A Promise, An Oath, A Vow; Adapted

Tags

Education, Mental Health, PTSD, Sisters

One of the things that Nat (my amazing Sis) and I have created for ourselves are adapted definitions of various words and phrases. For us, they make perfect sense, while others not familiar with them would be just a touch confused/perplexed. You could say that we have our own verbal shorthand.

Here are three terms that we use frequently, yet, I believe many have forgotten the original meanings of them with today’s abuse of the lexicon on social media. We have developed our own adaptation to accommodate what we both require when doing daily battle with PTSD, or when looking through the lens of post-traumatic growth.

The Oxford English Dictionary (OED) defines promise as: (Noun) 1 a declaration or assurance that one will do something or that a particular thing will happen; (Verb) 1 assure someone that one will definitely do something or that something will happen.

Our adaptation of this makes allowances for PTSD, anxiety, and depression, etc. There are days when things may shift and plans have to be adjusted accordingly.

Therefore, for us, the definition of promise is similar to the OED definition, but allows room to shift something in what was promised, rebook to another date or time, or have to withdraw from attending an event.

As PTSD warriors, we both know that things can quickly go pear-shaped, and you have to either re-promise or cancel outright. Both of us would do anything to not have to break a promise, but, realizing that things are not always predictable in the world of mental health, we make allowances and contingency plans, just in case.

The OED defines oath as: (Noun) 1 a solemn promise, often invoking a divine witness, regarding one’s future action or behaviour; or a sworn declaration, such as the promise to tell the truth in a court of law.

We are mostly in alignment with the OED definition. Oath is a step up from Promise, with no wiggle room. It is as spoken, period. We are both familiar with swearing oaths, Nat as a Paramedic some years ago, and then as a Barrie City Councillor; myself as an executive member of a service club many years ago, when previously called for jury duty, or in various positions where I have access to non-public information and have been sworn to secrecy to not reveal or discuss.

For us, we upgrade a Promise to the Oath level when it is a MUST happen item.

The OED defines vow as: (Noun) a solemn promise.

We can upgrade a Promise or an Oath to a Vow. A vow is the highest level.

Our definition is: something spoken aloud to the universe to bring it into existence. We have a number of vows between the two of us, those promises that, no matter what may happen, they will always be maintained.

We regularly renew the various vows we have made, making sure they still fit, or if they need to be updated.

One vow is to always encourage each other’s growth (personal; post-traumatic; knowledge). Another vow is to always be in communication, particularly when depression has you by the ankle and is dragging you down into the abyss.

In early 2018, after a particularly rough weekend (continuous ice storms), Nat spoke this to me and to the universe. We both knew instantly it would always be the primary vow between us. “I’ll love you forever and a million days more.” We speak it to the universe regularly. It’s how we wrap up every conversation, by text, by phone, by e-mail, or tweet, it’s our thing, it’s who we always are for each other. We have spoken it on stage, in presentations, lectures, and more. Sometimes it is a brief text at the end of the day, “You were amazing with *insert item* today, I’m so proud of you, way to go! Love you forever and a million days more, sweet dreams. xoxox”

There are times when, to express the level of dedication to something, and how serious we are about causing it to become reality, we will take a promise, a vision board item, or an oath, and move it up to a vow. It is our way of thinking, speaking, writing, and working it into existence.

The world occurs in language. A bit of wisdom from a course I used to teach years ago. We speak things into existence. For example, two people standing in a location, an officiant stands in front of them. They speak a quantity of words, alone or together, and at the conclusion the officiant pronounces them as married, joined, partnered, a completed merger, whatever terminology you prefer. The only thing that changed, was a new possibility or reality was spoken into existence.

Human beings are meaning-making machines. You can hear the gears grinding as somebody tries to figure out the meaning of some conversation that Nat and I are having. We will say something or refer to each other with a term that we always use, and minds explode trying to figure out what it means.

The answer to those who smell smoke from their internal thinking engines overheating – it is what it is, it means something to us that you don’t have a need to know. That’s it. In reality, it doesn’t have to mean anything. If you wish to make it mean something, how about choosing something empowering?

Promise, Oath, and Vow, we adapted the definitions to fit with our being PTSD warriors and how we function every day. If you’re into numbering things, Promise is Level 1, Oath is Level 2, Vow is the ultimate, Level 3.

I think you will find that you have developed some adapted definitions of your own as well, to fit your daily existence and with those people who matter the most in your life.

