2020 AKA Shitshow

2020 has been a shitshow. There I said it. I mean, it’s not a surprise to anyone. Between COVID, murder hornets, locusts, Kobe’s tragic death, impeachment hearings, Black Lives Matter movement, the visual rise of white supremacist groups, RBG’s death and all of Australia on fire along with the West Coast of the United states...I think it’s pretty clear we’re running out of time. Interpret that statement any way you prefer...mother nature taking back what’s hers? The universe getting tired of our bullshit? The second coming of Christ? The end of times? Just what we get for ruining this planet?

Whatever. 

My point still stands, this has been a shitty year. 

That all being said, bitching about 2020 isn’t the focus of this post...not mainly anyway. What I really had intentions of talking about is more specifically about my mother and her health issues. Oh, and to mention that getting old really effing sucks. I know I was just like all the other young folks around me...totally in a hurry to grow up thinking that was the answer to all my problems. 

I WAS WRONG. We were all wrong. But I also know that I wouldn’t have listened to anything different, because as a kid...I knew everything. Ha! I knew nothing. I still know nothing, it’s just different nothings at this point. Being an adult is hard, and while there are a great many things that are wonderful about being one, I would be remiss if I didn’t express my desire to just throw my hands in the air, flip a table and yell “fuck this bullshit, it’s all lies!”

Okay wow, I totally got off point there, back to mom and her health issues. This year has been incredibly difficult for her, and me. She’s been in and out of the hospital many times, whether it was for the TIA/mini stroke, her urgent ileostomy to remove the diseased/cancerous part of her colon, the extreme dehydration that had her kidneys shutting down not to mention the next surgery she has to have to try and put back together everything that was messed with originally. We’ve spent more time in emergency rooms over the last 9 months than in the last 10 years combined. We’re both hoping that 2021 will be a turn around year, one that is marked with better health and more happiness. 

Do not think for one minute that I am lacking thankfulness for having my mother in my life this last year. I am grateful for each and every day I have with her on this Earth. I will never complain about time with her, in fact we’ve spent a lot of time together over the last few months. I just wish it were under better circumstances. I’ve prayed so many times to ask God to let me take the pain from her, to change places with her so that she didn’t need to suffer. I’ve cried, I’ve yelled, I’ve laughed...I’ve internally threatened to bite the face off of an administer at one of the hospitals. 

Heck, I’ve experienced feelings I didn’t even know I had...I’ve had every reason to relapse and fall back on my default coping skills, but I’ve been so busy caring for my mom that I haven’t had time to feel selfish or be selfish. The responsibilities just don’t end. Being an adult is no small thing.

Whether mom is in the hospital or out, my list of “to do’s” maintain a constant weight on my back, like an anchor ripping at the bow of my conscience. There’s laundry, ostomy care, bag changes, taking out the garbage, cleaning the house, caring for Cricket, caring for Arson, caring for mom, cooking, shopping, work number one, work number two, appointments, follow ups, testing and procedures, updating family on setbacks/progress, picking up prescriptions and whatever else pops up needing attention. Everyday just rolls into the next.

I’ve sat with mom, stroking her hair or holding her hand while she suffers in the ER. I’ve listened to her moan in discomfort, I’ve listened to and dried the tears she’s cried. I’ve washed her hair, I’ve kissed her forehead, I’ve tracked down doctors and nurses in the hallways because they weren’t responsive enough. I’ve yelled at providers for neglectful behavior and I praised/thanked the people that seemed to genuinely care for her well being. I’ve drained mom's bag in the ER because no one seemed to hear her when she told them about it, I’ve changed her when she needed it because again no one seemed to hear her. I’ve ordered supplies because no one bothered to offer assistance. I’ve shamed the agencies that have mishandled her labs, lost her blood, or not followed through with care providers. I’ve done everything I can to hold people accountable and at each step I’ve thanked God that I have been able to be here for her...because I do not understand how any of them can think a single person of any age can do this on their own. It’s shameful. 

