T. to go over having to do a rapid shutdown of the computer room. Called up to the call centre and told them to re-record the panic button announcement. As I would discover in the next hour, they all split without doing it, and put up the standard holiday announcement. UGH!!! By this point, there are a handful of I.T. folks still in the offices, as we start the orderly shutdown of all the gear.

At one point, we figured, we may be quite a while, may as well split into shifts and go downstairs and grab some lunch. They had just renovated the food courts and had these fancy-arsed new flat screen televisions and we could see what the hell was going on while we wolfed down some food. We were startled by people running at top speed while screaming at full volume, through the PATH system towards transit stations. Really? Likely too much mania and misinformation on the media causing it.

By this point, back upstairs, spot the developers manager, ask him to stand by me and listen, I’m going to record an emergency closed announcement for the phone systems, main number and call centre, soon as I finish, I’ll pass you the receiver, say what I just said, only in French. Another crisis handled. Oy! Working in I.T. on Bay Street for a few decades, you get used to speaking in a dull monotone while dealing with shit happening all around you.

Then an e-mail hits every computer in every office worldwide. A storefront office of ours near the WTC has sent a message to GROUP: ALL.

Is there anyone still alive? We have a class of grade 1 kids and their teacher locked in the store with us. What do we do? Is there anyone there? Help!

Even now, that memory sends chills throughout me. Cellphones are down, voice lines are jammed, data circuits are sketchy… much of NYC ran through the WTC site. Because our systems had redundancies built upon redundancies, we had multiple back-ups. Reply sent from the UK head office, “Stay in place, NYPD or NYFD will come and get you and the children… we will get a message to them. Stay safe. London out.”

Computer room brought down, ready to leave. The two of us remaining walk through the building lobby heading for Bay and King Streets. We get outside, and there is NOT A SOUND. The streets are empty. The only thing we see are police cars parked on angle in the intersections, and officers with long guns in hand. That’s when things got weird, because you just don’t ever see that in Canada, at least, at that time.

Union Station is a complete madhouse. We both are on the same line going west, and they post a train on the board. Probably wise that we waited, it took some time to get crews in to get the trains rolling again. Call Mom and let her know we’re due to leave downtown.

Meet her at the station, we head home, and between answering my pagers, making phone calls, and dialling in through the lock and key modems to wake up the phone system, you just sit stunned and watch things unfold.

And the media played those scenes over and over and over and over and over and over and over again.

Finally crash around 3 when the phones and pagers go quiet. Up at 5, back on the road downtown, have already started a remote power up and boot process, should be just about finished when I get to the office, fire up the UNIX systems, and we’re good to go… and remember to talk to the call centre manager about the epic clusterfuck from the day before.

We were due to launch a new teleconferencing and video system that week. Call from US law enforcement, can we use your servers? Absolutely, I’ll call the vendor, they’re yours for as long as you need. Calls from our east coast offices, we have plane people, can we get approval for expenses for necessities. Yup! All the big brass (aka mahogany row) were overseas for meetings, so, we did a lot on our own initiative from Toronto (because it’s easier to ask for forgiveness after).

Three weeks after the attack, a few of our folks had not returned to work, there was no word on their missing family member who had worked in the upper 20 floors of Tower 2. And then, the new owners, with 9/11 as their excuse, laid off 85% of the staff in Toronto and New York.

Talk about a corporate rogering, and we never even got kissed first.

Snapped up by a headhunter a few months later, on the promise, sworn oath, that I would not have to travel. No, only once a year at most.

I was on a frigging plane every other week. Until SARS hit. Then they canned any staff under quarantine who could not travel. Grandma was declining rapidly and was on death’s doorstep. Paramedics scooped and ran with her multiple times until the hospital finally admitted her, and we were quarantined in case of SARS-related illnesses. So much for that job, but at least no more flying for me.

Two French brothers were making a documentary and were in the midst of all of it. Watched it twice when it aired. That was enough. That desk in the lobby, I recall laughing with the security guard there. The church where they took Father Judge after the first collapse. Have sat in there in quiet thought. Twice was enough, no more.