The theme that runs through all three levels – being your word. At the Promise level, being your word could be putting your self-care requirements first, and re-promising an item; at the Oath level, it’s a gotta do it no matter what; and the Vow level is spoken to the universe to bring it into existence, that it shall be always. Being your word is having integrity, and when you do this consistently, people will come to you because they know when you say you will do something, it will get done, or you will be in communication to find a way to make it work.

This is one thing that Nat and I know with absolute certainty, at our soul level:

Choose the people who choose you. That’s where the real magic happens.

Love, sunbeams, and kitten dreams,

Christine 💙💙

Dear Kathy English

Tags

Education, Feedback, In The News, Language, Mental Health, PTSD

Ms. Kathy English, Public Editor, Toronto Star.

Dear Ms. English,

I am writing this open letter to you to outline my concerns about a column published by your newspaper on Monday, 2 March, 2020, written by Heather Mallick, titled, “Post-traumatic stress isn’t a disorder, it’s life.”

I first came across this in the early morning, and normally something of this nature would go out on my daily e-mail to contacts in Canada and the US, but, this one gave me pause. I honestly had to read it through multiple times, and then again while making notes.

When I was still writing regularly for a certain magazine based in the US, had I ever submitted something like this to my editors, they would have laughed me out of the building. If I delivered a lecture at Ryerson (Criminology) or Humber (Police Foundations) or University of Toronto Medical School (transition to residency), based on the “facts” of this opinion piece, I would not be asked back ever again.

So, I am then left with the mystery of how this “opinion” piece ever was approved for publication in your newspaper?

Allow me to illustrate:

PTSD is not “supposedly rampant”, and it is not only “reserved for extreme cases”. Those of us who work in and around the mental health field have been hard at work on eradicating the stigma associated with mental health and mental illness. It is because of the tireless work of hundreds and thousands of activists and advocates that the conversations are even happening. Because it is more openly discussed – not like when I made my appearance in this world in the early 60s, where such things were not discussed in polite company, but in hushed tones behind multiple closed doors – it may appear to be increasing. It is not. It is simply more public and not hidden, or reserved only for veterans of war who returned home in severe distress.

Let me be crystal clear on this point, labels are useful for jars, tins, boxes, and bins, not for human beings. Labelling people or conditions, negates that person’s existence, and reduces them to a label only. Labels are distancing phenomena.

PTSD is a psychiatric or psychological diagnosis. Both professionals are equally capable of correctly diagnosing the condition, according to the standards set out by the World Health Organization (see ICD-11 published in 2019 for the latest revisions) or in the DSM-V (current, albeit, dated volume, which will require updates from ICD-11). You can find statistics in various forms and reports, depending on which group, genre, subset, etc., that you are looking at. Instead of using “allegedly”, quote your source for the numbers, because frankly, they look like nothing I have seen or read in recent years.

The paragraph containing “according to Veterans Affairs Canada” is paraphrasing, not an exact quote. For the content being discussed, only a direct quote is appropriate, not the heavily biased opinion of the columnist.

Where Ms. Mallick parts company with established science, is her opinion that this is not a disorder, but a reaction. What she refers to in the previous paragraph is what is known as hyper-vigilance, not what she dismisses as something as simple as not being happy with the current president south of the 49th, or being in a large grocery store. This is highly dismissive of the experiences of those with PTSD, who have great difficulty functioning in crowded or noisy spaces. Whenever I am out with my most favourite human on the planet, I always have scoped out multiple ways to get us out of a space if it gets to be too much for either of us to handle. We both battle PTSD on a daily basis, caused by an array of traumas and work, and we still get up every day and do our damnedest to leave the world and the people on it, better than we found them. You could say that we have both been there, done that, and have a box full of t-shirts that neither of us ever wanted.

“Over-medicalization of life.” I find that phrase alone to be a complete fallacy. That, combined with that “suck it up, buttercup” attitude has caused more harm in recent years than is realized. Look, we have all experienced the office hypochondriac, who every time they get a case of the sniffles runs to google to look for their symptoms, and walk away convinced that they are about to die a horrible death from some rare disease that has not been seen in existence in over two millennia. Yes, we’ve all seen it, heard it, experienced it. It is why I begin lectures with a trigger warning (right after I show where the Naloxone kits are – CMHA’s Carry It Campaign) … and then have to define what a trigger is. Ms. Mallick reminds me of some of the “valley girls” I’ve had in class who come out with a typical “ermahgerd, I was like so trigger-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-ed!” No sunshine, you were irked at something I said, or the topic matter was making you uncomfortable. You’d know the difference if you were triggered. Forget that walk a mile in my shoes stuff, that only gets you to every Starbucks within a mile of the starting point. No. Try spending 24 hours in my mind. I bet within 30 minutes you are on the floor, curled in a ball, whimpering to be let out. I tried describing it once for someone who had doubts… they couldn’t handle it after 4 sentences.

