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  • Humbled

    A Restless Night

    Last night’s sleep was rough. Sleep has been broken for the past week. And before that too, but the last 7 days of insomnia hit me hard this morning. I awoke from a recurring nightmare but do not remember what I dreamt. I was just left with an ache in my chest and stomach and feelings of intense shame and regret. I’m usually able to fall asleep most nights but have been waking up and then have trouble falling back asleep. When I have insomnia, I usually get up after tossing for awhile, make myself some herbal tea and watch mindless tv until anxiety loosens its grip. I know that screen watching is not good sleep hygiene, but tv distraction from the rumination helps.

    Last night I awoke around 2 am and laid in bed. My son is a co-sleeper and was snuggled up next to me. Lately he has been clinging to me in his sleep. He likes to hold my hand or wrap his little leg over my leg. It gives him comfort and I don’t discourage it. I think he has noticed the shift in my mood. I’ve felt more sad and hopeless this week although have been trying to hide it. He senses things have not been fine with me. He’s also been letting me hold his hand when we walk our dog after supper, and has been saying more often that he loves me.

    His small body was glued to my side as I laid frozen in bed. Moving would wake him up so I just laid still and listened to his breathing. I heard crickets chirping outside the window and my dog move around in her kennel beside the bed. I tried all the tricks for relaxing back to sleep: 4-squared breathing, 4-7-8 breath, progressive muscle relaxation, positive affirmations, visualization. It took some time but I eventually passed out around 4 am and woke up at 6:30, our usual wake-up time.

    We rode our bikes again to school. I felt sluggish on my bike. Feeling the effects of day 2 of the med increase and the sleep debt I’ve accumulated. We made it to the school just as the first bell rang for the kids to head inside. I was relieved that we made it there in time. I watched my son park his bike in the school bike rack and then run to join the other kids. I turned on my bike and sailed back down the hill to home, then hopped in the car and came back to the school to retrieve his bike since he would not be riding it home. I don’t mind the extra effort I make to do morning drop-off. My son is enjoying riding his bike and my aim has been to help him practice riding to school, as well as to encourage exercise for the mental health benefits we both get out of it. And it saves a little money on gas to bike.

    Ineligible

    I met my ex at the Veterans Affairs Office as planned. He’d offered to come with me to inquire about potential benefits for spouses of veterans. I was nervous and had a sinking feeling about being there. It did not feel right to pretend my ex and I were still a couple to try to get funding for Homewood. I told him this and he reassured me. “It’s ok, don’t worry about it. The important thing is for you to get better.” He then said how our son needed me and something about “whatever it takes”. It was the most I’ve heard him say to me in a long time.

    We spoke with the receptionist and she connected us with a service navigator. I actually felt relieved when she gave us the news that military spouses are ineligible to receive treatment for mental health/addiction concerns unless they are adversely affected by a mental or physical injury suffered by the individual who is/was serving; the reason for benefits for treatment must be tied back to the military service personnel.

    The service navigator asked why I was inquiring about benefits. She was kind and sympathetic. I briefly explained my situation. She offered a referral to services in the community.  I let her know I was already connecting with them.

    My ex and I walked silently back to our cars. I paused at my ex’s car and thanked him for coming with me today. I told him how I felt relieved by the outcome and that I would look at other options for treatment.

    Next Steps

    So I can do one of two things next. I could wait for money that I will inherit from my parents’ estate to pay for the treatment at Homewood out of my own pocket (very expensive option). I received word from my older brother this week that the bank confirmed they will waive probation and release the funds remaining of our parents’ estate. I’m not sure when that will happen or how much it will be. I gave my brother my banking info when he asked for it. He said he would need a few days to request time off work to make it to the bank to manage the details. I told him no problem and thanked him for letting me know what was happening. I told him I loved him. I heard nothing back.

    Option 2, I can let the events from the day and week humble me. I realized I’ve been trying to control the outcome. Where I can get help. I’m afraid. And I may be shooting for the stars as a way to make it harder for myself to face whatever change is ahead. I can just let go. Ask for help and just. let. go.

    I have the intake appointment tomorrow at the counselling agency. After that I’ll be assigned a therapist and given a date for my first appointment. At this appointment I can ask about options for residential treatment centres within the province. The ones that are publicly-funded. In the meantime, I can work on building social supports, repairing my self-esteem and cultivating healthier habits with the individual counselling. It’s a plan. I feel a little relief. Hopefully sleep will be easier tonight.

