teen years, Uncategorized

Waiting

I lay on the patch of grass trying to breathe. To keep my happy facade firmly in place. I’d found a little spot of green with shade amidst the hard cement and cold uninviting buildings of the downtown.

 

The clouds twisted and danced as their shapes continually changed. I wished I was an artist. I wished a photo would show what I saw. And I waited.

It was the third day. The bus depot was ready to kick my loitering butt to the curb. They wouldn’t let me sleep on the cold plastic bench another night. The money I’d earned picking cherries was almost gone. The public washroom couldn’t wash the stink off me. I had been waiting for what seemed forever.

The bus system had a safety net for youth. They would give you a ticket home if you needed to get home. As long as someone was willing to claim you and say they were your home. There was no safety net for me. Deep down I knew this. I knew I had no safety net. Yet I had tried. Dared to hope a little bit.

My mother was technically home. They would give me a bus ticket there. Trouble was, I wasn’t allowed to live with her. There was no point in going further from where I planned to settle down. My family where I was trying to go wouldn’t acknowledge me. Wouldn’t say they would be my family home even to get me safe travel passage.

I would have to hitchhike the highway of tears if I was to get where I was going. It wasn’t called that yet. That would come in another few years. My waiting was over. I just had to pull up my big girl panties. Put on my happy face. And build my own life. Starting with hitchhiking almost a thousand kilometers.

The waiting was over.

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Free thinking, Uncategorized

It could be worse

Man do I hate that sentence. It takes away from what you are feeling. As though you don’t have a right to how you feel. Just because someone else may have it worse. Sort of like how we ought to be grateful to have a plate of Brussel sprouts because the kids are starving in Ethiopia and they would love to have our Brussel sprouts! Cough bullshit cough 

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As the years have gone by I find myself looking for the silver lining for the good out of any situation. It makes it easier to be happy when I look for the good, the positive. I still catch myself thinking along the lines that it could be worse. It irks me because I have a right to feel whatever I may be feeling without having to give up those emotions for someone who is worse off.

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We all have to right to our feeling regardless of other less fortunate. Yes, we shouldn’t wallow. Yes, we should hold a hand out to help others. But we have the right to a cry day. To a big workout venting our anger or whatever else may be going on inside us.

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We have the right to our feelings and emotions regardless of what others are going through. Telling children, anyone that it could be worse shows you don’t recognize and value their right to their feelings. Don’t get me wrong there is a huge difference between feeling your emotions and living in an unhealthy rut crying the same song and dance routine over and over without learning from the experience. Those make me want to slap the cryer in the face with a chair. So don’t diminish your feelings just because someone else has it worse. Acknowledge yourself and take from it what you can at the moment.

childhood, Uncategorized

How could she 

So here’s the question of my mid-life emotional crisis. HOW COULD SHE???

I look at my children who are now teenagers. Gangly, pimply, know everything and nothing. Pushing me away and then needing me. Hugging me then turning away from too much contact with “mom”. How they need me and manage to admit it once in a while. The fragile grip they have on adulthood. The guidance needed to help them become confident individuals that are happy and give back to society.

So how could she let me go at 13? How could she deny me at 14 to return? I sat waiting, praying, mentally in anguish begging ‘please let them say yes’. I wanted to come home.  So I sat waiting for the staff meeting to end. Waiting to find out what their vote would be. Would I be allowed to live at home again with my mother or would I be sent away?

What I didn’t know at 13 was that if you left you couldn’t just come back even if your parents were there. I left because I was angry at the lack of understanding over my grief. I left because I was overwhelmed with loss and fear. I left because I never knew if mom would do as she said. Would I come home to an empty house? I never knew if she would be locked in the house in the bedroom in the closet with daddy’s bloody clothes. Or if she would be gone with the little ones. The rifles and ammunition gone as well. Maybe it would be their bloody clothes I would have to add to dads. She kept saying it would be easier to do that. The fear was staggering at that age. She had already proved to me once that she would take the younger ones and abandon me.

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So I left. I said goodbye, got on my bicycle and peddled away. Six months later I wanted to return. I missed my siblings and mother. Mother seemed to be doing better now. It was then that I learned you can’t just move back with mom. That the commune has to vote and decide if I should be allowed home. Who fucking knew that at 13? I should have known. Even though no other child had left like I did I should have known. No other child dare ask the questions that I did. Dared to stand up when I thought things didn’t make sense or seemed odd. I didn’t realize what I pain in the ass I was to those idealists.

So some select commune leaders held a meeting to decide my fate. I sat on pins and needles. My stomach in my throat. If I chewed my nails they would have been bloody stubs that night. The unanimous decision was NO.