There are those out there who are self-diagnosed, they have not seen a doctor or mental health professional for a referral, they just had an off day, read some half-baked nonsense online, and decided that they have it too. They then proceed to tell anyone and everyone they encounter that they suffer from this. Wrong again sunshine, you don’t suffer from it, if you had it, you’d be battling for your very existence on a daily basis. This isn’t the movie of the week kind of thing, as Ms. Mallick hints at so heavily throughout this column. When people pull this nonsense, it lessens those of us who do battle it, in the eyes of anyone who bothers to look.

Ms. Mallick rails against psychiatry in a similar fashion to those who belong to one of the California-based cults. It leaves me to wonder what her experience has been that has caused such a dour outlook on life. Should she ever wish to meet a thoroughly amazing psychologist, send her a few blocks up and one block east of your offices at Number 1 Yonge, and I’ll introduce her to Dr. Vermani, who I have had the pleasure of meeting and having an extended conversation with. I consistently refer people to her for her expertise and assistance. Her knowledge is vast, and her experience covers a wide array of areas. I’m certain she could easily explain this much more succinctly than I can, I’m accustomed to breaking it down into bite-sized chunks for my students in class.

Again, major issues on Ms. Mallick’s part around language, the use of the word stigma or stigmatization. This reminds me of Jordan Peterson’s issues, and they are infinite, around pronoun usage and the modern world. Instead of producing a valid argument, this sounds instead like the petulant whine of the right wing fringe who have issues with everything in the modern world. They live for heteronormativity and a world in which mental illness was just not discussed in polite society. It is blatantly obvious that Ms. Mallick has never experienced the stigma associated with mental health, or any other item in that vein. I can quote chapter and verse from multiple scientific sources that members of the LGBTQ2S communities deal with multi-layered stigma on a daily basis, particularly when battling mental illness. Here’s my suggestion, that Ms. Mallick, in this case, should check her obvious privilege and sit the hell down, and for once just listen without opening mouth, while those who live it, explain it.

Coping with life is not a psychiatric condition, yes, but, PTSD is not caused by coping with life. This is where Ms. Mallick’s circular logic errors are apparent. She supports the damage caused by the work done by first responders, those who have experienced trauma due to war, crime, etc., but rubs suggestively up against “you should have known what you were signing up for” in her arguments, without saying the actual words. By the time I reached this portion of Ms. Mallick’s column, I had become convinced that she had no clue whatsoever of what Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder actually was/is, what causes it, what the diagnostic standards are, and had most definitely never spoken to any kind of expert in the field before launching this load of twaddle upon your readers.

The Edmonton murder case is not the only one where a defendant or their counsellor had attempted multiple avenues until they found the one they thought they could pull the wool over the eyes of the jury with. I can promise you this though, that the first responders who were at that scene have had recurring nightmares about it since, and in at least one case, this was the last straw that broke them. In one well-known case, it was a paramedic arriving on the scene of a satanic cult double homicide, where two women were decapitated, and they had to treat the killer. A police Superintendent explained it to me after the Ontario PTSD bill passed, “I had one officer in my division, had been to, say, 20 blue baby calls in a row. Number 21 was the one that broke him, and he went home and swallowed his gun. You never know what the incident will be.” I have seen regularly, in news, in case files, etc., where someone is up on the carpet for some truly abhorrent antisocial behaviours, and the first claim they come up with is, it’s because of PTSD. They neither have the diagnosis, nor have any clue of what is actually involved. How about this, sunshine, you just admit that you’re a complete and total waste of skin whose antisocial behaviour affects all within reach, take your punishment and sit the hell down.

As for the airline example, I have seen consistently, people ordering the fake “service dog” harnesses, leashes, etc., to put on their dogs so that they can take them into any establishment they want to. And, without fail, those dogs are the most ill-tempered, misbehaving, dogs that I have seen. If you have to keep shoving treats in little FiFi’s mouth to keep her from biting other customers in line at Starbucks, then either pick the little monster up, or ditch the fake papers and the phoney “service dog” harness, and just admit you’re too cheap to hire a pet sitter while you go shopping. They have ruined it for those who actually have real medical service dogs, who need that assistance to be able to leave their homes and go out to function in society. Those dogs, while wearing their work vests are not distracted, but are focused on their handler, ensuring their handler’s well-being. I had coffee with a friend, and her service dog, as is typical, curled up under the table, napping on top of our feet, until needed, and then she was alert and doing what she was trained to do.