It’s been hard, I won’t lie. I have been in an almost constant state of exhaustion. I don’t get a lot of sleep and when I do, I have mostly nightmares. I carry guilt for not being good enough at being a daughter, coworker, employee, friend, caregiver. I feel weak and empty, like I’ll never be enough for anyone. And it cut to the bone when I heard mom tell one of her doctors while we were in the ER, “I’ve felt so alone.” There was a moment that I think my heart literally stopped beating or at the very least the blood running through my veins turned to molasses. I still hear it like it was moments ago, I cling to it as a reminder that I’m not good enough...even though mom has thanked me so many times for caring for her that I cannot even keep track. It’s funny how we hold on to the things that do not serve us, even in the face of truer facts. Either way, I cried. I cried for so many reasons.

Please make no mistake, I’m blessed that I have supervisors that have been patient, forgiving and understanding when I needed to miss work, urgently leave, and work from home. Having supportive supervisors has taken a massive weight off of me, even though I carry enormous guilt for not being a good employee or coworker. But that is my burden to carry and work through. The point here is that even in the midst of this shitty shit shit, literally and figuratively...there are moments of goodness and for those times I am very thankful and hopeful because each day is one day closer to her not suffering, not hurting, no being dehydrated and feeling horrible. So every day is a blessing, no matter how mixed it may be.

We're not done yet, we have another surgery to complete. More procedures to endure but we're both clinging to the hope that the end of this particular road is coming. It's been years it seems that we've been on this journey, so many appointments and set backs. I keep praying that the light at the end of the tunnel isn't the train. But just as it has always been, mom and I have each other. Come hell or high water.

The Bricks We Know

There’s an indentation, the absence of a mark that should rest on the lines of my soul

A weightless shell, empty and without inward form, lacking design and longing for purpose

A quiet whisper known only to the wind, long gone before the realization hits

Leaving the echo of your words bouncing off these walls we’d built

The dreams we created, brick and mortar dripping with the lies that once glued us together

You leave behind chasms of sorrow

Deep seeded loss reaching every red blood cell, tinting them white 

The knowledge that what once was a known, now betrays 

Preparing for the fight

But the heart stills its beat, the lungs sting without oxygen 

It never fails, every damn time

Just when the next action is assured, the memories cling with sharpened nails 

When you are by my side, with bloodshot eyes

I see it clearly, like the finest crystal on display

Locked in a cabinet for sale by owner 

The only sign that remains 

A future left in doubt

A past no longer claimed

The Hurt Business

Some of you may know that I have a Bachelors in Psychology and a Masters in Social Work with a few extra certifications thrown in for added measure. I’m currently working on getting my licensure for Clinical Social Work and Substance Use Disorder Professional. The point I’m trying to make is that I’ve been in school the vast majority of my life for one thing or another, I’ve lost track of how many classes I have taken, how many chapters I have read, how many exams I have struggled through and how many research papers I have written. And if I’m being totally honest, I would do it all again and then some. I have at least 3 books in mind that I want to write and a never ending desire to get my doctorate in forensic psychology. But let me backtrack a bit before I go too far off the beaten path, because I’m throwing a lot of words at something that really only needs a sentence or two to convey.  

At no point in any of my educational courses, materials or lectures was I taught about what to do, how to feel, how to process or where to turn when a client dies. Sure, sure I’ve taken courses and read books about death, grief and loss...but when it’s a client, it feels different. Not only does it feel different, each one hits you differently because of how long you knew them, the context of the relationship, how they died and what your last interaction with them was like. In the 13 years I have worked at my current position, I have purposely chosen to lose track of how many clients have passed on my watch. Yes, some have affected me more than others, but all of them I have cried over. They have died as a result of homelessness, not taking medications, refusing medical treatment, murder and suicide...and while my heart hurt for each of them, there is one I have just newly experienced and I have found myself in a very bad mental place since I learned of this clients overdose. 

I fully understand, probably better than most that in social work and addictions, death isn’t too far removed at any given time. But I take no comfort in the fact that this client was not the first, and will most certainly not be the last to pass on my watch. I carry regret, anger, sorrow and guilt for each and every one of them, and each chip away at my soul...and I know that eventually I will have nothing left.

Today I attended the funeral service of a young client who as I previously mentioned died of an overdose, specifically heroine. Maybe it was a purposeful overdose, maybe it wasn’t but I and his family will never know. I sat alone in a room with about 20 people, watching photos move across the screen showing clips of his life...before he was ever a client. I learned things through stories about his childhood, what he was like as a brother, a son, a friend. I learned about how devoted he was to the people in his life, about how talented he was in everything he set his mind to and that he took young women in school to dances simply because “they didn’t have anyone else to take them.” 

