Surveillance and Data

When discussing the idea of incarcerated readers, it struck me that being in-patient at the Grey Nuns existed in similar ways in that there was a relative monitoring system that happened--sometimes checked on every hour, sometimes every 15 minutes, sometimes round the clock surveillance.

Books were available but donated ones which were surely censored (no Thirteen Reasons Why, unsurprisingly) and then, additionally, there was a library cart that circulated twice a week, manned by a volunteer, The anxieties, then, of having someone observing your choices, your returns, the “reading trails” that sometimes happened through annotated messages in the books or wearing of covers, dogearing, etc. compounded by the eyes of nurses, aides, doctors and other patients. But those people seemed part of the general agreement of being in a mental psych ward.
Coming out of my room to discover a student manning that cart was startling and unsettling. As much as he was covered by a non-disclosure agreement, it felt highly alarming to have my privacy invaded by this outside surveillance.

Well, let's talk.

It has been 61 days since I went on medical leave.

It was a decision that took a good amount of time and thought to come to but the reality was I couldn't function at work. The brain fog created from the medication I was taking, and the subsequent anxiety that arose from the lack of clarity, came upon me in tidal waves and gusts. I couldn't stay grounded; I couldn't catch my breath.

Although being off work meant that burden was lifted from my shoulders, I was still weighed down, sleeping 12-15 hours per day. I couldn't rise up from that well of deep aching fatigue but still had to get kids up, lunches packed.

Moments of confusion: conversations in which I couldn't discern thoughts from reality, snowdrifts I mistook for people while driving, finding myself bemused at intersections moments from my home, as though lost. I began to struggle with more things as time went on.

And then: considering what it might be like to just have everything stop. To not have to worry about *that one more thing*

---

It has been 20 days since I went to the hospital and they admitted me to in-patient care.

In the first 4.5 days I slept 100 hours. HOURS. (There are only 108 hours in 4.5 days). I spent two days just inside the ambulance bay doors but slept unaware of the bustle of the days and nights until a bed came open. I continued to sleep until finally, on the 5th day I texted my husband in excitement: I stayed awake ALL AFTERNOON AND EVENING. It had been almost 8 months since I had last been able to do that.

Every day since has been a step towards healing. Meetings with the psychiatrist, psychologist, occupational therapist, social worker and group therapies--art and otherwise--help to frame the days.

The days still drip by, hospital life is functionally low energy and soothing. But in those times of rest there is also time to struggle through the things that have been stirred up, time to reflect, time to connect the dots of the things that have been tucked away and ignored, time to feel anger and frustration, time to settle into the heart of what has shattered me and time to rebuild myself.

I feel extremely fortunate to have made this journey with so many supports around me. Despite what people say, talking about it *is* important and the government *has* made mental health access for me (and my children) easier. I have more tools to help me cope with the chaos I feel embedded in and am working on brushing off the stigma of being sick.

So, let's talk.

A Collapse

 I didn't go to work today,
didn't worry abouthave to be present at meetings or bells, or students, hungry for attention, or markers that dried out between yesterday and today.

I felt unmoored and uncertain what to do with the time that stretched before me. I didn't know how to manage the exhaustion that overtook me and, instead of resisting it, gave in. I slept. Hours of time interspersed with moments of doubt and an unsettled quailing knot taking up residence in the pit of my stomach.

I was sick but didn't know where to find a cure for this malady and, as the minutes stretched into an afternoon, I made a nest into which I allowed myself to simply be. And that was day 1.

RIP Didi: A Remembrance of Luminosity

I haven't quite processed this week, it has been one wave of emotion crashing into the next in an endless tsunami. I am waiting for some respite but it hasn't happened yet and some illogical part of me fears that it never will. The platitudes of taking things "one step at a time" and the well-intentioned but shallow level supportive rah-rah from the sidelines urging me forward only serve to dredge any motivation with a saccharine soak of resentment. I feel the urge to scream "how do you KNOW it will be fine? How do you KNOW I will make it through this?" because there is nothing guaranteed in this life.

On Sunday I got a phone call. The kind of phone call that blindsides you because there is no bracing for news like this. Erin said it best so I hope she doesn't mind me piggybacking the words I can't find
Is there a catharsis after death? Maybe someday. For today, I am grieving.

My student was lovely--gregarious, larger than life, shatteringly beautiful with the best legs I shouldn't have had the pleasure of seeing, in such short skirts and such high stilettos, in a high school setting. She had verve and charm, panache. She was also desperate for love and acceptance, fought against intolerance and ignorance and stood tall despite not wanting to be known solely as a  transgendered advocate, though she inherently was. She helped people see her, not as a transwoman, but beyond labels, beyond stereotypes, beyond fear, beyond curiosity, to the heart of humanity.