I recall meeting the wife and daughter of a gentleman lost in the towers that day, all from Toronto, and his wife’s words have stuck with me to this day. As soon as we start to get past this nightmare, the annual grief orgy comes up again, and we are stuck reliving every single horror of that day, while people obsess over every detail.

I get it. She had a good cry, and we had a few laughs, and went our separate ways, and her words have stayed with me ever since.

So, that’s why I don’t write about this, this is totally making an exception, and I will never hash it out at length again. I will have my memories from there with me always, and we remember those lost on that day, and in the intervening years from the most horrendous illnesses from working on “the pile”.

I haven’t set foot down there since. Had a message from a treasured friend this morning, “The Girl Tribe will take you back when you’re ready.”

Those who are silent today, are reliving memories, and still dealing with stuff. Give them space, they’ll be back to themselves tomorrow. Trust me on that. One long-time friend relives the moment as the second tower collapse was happening, running away from the growing dark cloud. They prefer not to have to relive it constantly either.

With love, sunbeams, and kitten dreams, and, in memory of those no longer present in this realm.

Christine 🙏🏼💙💙

On Being a Survivor

Tags

Dissociation, Mental Health, My Story, PTSD, Stigma, Trauma, Violence

This will not be an easy read, kittens. Let’s get that out there right up front.

Before I begin, I must give you multiple TRIGGER WARNINGS.

This post will discuss violence, sexual assault, trauma, rape, bullying, and, suicide. If any of this might trigger you, I would strongly suggest that you close your browser window or scroll past quickly to another post.

If you have ever sat in any of my lectures, at colleges and universities, you will be familiar with much of what I am about to discuss here. Why publish it now? Because some people need to hear this to be able to understand. Some to understand that they are not alone and that I, and my soul sisters, we get it, and as much as we wish the club would never add another member, we know that it does multiple times per hour. Some to understand that violence causes trauma which in turn can cause other issues, and people will act or react in certain ways because of it.

There are certain aspects and things from my past that I have never discussed and likely never would in any environment. Literally I have one or two people (thank you Katherine 💙💙) who I feel comfortable with discussing those things because they’ve been there too.

Before digging in, again, I’m reminding you of the TRIGGER WARNINGS.

Let us begin.

Let’s drop in the first slide for discussion…

From the first day of school until I graduated from grade 13, bullying was a constant. Daily, hourly, without end. I dreaded school, hated every single second of it. It was due to this that between the ages of 9 and 10 I was diagnosed with anxiety. My memory is not what it used to be, so if you want the term used in the 70s, feel free to hit Google. High Strung. Nervous. “Sensitive”. Ugh. Add in a diagnosis of depression in my teens. When I look over the top of my glasses at some “expert” it’s usually because I’m thinking, “listen cleverarse, I’ve been living with this for fucking near 40 years now… been there, done that, didn’t want the fucking t-shirt, ‘k?” Was there any peace at home? No. This was a time when my Mum was working 2 jobs and she never knew what went on until many, many, years later. What one teacher did discover, for years, the ring leader behind it had been my sister, egged on by her father (he had a psychotic hatred of both Mum and me). They offered to move me to another school to finish grade 13. Hardly worth it by that time… just get to June, give me my diploma, and I’ll never darken the bloody halls of this place ever again.

Oh, the anxiety and depression? Treated, but not really successfully at all. Other physical issues began to show up over the years. More on that later. Suffice it to say, being physically ill before having to leave for school was a daily thing. And the thought of it on Sunday nights would cause multiple issues.

There was the usual nonsense over the years, and one evening in my 30s, the anxiety went off the charts without warning, and I was gasping for air. I didn’t know it in the moment, but I was having a full-blown panic attack. I literally felt like I was about to die. I’m used to them now, if there is such a thing as becoming used to that, but, I have tools to manage them now that I never had access to then. What would lay you out on the floor curled in a ball, I may get a slight twitch in one eye while I’m talking myself through it.

8 years ago, January 2010, Mum had been sick, but couldn’t figure out what. Waking up to her paralyzed down her right side one morning set off a cascade of events. Two weeks later those words. “You have terminal brain cancer. You have 6 weeks to live. Unless you sign up for this experimental program, you should go home and get your affairs in order.”