I was shocked. I had had a friend on my side in that meeting. I had thought she would sway their hearts and minds. I was born and raised in this lifestyle. They made me! My dad had devoted his life to this lifestyle. He had helped build the world they wanted to hide in. Yet they said NO. I was even more shocked that mom accepted their decision. What kind of mother is that? This is Christianity at it’s finest moments. The golden jewel for their crowns.

I would like to think those adults as they grew old regretted turning me away. Realize how cruel to deny a child her mother. Send her to the streets. They made me for fuck’s sake. I was born into that. It wasn’t my fault my father taught me to not be a sheep. To think for myself, to ask questions, be inquisitive. He taught me to be an individual not afraid to stand on my own. To question and learn, to try and understand.

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I know deep down those people prayed for me. Felt they did the right thing. Maybe they never gave that decision another thought. Over the years they grasped on all the fabricated juicy gossip they could. Adding to it and spreading it further. Trying to condone to themselves what they had done. I hope there is a heaven.  And I hope to hell that at those pearly gates they are reminded of the young me. The child that needed love and understanding, not the boot.

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street youth, Uncategorized

How alone are we really

Sometimes I think it’s funny how I’m so used to being alone.  That I chose to do things alone. As a teen, I had no choice. My mother didn’t want me. My extended family didn’t want me. The commune was terrified to have me around questioning them. I was a problem they had created. So I was sent away. The rebel, the black sheep, the one to pray for and to keep out. Keep your children away from her. Warn others not to take her in.

Fired

Now at 40, I’m so used to being alone that I crave it at times. I don’t feel as alone and desolate as I did. That heavy blackness that sucks every part of your being in.  Worse than a black hole. Desperately clawing thru the darkness trying to find the light. Gasping chest heaving silent sobs choking you. That heavy aloneness.

I had a heartbreaking revelation in the middle of the night as a teen. We are like grains of sand. Millions of specks that blend together. Disappear in the chaos of life. I realized I was utterly alone when I might need someone to help me. Hug me, hold me, push back the darkness for me when I was too tired to do it any longer. It took a couple more decades to realize we are only as alone as we choose to be.

One morning at about 5 am I called my aunt sobbing. I had been fighting the demons all night. Trying to understand why I was alone. Why I had no one. Why I was unwanted. I was wanted. I had two dear friends who wanted me but I felt so lost, so confused, so unworthy I hid from them. From their love and support. So here I was calling my aunt. I asked her, “Is this what you meant when you said we are all ultimately alone?” Woken from a dead sleep she struggled to understand me. She had no idea what I was talking about so I ended the call. My mother came to visit and brought me lunch shortly after that call. She was of little comfort to me.

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I didn’t know how to put into words how the demons came at night. Attacking my carefully built walls. Undermining my happiness. I didn’t realize then that something as simple as exercise, sunshine, a nearby friend would help chase those thoughts away.

Now after a full day or a weekend with others I’m exhausted. I need rest, quiet, to be alone. To regain my strength.  For sitting listening to the ebb and flow of conversation, watching the different types of personalities. It leaves me drained. Even when with those that I love and adore.  The ones that I can be myself with. Even that exhausts me. Leaves me weak and depleted, aching craving rest.

I still do things alone. I prefer to be with a friend of course but I don’t let it hold me back. I go out for lunch, kayak the lake, hike the trails, talk to my dog, have a bottle of wine. Live life in general alone. Not afraid anymore. Demons don’t haunt my nights anymore. Turns out this a good quality for me to have as I now have an amazing boyfriend who happens to be a rig worker. As in he is away half the time. I joked on our four year anniversary it’s actually two since he’s gone half the time. Apparently, I’m the only one that finds that funny.

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childhood, Uncategorized

Writing my story

I used to love writing. I wrote a short story when I was maybe eleven years old. Now I find it hard to write. Maybe it’s harder now as it’s easier to remember the negative the hurtful than the nice memories. Or maybe after not writing for so long. Maybe it’s a lazy underused muscle. Maybe my avid love of reading has made my writer side lazy.

 

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I just noticed the fascination for the name Giggles started at a young age with me!

 

When I was young a few very hurtful and emotionally damaging things happened. We subsequently moved and I lost the fragile hold of budding friendships. Lost the comfort of what I finally felt was home. I had been betrayed by my family, my friend, abandoned by my mother. The realization that nothing is real. That love and family is just a word hits hard and maybe never fully heals.

I learned in that time that without a doubt the Biblical time of the end we were being taught was indeed very easily an option. The second coming of Christ, the second death for those not deemed worthy. The hunt and persecution of those in the wrong religion. Ours, of course, would be the wrong one. It was us that would be put to death after horrible torture once our family had turned on us. That was some of my childhood bible stories. Who needs stories of the monster under the bed when you have those.

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Back to my point about why writing is hard. Why it leaves me with a sense of guilt. Yet another excuse to not put my pen to paper. Or in this case fingers to keys.