I tried to keep it together, I tried to be strong, I tried to be professional. But I failed at that too.

I couldn’t stop the tears from falling like angry molten lava from a desperately overloaded volcano. They stung my eyes, and I swear I could feel them burn their way down my cheeks only to be met by my mask and soaked up by the fabric, waiting for more to fall. I could hear others in the room sobbing, and I could hear the sorrow in the voices of those that spoke. But there was anger too, anger because someone so young died for seemingly no reason save it be poor choices and addiction. They talked about how he changed after a car accident, about how different his personality was, how just seemed “off” since that day and I thought to myself that I don’t remember ever hearing about that and I’ve known him for 10 years. I can’t say that having this knowledge would change my treatment of him, but it would account for much of what he was dealing with and how he presented. Maybe I would have been more patient, maybe I would have been more persistent and maybe everything would have played out exactly the same. 

What I do know is that my heart hurts, and I know that my pain is nothing compared to that of his mother, father, sister and friends. Mental illness and addictions are everywhere, and I’m angry that the stigma keeps people from feeling safe to seek out treatment and services and that our society deems those suffering as less than and never equal to. My client could have been so much more, done so much more...yet even with all that said, he was suffering and not just a little. His road was arduous and fraught with danger, pitfalls and landmines. He no longer carries his burdens, no longer walks that path alone and no longer feels broken. Just as one of the speakers today said, “his pain is over, and it is now we who carry the sadness of missing someone who was taken too soon. Remember the tears that we shed in times of sorrow are made up of the same salt and water that make up happy tears and tears of joy. They come from the same place, hold the same composition and each is designed to help us heal. So cry, cry, cry and let the healing begin.”

I was too weak to say this to his parents at the time, so I will say it now.

“I knew him for 10 years, and while I didn’t know his times of joy and happiness, I did see his battle with demons and I saw how hard he tried to make something of himself even when there was little to piece together. I wish more than anything that I could take your pain away, and I am so sorry that I couldn’t fix him, I’m sorry that I didn’t try harder, push harder or insist that he do things differently...but I couldn’t make him. I couldn’t make my will his own and I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

I am sorry F. I am also glad that you aren’t hurting anymore, and it’s okay that it’s my turn now. I take this moment, this responsibility and I will keep going, keep helping and doing everything I can to carry you in my heart. I miss you, and I will miss you. Please know how sorry I am that I failed you, but I will try harder. 

I will see you again, but until that time, goodbye.

Thank you Ruth

Do you ever just find yourself sitting in the silence, not realizing that you’ve zoned out and are lost in thought for an undefined amount of space and time...sometimes not even aware of the world around you, seemingly adrift in some mental abyss...I’ve been there a lot lately. In reflection, I can almost hear a soundtrack of melancholy playing like the overture carried on the wind during an epic battle scene where bullets are zipping along your peripheral view, debris being thrown onto your path and the camera pans out to show the mangled remnants of those who came before you but were unsuccessful in their campaign. For a moment your actions still, everything stops and the only sound that remains is the blood pumping in and out of your heart and a shuttered breath...the whoosh deafening inside you. 

I think the country is standing on a very dangerous precipice, much like standing in the middle of a battlefield where the initial rush and anticipation of action has us suddenly...with one foot on a landmine, only realizing too late once your brain registers the ‘click.’ Or like so many times before we have all been warned about frozen lakes, that while they look solid, many times we do not clearly see what our eyes have refused to comprehend until the moment there is the soft ‘ping’ and ‘crackle’ of a break in the seam. 

What we do not understand or frankly fail to see is that it is our own actions that have placed us in this moment, this spot, this plain of existence. We question reality, and mentally trace back our steps and actions as though that act alone could save us now. We rack our brains trying to play out the what if’s and what about’s in a desperate attempt to beg the universe for a redo, and then slightly curse it for not answering those prayers. We have moment after moment to define who we are, what our message will be and yet we remain reactive to situations as though that very moment has snuck up on us. Very rarely should we be caught off guard by something, after all we’ve had hundreds of years learn, process and grow.

But we don’t.