Our moments together were short, poignant, quietly powerful. And while I could encourage her, sit with her through those moments that she would tell me about her hopes, her dreams, her plans for someday, I didn't have enough traction in our small relationship that allowed me any more than the fleeting weekly glimpses. But, oh, I remember those moments, those precious moments, the simple ones of pressing buttons for Pink Shirt Day, the tender cutting up of ribbons for the Day of Purple, the excruciating moments of sitting silently shaken during the seemingly endless roll of names in the video for the Trans Day of Remembrance. Those moments will stay with me, pressing me to lean into the hard but necessary conversations for our #LGBTQ2 community, to stand as a staunch and determined ally, to stay silent no more. It is the least I can do in her memory, for everyone who fears being who they are, for the sake of our collective humanity.

Hug your loved ones, if this week has shown us anything at all, it shows us that tomorrow isn't guaranteed to any of us, and that the only way through this darkness is "love is love is love is love"

Rest easy, love, and God be with you til we meet again.

Getting over it

Sometimes I think I'm over it. It has been a long time since I was 17, 18, 20, after all. But then something comes up to remind me that some things haven't changed and, while my reactions are more muted, I am still so effected, so traumatized.

My youngest girl loves to chew on ice. My husband likes to tease me. The combination of these two innocent and disparate things have sent me into a tailspin that I haven't quite gotten over yet, a week after the conversation has faded from everyone else's memory.

How could I tell him that certain memories of ice are associated with being assaulted? That there was, and still is, a confusing array of emotions--guilt, fear, shame, and yes maybe arousal--that came back in that very minute, as though  twenty three years hadn't really passed by. 

I didn't say no. Well, I did say no but maybe I didn't mean it because I didn't run away. I let it happen the first time. And the next time. And the last time. I didn't need to be held down the whole time. I was curious and horrified, even as I was repelled by the whole thing, from start to finish. I wanted to please him, to do the right thing. I wanted to be nice. I only cried a little bit. The condom was overfilled, the ice was jagged.

And afterward, I still wanted a relationship with him. I stayed with him for four more years. I let him do it again. And again.

Tell me with sincerity that my desire to

stay makes my experience less traumatizing. Tell me if a judge would cast doubt on my testimony as to the veracity of my lack of consent. And then tell me if there is anything that will help me to get over the injustice that still rages in my heart.

Awash in Tension

I am awash in tension tonight. I suspect there will be more writing, more sharing. I suspect it will make people uncomfortable and sad. I am not looking for pity or attention. But the verdict of the Ghomeshi trial reminds us that we mustn't keep quiet, that we need to break the stigma of sexual violence, that we need to work together to find a solution. That we mustn't be afraid to say out loud that it happened, that it still happens and that it will continue to unless there is a fundamental paradigm shift

http://walkingthefinelinetogether.blogspot.com/2015/06/trigger-warning-rape_10.html

The Tangle of our Narratives

A re-post from Sept 2014 (link at the bottom)

A reminder that the narrative we lay out for girls--to be nice, to be pretty but to also be strong, to make good choices but also to accept responsibility and consequences for mistakes made, to stand up for oneself but to also strive to mend fences of conflict and be forgiving--is reinforced daily. 

This tangle of choices and the heavy judgement that lies upon those whose faces are broadcast publicly creates the system that allows a man like Jian Ghomeshi to walk away from charges he himself does not dispute.

No woman, traumatized or not, is ever far from the snide commentary about illogical emotions that must surely rule over us and, therefore, make us easily dismissed.  

If I struggle to reconcile my intellectual self--the one that rails against the violence I experienced in my youth--to the emotionally stunted girl I often feel remains trapped in me--the one who still believes I must have done something to warrant it, that I could have fixed things, if I were thinner, prettier, and more obedient, things surely would have been different--it is because society still confuses and conflates my narrative arc. I can not be all the things and yet the expectation is this very thing we can not be.

It is a false dichotomy to say that we control the narratives of our lives when it is perpetuated around and against us, a death of a thousand cuts.The fault of my trauma does not lie with me. If I am to survive this breath and the next, in my heart I must convince myself that this is true.

http://beannutkin-bub.livejournal.com/2014/09/16/

If clear video footage of a man harming a woman is still met with doubt and scepticism, what good is anyone's word?