Since we were isolated there was little for options of lashing out, acting out. I knew nothing of the world except what was deemed appropriate to tell. The basis of truth behind the stories built upon the tellers’ opinion. An opinion from someone who chose to leave the world for a commune lifestyle. See how that is a questionable source?

I wrote as I knew no other outlet. I wrote my pain and anger. My story, my fears, my heartbreak. I had pen pals – remember those? I think my mail probably was blocked to them.  No matter where I wrote my story, where I hid it mother found it. She would be livid every time. How dare I write even in fiction about our pain. Our deep embarrassing secret that really wasn’t a secret as everyone knew it. How dare I put to paper what should never be admitted. I kept writing and she kept finding them. ‘Never write down what you don’t want people to know’ she would say. What she didn’t want to face up to is more like it. Eventually, I let it go and began a new quest… BOYS!

childhood, Uncategorized

So many contradictions​

When I was little I was shy and afraid. I didn’t want to draw attention to myself or be noticed as different.

When I was little I felt no fear, I could climb the highest tree, ride the fastest sled. I was invincible.

When I was little I did not know about perfection or imperfection. We were all beautiful on the inside. If not I could feel something bad when close and didn’t like you.

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I had an idyllic childhood. Free-spirited, running wild, loved by my community family.

I had a traumatizing childhood. So many different people came and went. Some good some so very not.

I grew up in a huge family. Encircled by love, prayer, and family.

I have no family. I am an orphan. Wiped from the church records, forgotten like a mistake they don’t want to be reminded of.

As a little girl, I loved nature and would play to my heart content in the woods.

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As a broken-hearted girl, I wept atop a tree terrified to come down and walk the miles home thru the woods.

Loved beyond bounds, tossed away with the trash. Taught so much, yet so little. Prepared for the time of the end. Unprepared for life before the end.

These memories confuse me, amuse me, hurt me, and hug me. Maybe a thread of words will appear and find a flow.IMG_0855

 

teen years, Uncategorized

Forgiveness or forgetfullness

Forgiveness is such a complicated word. The words meaning hard to define. It is difficult to find the right adjectives to explain.  The meaning and reasons never the same. For each of us, it differs.

Let’s go back a few years… I was 16 and working my first real ‘wordly’ job. I had already begun to accumulate furniture. Free couch from someone’s front porch. Dresser my mom let me have.  Mattress from burnt out boys group home. I was all proud I had a job at a local fast food restaurant. I was given the position of ‘closer’ with a 50 cent raise even though I was the youngest employee. I wasn’t invited to visit co-workers homes. Maybe because I was the same age as their daughters who played soccer and went to after-school tutors. But I was respected for my work ethic, my positive attitude.

I would call my mother every Friday night. Collect from the slight warmth of the closed phone booth. We would catch up on each other’s lives. Hers filled with toddlers, efforts to find healing from her grief, and of course church. Mine with teen emotions, work, my learning curve, and overall trouble adjusting to a life she didn’t warn me of.

On one particular call she mentioned that Mr. W was passing through town in a few weeks and would love to take me for dinner. The W’s were family friends as their children attended the high school *1 that the community had. Many families who heard of mothers loss and grief tried to support and sent their many prayers on her behalf.

I was rather excited to be going for dinner. Seeing someone who knew my past life. An escape from my dull life of work and sitting in my lonely barren basement suite. I put on my best new to me clothes. Walked the dozen-plus blocks to the designated restaurant. The only one I really knew of. It sat beside Mr. Mikes all you can eat salad bar. I splurged on paydays and gorged myself on the food.

Mr. W and I had a quick hello hug and went straight in to be seated as it was a chilly late fall evening. No sense spending any unneeded time getting a chill. The lights were the proper dimness of an evening restaurant. The music quiet in the background. He ordered a bottle of wine for us and appies while we perused the menu. It was still such a rare occurrence for me to be in a restaurant. I was careful to never order anything very expensive yet not the cheapest for I wanted to maintain an unobtrusive middle ground at all times.
The evening was quite nice. We chatted reminiscing of a time gone when had a family and knew life no different from the sheltered commune. He caught me up on how the children were doing. Young adults now really. Attending a Christian college down south. Back then it was a time of snail mail. I diligently wrote many letters. Few returned them. Some grand friends I have to this day did. I kept those letters carrying them with me from place to place for decades. Hugging the friendship and love to me that they meant.

The wine finished, table cleared, and bill paid. We made ready to take our leave. He offered to give me a ride home as it was now dark and snow had begun to fall. I gratefully agreed and hopped into the front passenger seat. Before I had time to latch my seatbelt W reached over to give me a hug. But it wasn’t just a hug. It came with hands groping and a wet tongue reaching towards my aghast open mouth. My quick ducking, flailing arms, and wiggles to evade advances thankfully were not fought physically. Verbally, of course, I was berated for enjoying a dinner without wanting to give a proper thank you. Fortunately and sadly I was becoming quite agile at these piggish men. Those are different stories. I walked home steaming mad at this end to what had been a great evening for me.