History is littered with the discarded remains of lives lost, lessons supposedly learned and broken promises that were utterned with the best of intent to ‘never forget’ or ‘do better.’ We talk about change like it’s a new idea, the grand solution to an age old problem or an idea whose time has finally come. But it’s always been here, knocking on the door because the bell is broken, sometimes a tiny ‘rasp’ and other times a harsh ‘pounding’ yet we wonder every day what happened? How did it get so bad? Where did we go wrong? 

The thing about history though, it’s not really in the past, because it keeps coming round and round and round. Disaster after disaster, disease after disease, war after war...the lesson never fully learned. So here we are again, standing in the middle of this battlefield or standing in the middle of that frozen lake...fear racing through our veins like venom. 

Fight or flight? Panic or process? 

In these defining moments our character shines. Our instincts kick in and we do what must be done. Sometimes that means accepting our fate, after all it is our choices that led us here. Sometimes that means taking decisive action regardless of the consequence and sometimes that means waking up…

This is a call.

This is a call for action.

This is a call to wake the fuck up.

We can do more.

We can be more.

We can do this....but you have to wake up.

Please stop dreaming. 

Please end the nightmare.

Please. Get. Up.

Before Gay, was Gay

I can’t believe it’s been 25 years since Xena Warrior Princess appeared on television...suddenly I feel incredibly old, as if my muscles and joints didn’t remind me daily. I seem to always be late to the party when it comes to amazing television shows, currently the title belongs to Wynonna Earp as I was three years late to that party, I didn’t jump on the wagon with Xena until 1999, four years into production. At that time, I didn’t understand why I loved the show. It was cheesy, had lots of goofy one-liners and in all honesty had a plot that was crazy making. The storyline was full of inaccuracies but dammit, I just couldn’t get enough. The odder, the better...the more ass they kicked, the more I watched. With each season Gabrielle’s clothing got more form fitting and I was all in watching the ginger goddess beat the crap out of anyone who threatened her relationship with Xena.

Wait. Hold up. Did I just say form fitting? Relationship with Xena? Oh my God. Maybe I am gay? Oh shit, what if I’m gay? No...I can’t be gay. Wait, what is being gay even mean? Sure I had heard the word before, mostly when the bullies in middle and high school were shoving me in lockers, punching me and the words were always stained with vile hatred. I remember, like it was yesterday...walking the halls and hearing the words “dyke, fucking fag, carpet muncher.” I was often called a lot of names because I was fat, you know the usual “wide load, fatty fatty two by four” but I took more offense at being called a dyke because it honestly felt like more of an attack. Being fat was one thing, being a “woman lover” was beyond forbidden and laden with sin, strife and torment. So when Xena came along, there was just something that resonated with me, even though I didn’t understand it. The more I watched, the more I realized how beautiful their relationship was, the more attached I felt to the story, the journey and when the show went off the air, I was left mourning a relationship that had brought me so much joy, comfort and safety that I vowed to never fall in love with another television show. It took years for my heart to grow scar tissue over the wounds left behind that to this day still leave craters on my heart and soul. 

I know it’s taking a really long time to carve a path through this journal entry, and I apologize for taking the scenic route but I write what comes to mind, and more often than not I have no destination in mind. So I thank you for walking along this path with me and hopefully you get something from it. If not, it was still nice of you to visit.

My world, much like so many others was turned upside down when COVID hit. The world stopped spinning, restrictions on where you could go and who you could see seemed to grind all of us to a halt. Movies stopped, production companies shut their doors, and sports vanished. It was the ladder that really shook me to my core because I live for sports. Not just watching them but doing photography is my passion and when that went away I was lost in an abyss that I had no coping skills to apply to help me keep my mind calm. Enter stage left...Netflix. First I blew through Flash, then Supergirl followed by Legends of Tomorrow, Batwoman, Dark Matter and then I had my mind blown by Wynonna Earp. 

My world has never been the same...because Wynonna Fucking Earp. 

I watched because Netflix recommended it, not because I’m into Syfy, demons, gunslingers or vampires..but I watched assuming it would fall to the wayside just like the rest. 

It did not.