Whatever allowances are made for people, there will always be some jerk who will try to take advantage of it. Prime example, a good friend of mine, courts officer, Indigenous, and one day we’re sitting on a sunny patio after work, having an iced coffee and laughing about the typical sillybuggers from the 9 to 5. They are telling me about overhearing conversations in the cells, how to get out from under this charge by claiming this … if you’re up on something serious, claim you are native, say Métis, it’s the hardest to disprove, and rather than take the time, they’ll just ship you off to that system instead. For every allowance, there will be ten people looking to take advantage of it, it’s unfortunate, but it is how the world works these days.

The final piece of snark, PTS-19, was entirely uncalled for. Ms. Mallick has just spent an entire column dumping all over the experiences of those who have been handed the diagnosis of PTSD (not self-diagnosed, but by a professional), plus the laundry list of other conditions and issues that co-exist with it. If anything, she sits upon her throne of privilege while heaping endless amounts of stigma on top of those who are already battling to make it through the day. Here’s what stigma around mental health does – it reinforces that suck it up culture that has infected every part of first responder careers, especially policing … to the point where colleagues will stand by and watch someone struggling and yet do nothing, because of the stigma and they “don’t want the crazy to rub off” on them. Then they all comment anonymously in an article in another newspaper about watching this happen, after this person has died by suicide. That is what stigma does. Not the dripping with sarcasm sentence from Ms. Mallick.

This article was disgusting, pathetic, and I quite honestly expect better from those whose writing is published by the Toronto Star. This is more of the quality one would expect to see from the right wing press.

I would suggest, Ms. English, that you obtain a copy of Save-My-Life School by Natalie Harris, put it in Ms. Mallick’s hands, and do not allow one more word she writes to be published by the Toronto Star until she has read it cover to cover and can speak to the contents of that book. Perhaps, then, she would like to meet the author and hear just one woman’s experience of battling for her life, I’ll gladly arrange it for you. Perhaps a chat with one of many specialists in treatment of PTSD/Complex-PTSD and Trauma, Dr. Douglas, Dr. Bouffard, Dr. Lee, Dr. Kamkar, Dr. Abramovich, Dr. Vermani. Or the grandfathers of peer support, Syd Gravel and Brad McKay. How about Dilnaz Garda from Toronto Beyond The Blue? Goodness knows that we are not short of people who know this stuff like the backs of their own hands, and it was blatantly obvious to anyone who read Ms. Mallick’s column, that she has never bothered to speak to any of them, or do the slightest bit of research beyond a few recycled pull quotes.

It has been five years since we last had a chance to speak in person. Let’s plan on a coffee and a chat by the lake when the weather is nicer. I look forward to hearing your thoughts. Let’s be honest, you’d never publish something I composed, titled “Heather Mallick is a Clueless Tosser” even if I slapped an Opinion label on top. Ms. Mallick’s column should have never been published in the form it was either – it is dangerous as written.

I expect better from you and your fellow editors and writers. Far better.

Sincerely,

Christine Newman

• Director and LGBTQ Liaison, National Women in Law Enforcement Association.
• Peer Supporter, WeNeverWalkAlone, for US law enforcement.
• LGBTQ2S Peer Support Advisor/Lived Experience Facilitator, Mood Disorders Society of Canada, Peer and Trauma Support Systems.
• Author, Educator, Public Speaker, 38 year activist and advocate.
• Mental Health Warrior.

There We Were, Surrounded …

Tags

Advocacy, Antisocial Media, Mental Health, My Story, Policing, PTSD, Thoughts, Trailblazers

After dealing with the constant rollicking sillybuggers on antisocial media, particularly last summer’s hatefest that had continuous ripples of hate until the autumn months, and then the continuing nonsense in November, I said to myself,

“Self?”

“Yes?”

“This is a total waste of time, let’s get rid of the lot.”

“Agreed, just do it!”

By the beginning of December 2019, I had deleted both Fakebook and Instagrim. I still have Twitter, only because the majority of my work contacts are there, and editors of the publications I occasionally write for insist that their writers/columnists/authors have some kind of presence online.