The next time I spoke with my mother I shared my shock my anger my betrayal of this man who was to be a safe person. This is when the worst blow hit. My mother’s response was, ‘Oh I forgot to mention that about him.’ She arranged this dinner. The time, the place, the man and HER daughter who was but a child teen still in need of guidance, of protection. She FORGOT to mention to me she was setting me up with a known pervert.

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This is where the problem with forgiveness lies. The version that was being used at that time by those people. It was a forgive and forget motto. Oh, you said a swear word pray then forgive and forget. You had an affair, you hurt that child, you went to jail for abuse, you starved your children, the list goes on. We will have the congregation pray for you. We will forgive and forget. Although we will try to remember to not leave our children unattended with you. We will try to warn others not to leave their children alone with you and maybe your offspring for who knows. That is the forgiveness I grew up with from 10 to 13 when I walked out. Now as an adult I don’t give a shit when being told ‘I’m sorry’. I care about actions.
I didn’t intend this post to be a rant, however, I recently read an article on forgiveness. I also had this memory pop into my thoughts. So I have jumped ahead a good few years in my reminiscing. However, writing from the heart is more important than chronological order right.

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I would love to hear your thoughts on forgiveness. For it is a powerful weapon wielded by the ‘victim’ that takes away power.

 

 

 

childhood, Uncategorized

Running away

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As I walked down the laneway pulling my suitcase in my little red wagon I began to think. I knew grandma lived far away in AB. I knew I would have to make sure the light was green to cross the street. What way should I go at the street, how many lights were there. Oh dear I couldn’t remember the entire route from our home a mile up a dirt road from a long road that came from a small logging town that didn’t even have a hospital. Realization hit hard and sad. I couldn’t actually run away for I didn’t know how to get anywhere.

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Yes, I still have Sally, a little dirtier maybe, a few scuffs and smudges but not loved any less.

I quietly snuck back into our yard. Dragging my wagon and suitcase far under the porch and sat with my back against the wall. Now this was just embarrassing. I couldn’t very well just walk back in like I wasn’t leaving. Admit defeat – never. Again the stubborn proud insecure little girl I had met the night of the lightening… She has been my saviour and my disgrace through out life. So there I sat in the dirt hidden by the porch waiting for my parents to miss me. Soon my tummy began to rumble, I was cold and bored. Obviously my parents didn’t love me or they would have come looking for me. I crept back into my room, put away my warm wool socks. Placed Sally back in her bed. And resumed my afternoon as though I had never had a little tantrum and run away to begin with.

Now as a parent myself I can see them watching me walk down the road. Keep an eye as I snuck back. Waiting with a smile of amusement for me to give in and move on with my afternoon. Sometimes the best way is to have patience. Not to push and push until everyone is past their breaking point. I have learned  it is best to pick your battles.

childhood, Uncategorized

Losing your decisions

It’s funny. When you have to follow a routine; wake when your told, eat when your told, work, pray, read, free time when your told. When all of that is decided by ‘them’ there is no choice. On occasion I  was offered a choice and then had to do what they wanted me to do. When I asked why I had been offered a choice that wasn’t really there I was told I was to make the ‘right’  choice. My choice was only a figment, a tease, a mirage of options.

I asked many questions. I was a curious child. I  wanted to understand the world around me. The world that was created by them.That kept us in and separate from the evil. As a youngster I’m sure my questions were exhausting and annoying as any child’s are. The adults worked the fields, bakery, mill, and many other physical jobs required to keep the ‘self-supporting’ community running. I would ‘help’ and join in at the various jobs or sit and play with the odd coloured carrot or corn cob found.  As a pre pubescent teen my questions began to seem disrespectful and rebellious. At least that is what they said. I tend to think my questions began to be a concern for some.

If my father had lived I wonder if he too would have begun to question this blind following. This lifestyle he embraced and led others to join. The simple life that hid dangers, that wasn’t as simple as intended. Sometimes I wonder the things we would have had in common.

But I digress…

When you grow up with no real choices it can be overwhelming to have to make one. Much like walking into a market after spending time in a 3rd world country where they don’t have entire aisles devoted to different brands of the shampoo.

Choices can be scary. What if I make the wrong one. Which one should I make. When you never made any and then all of a sudden have to decide everything it can be daunting. Especially when there is no history no knowledge or experience of how to do so. It was  frightening to me as a teen all alone in the world. Those are different stories. Stories that may have been different had I been given choices. Taught how to make right and wrong decisions. For how can we learn without making wrong turns and learning from them.