It had always been just the two of us, and that’s how she would slip away quietly in July of that year, just the two of us in her room, I was holding her hand, she gave it a squeeze and she was gone. I still have all those what if’s in my mind, and the if only’s. Mum wanted to die at home… could not do that for her, by May she was beyond what I could manage for her medically at home, with a visiting nurse in every day. I spent days and nights with her in Palliative Care, as my voice was the only one she would respond to. While I was busy taking care of her and hoping she would have an easy path to the next life, I never knew that family were busily emptying her accounts and stripping anything of value from the apartment. I had to stop working to look after her, and once she slipped away quietly after midnight, I went into automatic mode.

My friend of many years said he was surprised I was so emotionless throughout it all. I had to be. It was my natural state of being functional, I turned all that off in my childhood. Mum would say I was 40 since I was 5, and 50 since I was 20. It’s true. Experiences over the years pushed me further and further back into my shell, and it’s rare that anyone caught a glimpse of me, let alone see behind the defences I had been constructing for years to keep people at a safe distance. I had learned, if you let them in, you will get hurt, and not just a bruise, but fucked up in multiple ways. The people who are close to me now, who have seen behind the mask, behind the walls, they are indeed special for me to let them get that close. That’s the emotionless part, the being “terribly English, stiff upper lip and all that…” and the rest of the assorted sillybuggers that goes with it. I needed to function and get things done, that was what mattered. I could have a meltdown later when there was nobody around to see or hear me.

By the time I had wrapped up the estate, I had been out of work for over a year, and people forget you exist quickly in my old career field. There was no fast way back to making a buck, and I ended up losing our apartment. Where we had lived for 35 years. The place Mom had begged me to promise her that no matter what I would stay there. Yeah. Stellar. First suicide attempt. Ended up on the street with a bag of clothes and my cat. Family stood on the sidelines and watched it happen and never made a move. But I hear they had a field day when they could take the remaining contents and made a big show out of dumping photos in the garbage dumpsters out back.

After a couple of nights out on the street, make it to a shelter where I can keep my cat with me… she’s all I have left, adopted her at 6 weeks old, and she’s 8 at this time. Then I discovered the hell on earth that is our city’s shelter system. Violence is a daily fact of life. Street drugs were everywhere and used openly in front of staff who just didn’t care. Being assaulted in the bathrooms was standard procedure. And there is no easy way to couch this, so I’ll just drop in the next slide here…

I was raped. At knifepoint. By somebody wrecked on drugs. I reported it to the office the morning after. They did everything shy of laugh about it. What I was told though, “You can call the police if you like, but you’ll lose your bed, and your cat will go to the Humane Society.”

I said nothing. Did nothing.

After the third time being raped that week, I stopped caring. I could not safely sleep in my room, and I would sit up all night long in the common area. I knew there was no help from the staff. After being awake for almost 72 hours, I took an overdose. Suicide attempt #2. I was apparently discovered convulsing on my bed. Taken to hospital, and they did whatever they had to do, and once I could stand up, I was given a bus token and discharged and sent back. Without shoes. In a rainstorm.

I shut down completely.

I stopped talking, functioning, eating. I was so full of medications prescribed by ER doctors from recent panic attacks, I was like a zombie. It was the only way to get through it, I knew there was zero help available from staff, I just kept looking for a place to escape there. Even my cat was not spared abuse. And again, taking her to the office, missing her fur and skin above her right eye was not enough for them to do anything. Her vet made an emergency appointment when I sent them an e-mail, and she took pictures and reported it to the OSPCA. Staff didn’t want to believe that one of their frequent flyers would do this. My vet confirmed it.