By the time the second episode of season one hit my screen, I was a goner. It was like getting a blood transfusion, I could feel the freshly rejuvenated cells coursing through my body and I was addicted. Seriously, life as I knew it before this show ceased to be. I know it sounds so overly melodramatic, but this isn’t a ‘fluff’ piece about a queer show, or potential cult hit. This is about finding a show that changes my world view, shows me that love can be found even in the darkest of places, that forgiveness can always be granted, that family is what you make it, and more than anything else...I’m perfect just the way I am because I can see myself on the show. There’s an example in every episode that celebrates being queer, finding love, making mistakes, working through disputes (as long as you aren’t a revenant) and loving whoever the hell you want. The show has become a part of who I am, what I can be and has shown me that I matter.

That’s why I put so much focus on #representationmatters, because it does. Had this show been around during my younger years, showing me that it’s okay to be who I am, I can testify that I know without a doubt, my life wouldn’t be anything like it is now. I wouldn’t loathe myself, I wouldn’t think I was a mistake or that my thoughts are bad or wrong. I would have had doctrine to offer counter arguments from that of my religion. Maybe, just maybe I could have lived a life worth living. So when this show came along, bringing an on screen relationship between Nicole and Waverly (known as Wayhaught), and it being one of respect, empowerment and independence...I suddenly was able to breath in fresh clean air, giving my stale lungs the oxygen to stand up and more forward. Wayhaught is an experience that I’ve never witnessed before, even in the representation of heterosexual relationships. The actors have taken such reverence and respect in portraying these characters, that the chemistry between them is unmistakable. Between the impeccable writing and the life that Kat Barrell and Dominique Provost-Chalkley breathe into Nicole and Waverly...you can’t help but be mesmerized and forever changed. It’s not porn, it’s not wasted movement, it’s not fluff for fluff sake, it’s not dirty sex for kicks or used to appease the lookielews. It’s real. It’s powerful. It’s everything that I never believed possible in my lifetime.

Can you imagine being 46 and finally finding your way through the haze and marshlands to stand side by side with others who feel just like you? I never thought it possible to find a group of people who love, inspire, encourage, support and cherish each other like we’ve been starved for simply existing. I found my family, my #duckingfamily who I zoom with weekly or more and it’s like having dinner with the family or game night. Sometimes we fight, and sometimes we cry, but every time we love, listen and support each other. The only thing that brought us together was Wynonna Earp. The more I get to know others that this show has brought into my life, the more I find our stories similar regardless of gender, sexual orientation, location and age. This show truly is speaking a language that knows, no boundaries. It is without a doubt, extraordinary.

So when I was given the opportunity to share my thoughts about Wynonna Earp and Wayhaught with Monica Rodman at the Washington Post, of course I recorded, then recorded again and then a couple more times to make sure I adequately conveyed the importance of seeing this relationship on television. I wasn’t sure if anything I said would be used, and honestly I didn’t know much about the vision for the end result and a few weeks passed after I sent in my submission...I just brushed it all off and kept on, keeping on. Eventually the article came out, I wasn’t quoted which was fine but I didn’t realize there was a video that accompanied the article. Then my Twitter DM’s blew up and suddenly I was face to face with myself and I cried. Not because I was in the Washington Post, but because I finally felt like I’m alive. There’s actual proof that I existed, someday when I leave this world, there is evidence that I was once here. I have no children, no one to pass my name to, no one that will miss me and carry my stories to...so, seeing myself on this video actually made me feel seen. The link below will take you to the article and video.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/video/entertainment/how-wynonna-earp-is-giving-back-to-the-queer-fans-who-saved-it/2020/08/30/8d3df785-7170-4372-a06c-390464f57043_video.html

httpwww.washingtonpost.com/arts-entertainment/2020/08/30/wynonna-earp-midseason-finale/

I guess in conclusion I want to say that this journey I suddenly find myself on is totally unexpected and worth every freaking minute. It’s not without its drama and pitfalls, the fandom is just like every other group in society. There’s good, bad, indifferent but in the end the people you surround yourself will offer you the chance at not only finding yourself, healing yourself but empowering and growing into someone you never thought possible. It’s no small thing finding your tribe, the people who love you as is. For as much as COVID has wrecked the world, it led me to a show that forever changed mine. I joke with my found family (my ducking earp family) that I’m in a relationship with Wynonna Earp the show...but it’s kinda true. No matter what kind of day I had, how lost I feel I can watch the show and find a sense of peace that the real world won’t afford me. It may sound trite but this show has literally saved my life. And you want to know a secret...I am just one of millions who have the same story. 