  • Milestones

    Two tabs today. I started the medication increase from 50 to 100 mg. So far, the side effects are annoying but manageable. Some nausea and feeling generally spacey, restless and my head aches a little. I’m fortunate to have the time right now to feel crummy and adjust. I am not working and the only major hurdle every day is getting my son to school. Then there’s the rest – caring for myself, picking up the pieces of my life, tackling a little at a time. I guess those are mini hurdles. One day at a time.

    This morning was interesting getting my son to school. He just started Grade 2 and we biked to school today, which was a slight challenge because of the side effects, but fun to do with him. He rode with his backpack, too. He struggled a little with the weight of it while riding, but managed alright. He recently learned to ride his bike without training wheels and has since been biking non-stop. It’s great, seeing him zoom along, his little legs pumping fast. The bike already looks too small for him. He will need another one in the spring.

    His confidence is special. He recently learned the expression, “top-shelf”. I know not where, probably school or daycare. He tells me, “Mom, my bike is top-shelf.” Ok, my boy. Yes, your bike, biking, is definitely “top-shelf” in my books. He worked all summer to achieve this milestone, and knows it. As a mom, I am basking in his happiness and pride. He is growing in leaps. I wish I could bottle his self-confidence and give him a dose of it later in life. I tuck the memories away for the rainy day when a confidence boost will be needed. I give him a mama hug and kiss, and wish him a good day, watching him walk up the steps to the front door of his school. This will be a good year for him, I can already tell.

    This morning I have an appointment with an agency that provides support services for military families and veterans. I called them yesterday and set up a time to speak with someone for help advocating with Veterans Affairs (VA). My ex is a veteran and I may still have coverage through the VA for specialized services. It’s a long shot, but the aim is to find a way to afford the cost of inpatient treatment at Homewood. I am still intent on going there. I learned yesterday that my ex’s work benefits won’t cover the cost of the treatment, so I am working on finding other ways to make it happen.

    The appointment today was sort of helpful. I knew there would be an intake to see if I qualify for services. I gave them my ex’s service number and told a little of my story – just the highlights. I let the social worker know that I am trying to attend an inpatient treatment program.

    “Why Homewood?”, the worker asks. I don’t know what to say at first. Then I reply, “Because I know they have what I need.” I don’t tell him it’s because I am confident the therapists there are skilled at discerning dissociation from fawning and people-pleasing. I need someone trauma-based who can call out me out on my masking. Someone super-observant and experienced who I trust has what it takes to help me along the path to heal. I also need to be somewhere safe where I won’t drink. Individual counselling in the community is helpful but not enough.

    He explains how he can provide counselling support for the grief, depression and anxiety. He doesn’t mention anything about treatment for trauma or C-PTSD. I thank him for the offer of help and say I will think about it. I do appreciate his help, even just the time talking with him. I take his card but let him know that I have an intake appointment with another counselling agency later in the week. The agency is not far from where I live. Hopefully the waitlist won’t be too long and it leads to some help.

    When I ask him about support contacting the VA, he tells me that I need to call them to explain my situation. “Well ya, I know this”, I thought. He suggests that it may be best to go see them in person with my ex and gives me the address for where to go. I thank him and he shows me out. I’m grateful for the little bit of clarity I take from the meeting. My head feels a little woozy. I better eat something and rest before picking up my son from school. He usually busses to daycare in the afternoon but today he is on pick-up. I need time to feed him and then bring him to the rec centre for a youth rock climbing group.

  • Doctor’s Visit

    Before the Visit

    I made an appointment to see my doctor. It’s this morning and I’m not looking forward to it. I guess that’s normal. Who looks forward to seeing their doctor? Most people don’t. In fact, they likely dread it. Like me this morning. I’m particularly anxious about seeing him this time. He’s a good doctor. A nice guy. He often looks distracted, has his blinders up, which I’m sure serves a purpose in his line of work. He grew up close to my grandparents’ farm, now my family farm since my grandparents are both dead, but I still call it my grandparents’ farm from childhood days. I feel a closeness to him for that reason. I understand some of his mannerisms and ways of speaking. He has kind eyes when he wants to show them. I haven’t seen his eyes soften with me in awhile. Not since before I had my son. It also seems to depend on what I am seeing him for. He’s my son’s doctor as well. I’m actually quite lucky to have him. Not everyone has a doctor. I have that going for me.

    Today I am seeing him for my mood and how I can’t seem to contain my anger. I’m not sure how much to tell him. Best to just stick the facts and not any nitty-gritty bits of my story. That will make it easier all around. I don’t put much stock in psychotropic medication even though I know it helps with mental health. It serves a purpose. It provides stability, not healing. It will not cure the cause or solve problems. But I hope it will give me a leg-up and some relief. That’s what I’m aiming for. That’s what is needed right now. Calm and stability.