Finally find a place, but would need a roommate to cover the rent. Fine, don’t care, just let me out of this hellhole. By the time the fourth roommate had moved in during the first year (they didn’t last too long, either new girlfriend and move in together, or in one case I asked one to leave, and two others skipped with unpaid rent). Roomie #4 was “entertaining” one evening, and I had gone to a local coffee shop to wait it out. The coffee shop employees decided they were going to close up early because the owner wasn’t around. Go for a walk to wait for a text message that all is clear, I can go home. Not fully paying attention to what was around me, never heard somebody come up behind me… and here’s where another slide goes…

I don’t have much memory of it, beyond being hauled down to the sidewalk from behind by my purse strap… I had during this, dissociated, from what my therapist told me. The incident was enough to turn off, step outside of myself and watch it from a distance. I managed to make it home that night, and within a day or so was bruised from shoulder to hips down one side. I was getting pressured to report it, but, without much detail to work from, why bother? I already had the seeds planted from before that you can’t report this, or else. (Goes back much further than I’ve ever told before.) And as many times as I was urged to file a report, I literally had next to no memory of it, beyond the bruising and a few little snippets here and there. Of course, in the interim, any Canadian woman can say one name to you, and when you hear it, will instantly understand why reporting is dismal — Ghomeshi. Reference that case and see why reporting doesn’t happen.

And yet, here I stand, 4 years later, still functioning, still teaching, still lecturing, still writing, still doing the work I do best with the people I enjoy being around most. Know what? They all wear uniforms. Of all my experiences in 55 years on the planet, the one place that I have consistently been welcomed with open arms has been where I spend my time and energy working to make change happen.

And one more thing, I was able to be weaned off all the medications I was on at that time. Over 30 pills a day to just get through another 24 hours. I was lucky, I had an amazing therapist, who wanted to help out before she retired. If not for her, I am sure there would have been a third suicide attempt. Also where I was diagnosed with PTSD (later on Complex PTSD as well, but I just use PTSD, it’s simpler). And after years of zero success in managing all the various physical ailments on top of anxiety and depression, once we started treating PTSD, the physical issues went away, and the anxiety and depression became manageable. Do I still struggle some days? Absolutely. But, my chosen sister, my soul sister, Natalie, has helped so much (love you forever and a million days more, Sis). She encouraged me to speak about all of this, not just the highlights, but the ups and downs and the struggles, to lay myself bare to help another. She battles PTSD, as does our other sister. And we are all still standing, still battling, and we all fight the same battles every day. We are still here. We are winning. We are survivors. We are warriors.

I love this graphic, the Survivor Psalm.

I have used it in lectures, seminars, and talks.

It helps me to distinguish the difference between victim and survivor.

I have friends who have been through similar hells on earth. And I know exactly what moment that something has triggered their traumas and they have gone from survivor back to victim. And we gather and lift them up until they can move forward as a survivor again.

Please, I’m asking you, never refer to me as a victim. I have seen hell and made it to the other side. I’m a survivor, and don’t you forget it.

For those whom I hoped would see this and be able to make it through to here: I see you, I honour you, I understand you. I am proud of your bravery. You are a survivor too. You can get there, I know you can. It seems impossible now, but persist, I can promise you, it is better when you can claim your survivor status proudly.

For the rest of you, kittens, I send my love, hugs, and a hope that you can take something from this and make the world a better place.

The one thing all humans want is to make a difference. I hope somebody gets that from this post.

I love you. Stay safe. Spread some kindness and happiness around, ‘k?

Love, sunbeams, and kitten dreams.

Christine 🙏🏼💙💙

Triggered, dammit

Tags

Mental Health, PTSD, Stigma, Trauma, Understanding, Violence

Stepping back a bit in time, to Thursday, 3 May.

Let’s begin with a definition of what a trigger is. The graphic above is a good explanation. I also cover triggers and what is and is not a trigger in my lectures and talks. It lays the groundwork for what we will be covering in the time that follows (anything from a 15 minute talk to an 8 hour training seminar).

Again, this is the slide from my lectures:

And I refer back to this because the term has been buried under a lot of nonsense from its overuse. It’s like the valley girl style language when you hear “Oh, that’s so gay,” or one person I know who regularly says, “That’s so OCD!”, and they get the same eye roll from me when they whine “but, I’m so triggered!!” when something in poor taste is seen or heard from mainstream media. D’ya know how often I want to look over my glasses and say “grow up!”

So, what happened?

That total frustration with myself for being triggered, dammit.