Never discount the passion that fuels those of us who have lived a life in the shadows, told we are broken and wrong...who have not witnessed burning love as it actually is in real life, on the screen. The tide is turning and best be warned now, the showrunner for Wynonna Earp, Emily Andras is on a mission...so when you hear a knock at the door, best answer. The strong female characters in her shows are just an extension of the strong female actors that breathe life into her vision. They are all coming to tear down the old ways and pre-established norms of conformity and for one, am here for all of it.

So what’s a gay...simple.

Me.

Social Media: Katherine Barrell

During the down time between Wynonna Earp Season 4A and 4B, I’ve decided to take this period of mourning as a time of reflection and in so doing, I am watching and yes, rewatching various conventions on YouTube. Today I was watching the WayHaught panel from Earpercon UK 2019 and was struck by a moment where Katherine Barrell was talking about social media. “Social media is a beautiful and fun thing that we get to engage in but it’s not real, it’s not real life and you know you should never compare yourself to others, I think we all know that but it can be very easy to compare yourself to friends that look like they’re living these amazing lives. I like those shirts that people wear that say ‘I hope your life is as wonderful as you pretend it is on Instagram’. I mean we all know that Instagram is another form of media and we all know that media is manipulated and it’s there to entertain us but it’s not there to give us the true barometer of real life.” I think I must have rewound that segment a couple dozen times just so that I really heard the words she said, but also to give proper respect to words with intent that we all could use a little more of. 

When I started shooting roller derby, I became obsessed with just how horrible I was at it because no matter what I did, my photos looked like shit compared to the photos that my mentors were taking. Everything was perfect from the lighting to the design...it was maddening. There were more days I felt useless than I felt like I had done anything right, and one day I confided to one of my most supportive mentors that I was thinking of giving up because it was clear that I would never be like him. He proceeded to tell me that “if you give this up, you will never forgive yourself. You are not meant to be like me, or have your photos look like mine. You bring different eyes to this sport and as such your photos will never be anything other than yours, it’s your vision that makes you good at this.” Admittedly it felt good to hear the compliment but I wasn’t sold on the notion that anyone would ever appreciate my work. It was about a week later that I found one of my old flash drives with photos from two years earlier, back before I was really working to improve my photography skills. I remember looking at the photos and before I knew it, the words “holy shit” escaped my mouth as things started to click in my mind, like finely focused shutter speed clearing my mind and giving me the ability to focus with added clarity.

The photos from 2010 looked horrible, but at the time I thought they were pretty good. The images were blurred, out of focus, tinted the wrong color or just plain gross. It was like looking at the artistic skills of a child in kindergarten. Fast forward to 2016 where I was disappointed in everything I produced but when comparing the difference between those years, I had made it to high school as far as skill acquisition. When I talked with my mentor about it he laughed and said, “you have to stop comparing yourself to everyone else. You forget that we all started with crappy looking images, but you also need to remember that we don’t show the world all our side B stuff, we only publish the side A stuff. You were spending so much time comparing your side B with everyone else’s side A...that’s just crazy. You would never be able to catch up that way. So compare yourself then, to yourself now. Have you gotten better, have you learned things, are there places that you’ve made strides in? If the answer is yes, then you should stay and continue getting better.” I’ve never been so humbled. 

Fast forward to 2020, I stuck with roller derby photography, that destination took me on a journey to international photography, billboards and magazines. Eventually leading to shooting for the women’s football league both internationally and nationally and more magazines. Then came lacrosse and that took me to where I am now, shooting high school sports for the Marysville School District where I can capture moments in time that are just stepping stones in the growth of the newer generations. This wasn’t at all the direction I wanted to take this post, and I’m a little confused as to whether I should keep or delete it all, but ultimately, it is what it is. The lesson that I was quoting Katherine Barrell for still holds true, we have to stop comparing ourselves to each other, especially since we all don’t start at the same place or take the same roads with the same potholes. We try so hard to keep up with those we admire and look up to but forget that they are trying to keep up with others too, and rarely if ever do we see the mistakes and foibles that it takes to get to the beauty and perfection. 