    I’m already taking an antidepressant. I started it after I finished breastfeeding my son. That was about 6 years ago. Before that I was on a different medication during my pregnancy, and before that, different meds. Some helpful, some not so much. Depression and anxiety have been issues throughout my life. I have had periods of time when I was doing ok and not on medication. Mostly though, since 16, I’ve been taking an antidepressant. I don’t like it, but have learned to cope with side effects and accept that it’s needed.

    After the Visit

    The appointment happened. I think it went well despite some discomfort and having to complete a form that is really only meant for a doctor to fill out but the dirty work was passed along to me. I guess they don’t pay doctors that much to do this part. Whatever.

    First, the medication I am taking hasn’t changed but the dosage is going up. Doubling, in fact. Yay. Not really. I am not crazy about this whatsoever but figure it is necessary. I will follow the recommendation and adjust. Ugh.

    Surprisingly, my doctor started off the visit by showing me the medical form from Homewood Health Centre. He received it after I finished the intake last Thursday, which impressed me. The intake worker is on the ball. I used to work the same when I was working. Referrals were always responsive, mindful that the timing of linkage was so important, especially for services for mental health, trauma recovery and addiction. People frequently change their minds, lose hope, etc. after reaching out for help initially. Fast action is necessary before the window of time and motivation closes and life goes back to status quo – the chaotic and familiar normal. Anyway, I took it as reassurance that Homewood was the right choice.

    My doctor was attentive and efficient. He listened as I gave a Coles notes version of the fallout from the past year. He sympathized. He typed his notes. He was concise with his words. He managed his time effectively. He’s been here, done that before for other patients. At the end of ten minutes, he gave me the form to fill-out in reception with instruction to hand it in to the receptionists. Sure, no problem.

    Glancing at the form, I see that it is quite formal and really not meant for a patient to complete. My anxiety spikes. Great. I feel a surge of resentment and a fleeting thought to rebelliously check off all the mental health conditions as “current” and indicate that I was recently hospitalized. You know, just to screw him over. But it wouldn’t be him suffering as a result. I’d be screwing myself. As fun as going deviant sounds, that wouldn’t be smart. One of the boxes to check is an indication of self-harming behaviours. I’ve been skin-picking. Is that a form of self-harm? Ya, that counts. Sigh. I put it down as such. Immediately feel the shame of it but let it go. I’ve got nothing left to hide. I hand the form in to one of the receptionists, who asks me if I want to keep the original. No, I’m good, thanks. Ugh.

  • Letters to Self (04/09/2025)

    Letters to Self (04/09/2025)

    Dear Future Me,

    I don’t know who you are and if you’re out there, but I hope you figured it all out. Or most of it, like the really important stuff. Your mental health, work, housing, finances and relationships, and what to do with all the anger and grief. Basically everything.

    Tell me what it’s like in the future. Please. Where are you, what are you doing and how did you get there? What’s different and what’s the same? What do you think of me here in the past?

    Is it a big leap or is the change slow? Will it take a long time to be you? I picture big flaming hoops to jump through, tightrope walking, learning to juggle, trying to balance on my head. Not that I think you’ve joined a circus, although that would be exciting and certainly different (albeit highly impractical). I just think it will be tough. Too tough for me. What you must have learned to develop your mental muscle. Your capacity to love well – yourself and others. To succeed and to thrive? Will I get there? Or will you always be a what-if, a maybe?

    I’ll be honest, you scare me. Your strength, your peace, your drive and passion, your courage and confidence… I want to be you. I do. My real fear is that I will never be you. I won’t get there. I will fall. Get up and fall again. And again. And again. Until I give up. But you… You kept going until you made it. At least I dream you do. I’m hoping you did. If I get to that place, can I keep it going? Can I be you?

    Tell me.

    P

    Dearest Younger Me,

    These are all great questions. I’m not surprised they come from you.

    First, I love you. You don’t believe that now, and that’s ok. But I love you, all of you, your mistakes and faults, your strengths and goodness, everything about you. I accept you for who you are now, where you are in your life. And I am proud of how you made it to your today.

    Yes, you have fucked up. But you have also been disappointed. You have been let down. You are grieving losses and you are ashamed of these losses. And that’s not right. You are carrying a heavy load, but that load is not who you are. The trauma is how what happened affected you. But the hurt is not you, and relief is coming.