Only in person can you see what the eyes are saying. So much is lost in the attempts at communication electronically. You miss out on what those of us who are Empaths pick up on in every interaction – the words you select, the order in which you speak them, what you say, tone of voice, what the eyes say, facial expression, body language, and most definitely the energy we pick up from you while having a conversation. The only exception is my connection with Nat. We literally sense each other 24/7/365, and just know when to reach out – either in times of great joy, or times when depression is kicking our backsides hard.

When you really need to deal with something, the only method is in person, face to face, where you can hold a hand, look someone in the eyes, or offer a shoulder to cry upon. That is damned near impossible to do via electronic means.

What happened after deleting the accounts? Did I experience antisocial media withdrawal? Hell to the no! The next day, the sun still came up in the East, people went to work and school, the stores and malls were packed with shoppers in the run-up to the holidays, and the Earth still rotated on its axis. In other words, nary a ripple in the existence of the universe.

Nobody noticed. Did I miss it? Not for a second!! It was more a sense of relief that continued to come in waves for a few days after. One less place to be attacked by haters. One less place to have my existence questioned by ignorant twits. The days went by, life went on, and I honestly felt an improvement in my mental health.

Those who mattered, friends, colleagues, and so forth – we found other means to keep in communication. Imagine the shock of receiving a letter in the mail written in longhand cursive! And the space in my world that it was infecting has cleaned up and opened up to new possibilities, and holy cow, Batman, did they ever start showing up! One of my mentors said, when you are open to it, the universe will provide endless opportunities for expansion/growth. It takes a certain level of daring and courage to say yes to new things.

Nat sent me that quote, and it has been that way for both of us since 2020 started. We have each been receiving little nudges from The Universe. A new perspective, new opportunities, new growth pathways, all of that and more have suddenly appeared.

Entirely unexpected, I received an invitation to speak at a conference in Chicago this coming June. Now, my experience with a certain level of exclusiveness in Canada was totally blown away with this invitation. You see, here, the thing that we come up against constantly, like banging your head against a wall, is this whole viewpoint of exclusive spaces where outsiders, gawd forbid, might be allowed to enter. It happens for social events, it happens for recognition, and it particularly happens in training. You claim to want to welcome the community and have them sit at the table, but, heaven forbid they might get the opportunity to step over that invisible line, the no outsiders line.

Let me give you another example. One organization says, hey, we love working with you, and we’d love for you and a guest of your choice (Nat would have loved this, she would have had multiple laughs!) to come to our bash, tickets and room on us. When word of that got out, a few people got in a twist, because “how dare they allow outsiders into our space!” That attitude started to spread like the flu, and it was repeated back to me from multiple sources. I sent a note thanking them for the recognition, but declining it due to a busy calendar. Received the same invitation from the same organization the next year … same rumblings about outsiders, declined that one as well. I’d rather go out and enjoy myself, than worry about invading somebody’s space.

You see, people don’t consider how their words fall on others. In my world, that occurs as “you don’t belong here,” “you don’t fit in,” and so on. Sound familiar? Yup, Impostor Syndrome trigger phrases. The first time it happened, that triggered many things causing a three day run of insomnia, and sleep is necessary to keep you functional.

I am quite looking forward to this conference in Chicago, where I’ll be presenting on LGBTQ2S Wellness and Peer Support (cancelled in March by the COVID-19 lockdown). I was asked by the host organization if I would focus on workplace bullying/workplace mobbing, as it is an issue that comes up regularly. It’s one of my areas with a lot of knowledge/experience.

I find it interesting, I have literally reached the point where any time I receive an invitation to take part in something with folks south of the 49th, my first response is, you do know that I’ve never been a part of that group, yes? So, before you get too far into your preamble, if that’s an issue, let’s stop here so you don’t waste time on this call. That’s what happens when lived experience becomes your “already-always” and you expect rejection because of your status, it’s always that way at home. To my surprise, the answer I have received each time is, “That’s not why we are extending this invitation, you have lived experience with *insert topic here*, and that’s what we are looking for.”

This led to my presentation in June, and now being part of a peer support team, based in Illinois, which provides support across the US, with my areas being LGBTQ2S, trauma, and PTSD. I was honestly questioning if I had read that series of e-mails correctly, my first thought was, “Me?? Why the hell would you want me for this?” My next thought was, gotta ask Nat about it, and she encouraged me to say yes. Same response from one of my mentors. Worst that can happen is we decide after some time that it’s not a good fit, shake hands, and look for ways to train other peer supporters on my areas of expertise. Neato, nifty, peachy keen.

Was this all that showed up? Nope! January was like popcorn popping.