Social media for all it’s greatness can just as quickly destroy the best of us. There’s a certain amount of unashamed risk inherent in anonymity that makes us feel that we have a right to share our opinions regardless of the hurt it may cause. It’s a place where trolls manipulate and create division just for entertainment fodder, a place that removes safety and compassion from interchanges that cannot exist in that void. It’s easy in those moments to forget that real people are on the other end of the keyboard, with real thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams. It’s easy to hate what we don’t know or understand and despite the connection we have to people all over the world, I find us more distant and further apart than ever.

I may go against the grain on this, but I tend to be on social media the person you would find in real life. Rarely do I front for any lengthy period of time because I value authenticity in every form, and if I want to have it come back to me, then I have to put it out there. It is by no means easy to real and raw on social media given how easy it is to attack others with no threat of consequence, but hear me now...we all reap what we sow. I may not be the one driving the karma bus, but rest assured she will find you. To that end, I treat those near and far the same way I want to be treated. 

With respect. 

With honor.

With compassion.

With understanding (that doesn’t mean 100% agreement).

With the knowledge that we are all doing the best we can with what we have and that can change from day to day. We all carry our own cross, we all deal with our own inner demons and we can all do better. 

We can all listen more and judge less. 

To that end, #EarpKindly 

::Katherine is not associated with writer statements. They are my own::

The Thing About Pain

 

The thing about pain is that we all feel it differently. We interpret it differently, we respond to it differently and we interact with it differently. Despite the established biological design and chemical makeup of our brains, they are as unique and different as our fingerprints.

The thing about pain is that when you’re in it long enough, you just get used to it. The uneasy feeling of being exhausted to the point you can feel your blood rushing through your brain and even your joints struggle to make your aching muscles do the simplest of tasks.You become so used to the way it feels, the all encompassing weight of discomfort that you struggle to remember a time when something on your body or in it, didn’t hurt. 

The thing about pain is that when you’re in the middle of it, you can question every life choice, every action, and even the inactions. It’s so hard to see the view when you’re stuck in the hole, and all you know to do is keep digging. 

The thing about pain is that sometimes we worry that it will never stop. We all do it, we challenge the muscle or joint off and on after an injury “just to see if it still hurts.” 

The thing about pain is that through the haze, we long for the times we took our health for granted. The mental game of bargaining for better times with wishes that sometimes go unfulfilled. 

The thing about pain is that for the most part it eventually does pass. Day in and day out, one foot in front of the other until one day we realize that our head doesn’t hurt as much, or you wake up and your ears aren’t plugged anymore, or lay down and find that feeling of blood rushing through your brain no longer makes you wince. Maybe you find that it’s easier to put your shoes on where before the muscles moved like they were dipped in molasses, slow to respond and sticky.

The thing about pain is that even after the trauma ends, the echo remains like aftershocks to the soul that rip and tear at your heart.

The thing about pain is that sometimes it doesn’t go away. Like throwing a rock into a lake, the waves it creates will eventually reach every inch of the shore, even the parts we can’t see with the naked eye. 

The thing about pain is that it isn’t always physical but maybe if it were, many of us wouldn’t walk this Earth with metaphorical gaping wounds leaving us raw, bloody and filled with grief. 

The thing about pain is that sometimes, we can heal. Which doesn’t mean that we forget the pain, we just get to a point where the wound is covered with a scar and then the scar eventually fads. 

But ultimately we are never the same.

Damage Report

2020 has been a shit year, and I make no pretense about how I wish it would just end and never come back. I also know that many of us likely have the same hostile feelings and thoughts about this year...so none of my comments are meant to detract from the pain and suffering of others, I just need to get some of these rotting thoughts out of my head before they consume me. Many of you know the recent struggles that have been impacting both my mother and myself. However, when it rains it pours...and it seems that the deluge has no end. I wish the fingers of suffering had a limited reach but sadly they do not. Here’s the damage report as of 8/6/2020 at 11:28am. 

• Mother suffered a severe TIA at the start of July which closely resembled symptoms of a stroke. I wrote about it previously so I don’t feel a need to reestablish that trauma but it’s ever present.

• Mother has since been in the hospital again, this time for a UTI so severe that she got sepsis and needed IV antibiotics. While in hospital it was discovered that she also has kidney stones. She continues to feel weak, out of sorts and mentally exhausted.

• A close family friend, who has been in my life since I was probably 15...her husband recently died due to cancer.