There has been a troll operating on social media for some time now, in the guise of a mental health advocate and fighter (all of these tales he tells are 100% fiction). I’ve had my suspicions, and, as I will typically do, began gathering evidence (it’s not a fast process sometimes) to prove or disprove what I had been told. Said individual had been suspended on various platforms multiple times for his attacks, usually focused on women on that platform. There is no need to go into great detail beyond saying it is some of the most vile, ugly, and misogynistic hate that you will encounter online.

I have been keeping an eye on things, and let him do his thing while I watched, and on the 3rd, a friend alerted me to him up to his usual routine, only against someone we all knew. Yes, we all came to her defense, and like your typical snake, he just laid back and slithered around and spat out his venom at unprovoked intervals. You see, on what I post, any time he posted a comment, I just deleted it instantly before it triggered someone who might see it… still didn’t have enough to act yet. This day though, he was playing all his cards of ugliness.

Like most online trolls these days, particularly one who takes as long as this one did to start an all out attack, they do their research on their targets. That’s why this one was so vile, because he would hit the raw spots.

I got to be the target this time as well. Some years back, I was attacked from behind on the street (it was a violent sexual assault). My mind did what it does when stressed beyond the limits and depersonalization occurs (you step outside yourself and observe what’s happening like it is not actually happening to you). The issue with it, nothing is being stored in an area that can be easily recalled at will, and I’m left with only little snippets here and there of the total occurrence. All I had for hard evidence afterward was being bruised from shoulder to hip all down one side where I hit the sidewalk when pulled down from behind.

Following that attack, I was interviewed for a column by a friend who is a reporter, and the one thing I could recall was something that was said during the attack, she asked about it, and I told her what I remembered. It was printed in the article. For some troll digging up what they will attack their victims with, there’s that piece right there if you know where to look for it. Learned my lesson, I never talk about myself in any media interviews if possible.

So, once the troll had finished launching various bits of venom at other people, I was next, and he spat out that one line.

Triggered? Instantly, right back on that sidewalk, hearing those words, in the midst of that attack. Mentally I’m yelling at myself “Not now dammit!!” and trying to control the shaking that was happening. There’s nothing like fighting against your own mind to keep control so you can complete what you were in the middle of. That’s what being triggered is like, it sets of a reaction physically and mentally, it’s like a cascade of things that occur one right after the other. By the time the situation had been handled, I’m not perspiring, I’m frigging sweating, shaking, all the same things as a panic attack, mind is racing, heart is racing, breathing is irregular. When triggered, you relive the event, both mentally and physically.

This all happened in a time much shorter than it has taken you to read this.

Yes, I bounce back quicker than I did when first diagnosed with PTSD in 2012. But, it still pisses me off to the nth degree, because I start pulling my list of “shoulds”. I should be stronger than this, I shouldn’t let this shit trigger me, I should be used to this by now, I should not have given that interview years ago, I should be managing this better, I should not let anyone see this happening, and more. The list is long.

And another frustrating part of it, it’s not like I have not heard that line before, I’ve heard it hundreds of times, but, this time, given what else was happening at the same time, it set me off. It’s like a previous post, I can go out for an event, and have no issues, various buttons might be pushed, but not in the right order or combination to cause an issue. This time, the right buttons, in the right order, and … sigh.

Don’t worry, I still got my shots in with that troll, I don’t do all that research for nothing. One more waste of DNA dealt with. And somebody will say, why not report them to the social media platform. Because, from the day of the internet being opened publicly until now, complaining about abuse online is like yelling into a sewer, it’s a waste of fucking time because nobody is listening. Perhaps one day, the social media platforms will be legally mandated to start cracking down on this. One only has to look at the explosion in the teenage suicide rates to see what’s going on in the connected realm. And, I know, one day Karma will pay a visit, and she’s a severe bitch (leather and stilettos, right?), doesn’t say a word, just hands out what you deserve in no uncertain terms.

The whole thing, 10-15 minutes total. Still frustrated with myself about it. I want that to be one of those things that you take a big swallow of your fizzy water, let out a decent burp, say “what-ever!” and carry on with the day. That’s when I’ll be satisfied. Until then, there’s work to do.

Remember kittens, there is nothing wrong here, so talk about these things. There are a multitude of us out here willing to listen, and to help. We don’t deal in stigma, we work from understanding and love.

Love, sunbeams, and kitten dreams.