I am so honoured to be co-authoring a new book with my friend and fellow author, Joie Lamar, this year. Joie has 7 books published/in process and counting, is a right proper powerhouse, and I love the way her mind works. This book was sparked by an article shared by a colleague on LinkedIn, and it hit the same note with both of us. This is a conversation we have been engaged in for 6 years now, looking at it through various lenses and from various viewpoints. Our working title is based on those conversations. We may have one or two other writers contribute a chapter or section to the book. I think this will be a quick book to write, it’s taking our conversation history and putting it down on paper.

Then taking another stretch, a friend of mine who lives on the west coast now, contacted me, a mutual friend is trying to get in touch about a project. Well, it turns out that Alumnae Theatre Company hosts a 3 week New Ideas Festival each year. This year, a rocking non-binary playwright wrote a one scene short play with two characters, would I consider being on stage in one of these roles? Now, that yappy little arsehole in the back of my mind, known as Impostor Syndrome is literally jumping up and down, red-faced, not happy at all about this one. I asked if I could read the script first. Receive the e-mail, read the script, OMG, it is literally a scenario I have played out in my mind hundreds of times! Was the playwright having a wander through the corners of my mind?

I haven’t done anything like this since high school, and I will shun the spotlight or focus as much as I can – I’m usually in the background or behind the curtains, not anywhere I can be seen. We had a conversation over the course of an hour, and I finally said to myself, “oh for chrissakes ya silly bitch, just say yes.” Yes, I’ll do it. Rehearsals are under way this week. This is not a stage thing, this is a dramatic reading, so the two of us in the scene, script in hand, reading it (woohoo! No memorizing, that would make life an adventure), with a narrator reading the stage directions. I may never set foot on a stage ever again, but, it’s one of those adventures that may as well have fun with it while I can. This one-act/one scene play is titled, ‘Platypus’. It is looking to be a fun week of 6 performances. (cancelled mid-March by COVID-19 lockdown)

Our stories … there is so much to this one idea, and I absolutely adore Dr. Brené Brown and the way she thinks, because this quote is so appropriate for this next section.

Prior to the Christmas-New Year’s holiday season last year, I saw a post on Twitter, somebody was finding things difficult, looking for someone to chat with who gets it. I responded to send me a message and sat down for a conversation. A couple of months later, we’ve become fast friends, and we’re still in that conversation. Now, here’s the amazing piece. Talking with someone who has been where you are, (been there, done that, didn’t want the t-shirt) and has made it through it, is a great comfort. You can pour your heart out and not be judged, they’ve been through it already, know where you are at, and can hold out a hand to you to guide you through that darkness.

We made it through the holidays together, and more challenges arose for my friend. The most recent one was interesting. As we have chatted about our experiences, they found the courage to go beyond their comfort level, and went out to the movies. When you battle anxiety, that is such a giant step forward. Next one was an appointment, and the day before, anxiety had red-lined on all gauges and it was getting to that dark space again. Ah, I’ve been here before, let’s try something out. List for me all those catastrophes that could possibly happen that you are worrying about. Got the list. Perfect, remember that there is nothing wrong here, it just is, so let’s take a look at each one and come up with either a way to handle it, or a contingency plan for it. One or two items, I asked to dig a little deeper, I could see it going a few different ways.

By the time we had finished, they had a list of supplies, a list of actions or conversations, a checklist, and one of those plastic bags with a slide on top to open and close it. An Anxiety Kit. I’ve seen and read of similar things before, and Nat was the first one to ever tell me about what she has in her purse in case of a difficult moment (I have something similar). The slide to open/close bags are easier, if your hands are shaking, you can open and close it easily without spilling the contents. It’s compact enough to tuck into your coat pocket, pocket of a sweater, backpack, or purse … somewhere that it is easily accessible to you if you require something from your kit. Just remember, that if you have to use something from your kit, make a note for yourself to replace it or buy a new item.

By the time the kit was made, and the checklist written out and placed where it would be easily accessed in the morning while getting ready for the appointment, my friend said, “OMG, I just have a little bit of nerves left, everything else is gone!” I asked what was different, while I had a good idea that the answer would be validating their experience. Because, in recent years, they usually get a “suck it up”, “quit being so dramatic/such a drama queen”, “just go for a walk around the block, you’ll be fine”, “why don’t you have a drink to calm down”, and so on. They told me this was the first time somebody affirmed their fears, and then worked to resolve each one in order. (Bingo! Validating your experience in action.)