• Father has been needing a hip replacement but that continues to get pushed back due to heart issues. He has been diagnosed with heart failure and now is scheduled to have surgery to get a pacemaker implanted. 

• I’m struggling with my mental health, mostly because my physical health has taken a rapid turn for the shits. Despite losing about 35 pounds over the last year, I’ve been dealing with severe, unexplained back pain that nothing seems to resolve.

• I work two jobs, 6 days a week. I am thankful for the employment and benefits, yet live in a constant state of perpetual exhaustion. 

So those are the main points of life right now. Things could always be better, but they could always be worse and I am thankful for the small mercies that I am graced with on a daily basis.

With all that being said, I’m barely hanging on.

Sometimes the things that break me the hardest are the quiet whispers, the almost shed tears and the pained look in the eyes of those around me. Specifically the burden I carry at this moment is knowing my mom is grieving the loss of her youth, her health and her independence. I can see it heavy on her shoulders, weighing her down, making her question even the simplest of tasks and leaving her a broken shell of who she used to be. I know she is ill right now, there’s a lot of medical issues going on, but she has always had such high expectations for herself...I too carry that characteristic and it has unraveled some of my most cherished moments. Mom has been the sole care provider for me, and it has always been she and I battling side by side. As a single parent, she slayed every beast that haunted me, chased every bad dream from my mind and lavished my worried heart with undying love. She was and is my superhero.

So it pains me greatly when she doesn’t fly as high, doesn’t run as fast and hides from the bullets that fly about our world. I try to shield her, like she has done for me so many times, but I feel my efforts will never be enough. How do I repay the woman who gave me life? How do I make right all the wrongs she has experienced? How do I remove kryptonite from her when it takes the form of her very own blood...tainted with infection as it courses through her body? I can literally feel the sands of my mother’s life, the beating of her heart as it slips through my fingers. I’m watching her slip into an abyss that threatens to suffocate both of us...it just takes different forms. For mom the suffocating act is pulling her from what she wanted retirement to look like, the goals she had and the health that others take for granted. For me, the suffocation is in my inability to give her strength, health and hope only made worse by the fact that I can’t take this from her. I can’t make this life easier for her, and it kills me inside to feel this helpless.

If I could, I would with no hesitation give my life for my mother. I would do anything, give anything and risk anything to rectify any number of the ills that she has and continues to experience. I would give her my last breath, the beating of my heart...the flicker of any number of my brain cells if only to give her peace. Sadly desperation alone isn’t enough, because not a single of those things am I capable of doing. So here I sit, willing to do anything while the reality of life's constraints keep me wrapped in a hopeless, endless loop of incapability with a burning desire to curse the heavens. 

When I pray, for as far back as my memory can go, I have always thanked God for my mother, for our relationship, our love and her endless support. And I have always thanked God for every single moment I have with her on this Earth because the alternative is something that will literally and figuratively break my heart and soul. It is only at this moment, feeling my heart heavy with sorrow and selfishness do I question my intent…

In the moment she spoke, a cancerous worm was given life...coiling itself around my heart, constricting and biting and laying waste to my security, my hope and plans. In that moment, my thoughts for some level of normality were replaced by thorns and barbed wire fencing. Her words, still echoing in my head...bouncing and warping with every vibration...linger. “I’m so tired of feeling like this, so tired of being sick and feeling weak. I don’t think I’m going to make it to Christmas.” I wonder if she saw the moment my heart hitched and my happiness evaporated. I didn’t expect to hear it, but I did suspect she thought it. Yet, once the words were in the air being carried on wings of despair, there was nothing I could do to swat them down, only giving up once I realized they had taken up residency in my brain.

I wish I had some overly dramatic sentiment to share, some gained insight that could make us both feel better about where life has deposited us today. I feel guilty for feeling sadness, after all, I have my mother in my life on a daily basis...when there are so many others who walk this earth without one. But I can’t help how I feel, and I can’t stop the emotional tailspin that grips me when I think about trying to live my life without her as she has been. I can do nothing to change the course we are on, long ago set forth upon...the destination pre-planned, the only control we can exercise...a few pit stops and scenic routes. 

I had hoped that after writing this, I wouldn’t feel so hollow but I don’t find that to be the case. 

My heart remains heavy. 

My mind remains disorganized.

My soul remains adrift.

Today, no solace can be found and I have no choice but to live with it.