Christine ❤️❤️

On Being Vulnerable

Tags

#IveGotYourBack911, Anxiety, C-PTSD, Depression, Education, Ending the Stigma, First Responders, In This Together, Inspiration, Mental Health, My Story, PTSD, Understanding

I received a note last evening. Somebody who regularly reads what I write and publish here. The only qualifier I will add to it, is that it came from a first responder in Canada and they decided to reach out after reading The PTSD Brain in Action; The Party That Wasn’t. It seemed rather fitting, considering much of the advocacy work I do about mental health concerns first responders and associated careers.

Reading your blog always freaks me out when you talk about anxiety. I battle some of those same things too, but I have never talked to anyone about it. Good of you to be so brave.

Wow, just wow.

My mind was totally blown in that moment.

What was amazing was the conversation that followed that initial message. I have my usual questions about it when something like this is revealed:

• If you are comfortable sharing it, what was your diagnosis? (One of the forms of PTSD, Anxiety, Depression, etc.)
• Do you have support in your current work environment?
• If yes, how is it proceeding? If no, let me get you a list of resources for your area.
• Have you checked out Wings of Change Peer Support? Badge of Life Canada? (Perfect places for me to refer anyone working in primary response careers)

You get the idea.

The conversation covered many areas and showed what, for me, was missing in their support and treatment system/network. I ask a lot of questions normally, because that’s when people distinguish things for themselves as they look for an answer.

BUT… I am far from being any kind of expert in the field. I have decades of lived experience, and a lot of years of research. I share what goes on inside my mind at certain times, during an experience, in the hope that somebody will read it, recognize it, and know that they are not the only one, that they should reach out and have a conversation. It’s the first step.

It’s the same goal I have every time I go out to deliver a talk, teach a seminar or class (half-day, full-day), or get up in front of up to 250 students and deliver a 3 hour lecture. I want to reach that one. That one who thinks they are the only person dealing with what they are dealing with. That one who believes they are flawed because of the way their mind works or how they react to a situation.

Every person beyond the one is a bonus.

And every now and then, the stars will align, and the whole class just “gets it”, and they all take something away that says to them, hey, I’m not the only one.

Just let me reach that one, so they know they are not alone, and I have had a successful day, talk, class, seminar, lecture, one on one conversation.

It happened after a recent lecture, and I have touched on it in a previous post, and my heart shattered into microscopic pieces when that one revealed their truth. But, we have an amazing network of people ready to step up and be there for that one who heard me that day.

And for those who think my suit of armour is pretty sturdy… it’s not, trust me. It will be, at best, wobbly for another week or so, until I have bounced back from that recent episode. In the meantime, I find that it’s far easier to be triggered again, therefore I am very careful about managing my space and my environment.

And the work continues on these two concepts:

I can still easily be hooked by other’s negativity or drama. It happened a year ago when trying to manage a situation, deliver a lecture, meet my sister who was coming to observe, and so on. Phone rang before the lecture was going to begin, and without thinking, I answered it. Hooked? Just like a game fish. How was the lecture? I still beat myself up about it, because it totally SUCKED!! I was so thoroughly embarrassed after when we went for a coffee, as I literally went down the mental list of what I forgot, what I left out, what point I didn’t finish, where I lost words and stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence. It was, I would say, an epic clusterfuck. The initial situation did get resolved a few days later… but, to use that graphic, I was most definitely not, “unfuckwithable” in that moment.

And the second concept, “unfuck yourself.” There’s a lot more work to be done on that yet. The shine is still not close to visible, and it won’t be for some time. I explained it to a treasured friend this morning, that when you hear it on repeat for years, it’s hard not to believe it and adopt it as your truth. But, you’ll know when I get there, promise.

So, for that person who reached out last night, thank you. You validated the mental scab-ripping stuff that occurs in my writing at times. It is not easy to put it all out there (because you know somebody will throw it back in your face at the most inopportune moment; it’s happened before *shrug*), but when you reach that one person who needed to know they are not alone, it makes every word written or spoken, so worth it.

And hey, don’t forget, as Nat and all of our friends would remind you:

We’ve got your back.

We are truly, in this together, kittens.

Christine 🙏🏼💙💙