The next day, they messaged me with a photo prior to the appointment. Once arrived safely back home, sent another message with another photo. That second photo was quite simply breathtaking! I have yet to witness a transformation so positive in such a short time. I told them how massively proud I was for their courage, and their stepping beyond their old limits, to get out there and grow. That evening, I told a friend who is a psychotherapist, “If I live to be a million, I will never grow weary of watching somebody who is where I’ve been before, breaking through that wall and growing into a bigger possibility than there was before.”

That, my dear kittens, is the power of sharing and owning your story and your lived experiences with someone who is going through the same stuff.

Second part to owning our story and telling it. One of the team at a particular website reached out to me around the time of Bell Let’s Talk Day – one sentence, “When are you going to share your story with us, Christine?” A few e-mails back and forth over the course of that week, and this past Saturday, I sat down and spent the day writing. My therapist had suggested to me, “Throw out all the ways you have written or narrated your story before. You’ve done all of them multiple times, it’s routine, it’s rote, and you could do it with your eyes closed. Take this on in a new way, start with a blank page, a blank space in memory, a blank slate, whatever works … use one of the themes you have used in your recent lectures and talks, and tell your story for the very first time, in a way you have never shared it before … see what happens, and I’d love to read it when you finish.”

Made myself a pot of coffee, sat at the table, and started typing. I was editing as I went that afternoon, I had been walking around with the words in my own mind for a few days before I ever set pen to paper and fingers to keyboard. I thought, if I was to do this in one of my lectures, how would I say it. I knew the cap was 2,000 words, and I was checking the counter on the bottom of the screen after every paragraph to see what I could tell, and how could I condense it, and get the most in. A few proofreaders thought I should write the last page differently. I checked with my therapist, what did they think about that. Their response was, “that one person and you have been so connected and have been such a large part of each other’s healing and growth, it would seem unnatural to not mention them.” That’s what I had been thinking. I then sent it to Nat, to make sure that it read well, and that she was good with the language and choice of words … there were one or two little things that may be new to some, but are old hand to us, so it’s best to be sure.

The part I found interesting, every person who proofread it came back with the same response to it, literally every letter and punctuation mark was exactly the same – OMG GOOSEBUMPS!!!! Even my publisher responded in block caps “NAILED IT!” and loved how I based it in a portion of a lecture. It has been submitted for consideration, I’m hoping their editor will take it as written and run it. It came in at 1,988 words, if you were curious. If, and when, it is published, I’ll drop the link in a new post.

This quote was sent to Nat and I last year, after we had performed our essay, Love Is Love on stage for International Women’s Day. We still get the occasional bit of feedback from someone who was there and loved it, because it touched something in their souls. We are discussing the possibility of writing something together in the near future, and will share it on our respective blogs when we do.

I began with giving antisocial media the old heave-ho, don’t let the doorknob hit ya where the good lawd split ya.

As if I needed more evidence that it was a wise decision … it has been difficult, to put it lightly, to sit on my hands and not immediately go to nuclear mama bear mode when watching somebody I share a soul with being attacked in a variety of vile, ugly, and personal ways on antisocial media. Unfortunately, with the position they hold, they are a target for such things – but, attack the votes, attack the decisions, attack policies – never use personal attacks. That just demonstrates the level of regressive pond slime that is infecting antisocial media these days. Antisocial media seems to only feed the mindset of “piling on”. It’s bad enough when one person goes on a string of personal attacks, but, once the mob mentality kicks in, it becomes a free for all. They don’t see the briefing notes on your desk, they have not been a part of the conversations leading up to it, they have no clue on all the factors involved, but saw an easy target and decided to pile on and attack mercilessly.

Earlier in this post, I mentioned the triggers that “no outsiders” caused, with three nights of zero sleep because insomnia was ruling the roost. Somebody takes their personal tragedy, comes up with a simple idea that could bring a little sunshine to those dealing with it, and what started small, suddenly went viral and nationwide in no time at all. Well, apparently some folks didn’t like that, and it just got nasty. From a conversation about excitement one night about an opportunity coming up, to devastation the next. What’s worse, some former co-workers went for the vulnerable spots in their attacks the following week. That to me is the absolute lowest you can go. One of your former colleagues is now retired. And you decide to pile on with the rest of the pond slime on antisocial media, but use their illness to attack them with, in an even uglier way. That’s just despicable.

Let’s wrap up with the teachable moment from Professor Kitty.