    You are not your mistakes. You feel guilty for the rage. That guilt is a good thing. It shows you care, that you have a conscience. And it’s a good motivator. It will help you see where you went wrong and stop a pattern that is hurting you more. Don’t wallow in the guilt. Accept it, let go of the self-blame and move forward. Yes, you are responsible for the hurt even though you don’t deserve it, but change won’t happen for you, for us, until you start working through it in ways that are loving and healing. Not destructive. Not blaming anyone. Not trying to share the load with anyone else. Not wrestling with it. Try loving the hurt instead.

    Gifts come in strange packages sometimes. You are capable of carrying the grief as far as it needs to go and then setting it down.

    You can do this. You are doing this. You are turning a page this week. You are taking the hurt and doing something brave with it. Look what you’ve accomplished in the last few days. You have taken steps. You are reaching out for help. You know what to do and are doing it. I am proud of you. You asked me what I think of you now and I am the one in awe – you have shown incredible strength and courage.

    I am your coach. Your biggest cheerleader. I’m not going anywhere. You can count on me to help you and I will meet you halfway. You don’t have to try to reach me all the way, I am going to come to you, and you will know when we finally meet.

    And I’m not perfect. I still make mistakes. I still feel regret and guilt, but I own my feelings and my mistakes and I do something about them. I don’t stay stuck for long. Things are clearer and I do not rely on validation from others. The fear of others’ judgment does not hold me back from making a change or creating something. When I feel inspired, I act on it. You will see. Life will be more simple. It will feel good.

    The future is so much lighter. Grief will no longer rule you. Life is brighter, more colourful and full of love. Love is all around you now. Trust in it. It is helping you heal. It takes time. It is messy. The adage, “Through is the only way forward”, is the only way. Many small steps and a few big leaps are getting you there. You will find the way out of this. I believe in you.

    Love,

    P

  • Beginning (02/09/2025)

    Beginning (02/09/2025)

    The Fall

    Today I did something. I let myself fall. Like really fall. Hard. I gave up, turned over, surrendered, whatever it’s called that people do when they sink into their feelings and accept life’s bottom falling out. I fell and stayed down. I did that. Fuck. No rush to get up. Save face. Not looking around to see if anyone noticed my face-plant in the dirt. Not literally. No one was there. No one fucking cared. It was just me. Alone. I gave in to the hurt, the helplessness, the shame. The heavy burden of loss. I let myself lay in it. It was like being under a toppled wall of bricks. I laid there and felt the misery and hot flood of grief gush in.

    The Call

    Then I made a phone call. One that I’ve avoided making but knew would have to happen if I was going to start to pick up the pieces of my life. There was no way I could get back up on my own after last night. Not this time. Not anymore. I knew exactly who to call. I’ve made the call once or twice before, referring someone for help. Now the person was me. I needed the help. I bit the inside of my cheek as my cell rang and was answered by an outgoing message, “Welcome to Homewood Health Centre. Please leave your name and phone number and someone from Admissions will return your call…” I took a breath and said my name. “Hi, this is… please give me a call back when you can.” Jesus, I sounded small and apologetic, as if I was inconveniencing the intake worker’s day by calling the day after a long weekend. My name added to a list of other addicts, alcoholics and trauma survivors needing help.

    The Wait

    So now I wait for a call back. It’s a little like sitting at the doctor’s office waiting for your name called out while starring blankly at a tv screen showing community news and avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. You’re only there because you have to be in order to have an embarrassing problem dealt with. Life is pretty much put on hold until your turn comes up.

    I’m nervous about the call-back. I’d be sitting on my hands if I wasn’t writing this. The sound of my ring-tone already going off in my head. I dread the conversation I’ll have. I know how it will go. The person will sound warm and encouraging. There will be questions. Information to give. Secrets to disclose. It will feel awkward. I will be expected to describe the losses over the past year. The drinking and grief, the explosive anger, relationship difficulties, other adverse consequences and traumas going as far back as I can remember. Helplessness and guilt will show up. My hands will feel cold. My stomach will go from flip-flopping to sitting heavy in a knot. Desire for relief and shaky hopefulness will be noticeable in my voice. It will feel like being asked to look under the kitchen sink. Like the one in my childhood house that used to scare me. Asked to shine a light on the moldy, soap-scummed corners and drippy faucet of an ugly grief that frightens me. The only hand I will have to hold will be my own. Questions will swirl around in my head. Will I meet the admission criteria? Will I have coverage through benefits? Will I have to wait long for help? Who would look after my dog? What do I tell my son? Can I do this? Would this really help me?