The online world is a cesspool of ugliness these days. Want to question something a local councillor has done or is doing? Try this, it has never failed to get a fast response for me. “Hi Councillor *name*. I was reading about this issue in the news, and I had a few questions about your statement/vote/decision-making process. If you can spare me a few minutes, can we have a quick conversation about this for you to fill me in?” Considering the volume of hate mail that hits their computers, that approach usually earns me a callback within 24 hours. Looking for the gap in their armour where you can launch a personal attack … that’s the ugliest way. Logic and please explain why you did this … opens up a channel for communication.

When our group of elders have something in Parliament that is of particular interest to us (the last one was C-211 the PTSD framework bill), that’s our kind of approach … and when we have that channel open to chat, we can explain (without accusations or ad hominem attacks that are so common on antisocial media) what our interest is, and why we think it’s important that this get dealt with sooner, rather than later. What was the nifty part of it, for me at least, is that we could be completely unseen and unnoticed, and yet have a voice in it. There were enough people pushing to get into the spotlight or on camera with recent bills (like C-16) that have come to our attention – the funniest was seeing raw footage from a pool camera of somebody elbowing their way to the front row to be seen on camera.

The lesson from Professor Kitty can be summed up this way, be a decent human being, be civil in your interactions, don’t follow the masses (because the M is always silent), and try your best not to be a completely insufferable twit.

The lesson from this City Mom, keep your circles small, keep those who you know love you close, and ignore the arseholes, leave them to talk to themselves. That’s what I did last summer, and the explosion that happened from my lack of response was predictable. Be an observer of things, some will amuse you, some will make you roll your eyes out loud, and some will cause you to love your people even more.

I promise there will not be such a big gap before the next post!

Love, sunbeams, and kitten dreams.

Christine 💙💙

Love Is Love

Tags

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 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 to 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 as I was, and 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. We had more in common than either of us realized.

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, Nat. 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:

“Oh my gawd, 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 Nat 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.

Christine:

People have tried to come up with labels and their own interpretations of us; human beings are meaning-making machines, after all. Their interpretations never fit. We have our own labels: BFF, Sister, Soulmate, Partner. We are best friends forever, and chosen sisters. Soulmate, because our souls merged so perfectly that we share one soul. Partner, because in everything each of us does, the other partner is always there, supporting them. When we say that vow, “I’ll love you forever and a million days more,” it comes from our souls.

Nat and Christine:

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

Christine:

For us, it is quite simple,

Nat:

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.

The Last Narration

Tags

First Responders, Mental Health, PTSD, Trauma

This is the first time in years that I will post something on this date. Please sit back with a coffee and I’ll tell you a story, and it will be the last time I’ll tell it.

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 (from 3×5 up to panorama) 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 at the time, 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 cigarettes with the usual crew, and then heading upstairs to get busy. It was one of two companies that I worked for at that time.

I enjoyed the corner of the floor that 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 placed 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 Tasnim, “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, and I am into the office in the financial district in Toronto extra early, had a technician from one of my vendors in, and we were hard at work in the computer room from early in the morning.

I had popped out to get something out of my desk, saw my phone was ringing, and 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 quick as you can, and call me right back!!”

I walked into the lunch room just 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 their 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 all day. “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 people in I.T. to go over having to do a rapid shutdown of the computer room. Called up to the call centre and asked 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 panic 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 (my high school French was rusty and sounded horrendous). Another crisis handled. Whew! 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 an 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 was a zoo. We both are on the same line going west, and they post our 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 I’m due to leave downtown.

Meet 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 on the television.

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

Finally crash around 3 am, 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 … oh, 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 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. Or the morning, walking over from the WTC Marriott, seeing and hearing fire alarms, firefighters gathered around that desk, while we were escorted outside – fire in the food court underground had filled the lobby and the first few floors with smoke. The church where they took Father Judge after the first collapse. Have sat in there in quiet thought. Twice was enough, no more, because THE WORST part was the “whummmp!!” sound of the bodies impacting outside the building, those who had been forced to jump from 80+ stories up to avoid being burned to death. At the time of writing this, I still get triggered by slammed doors, drawers, etc., because those sounds recall that impact noise, and I feel ready to jump out of my skin.

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. They also tune out, because their loved one was in Windows On The World that morning, the restaurant on the top floor, and every time they see the image of the fireballs emerging from the towers, they relive that entire day in an instant.

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

So, that’s why I typically don’t write about this, this is an exception, and I will never hash it out at length again. I 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 2001. I received 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, feeling like her lungs would burst. They prefer not to have to relive it constantly either.

With love, sunbeams, kitten dreams. In memory of those no longer present.

Christine 💙💙