A Palimpsest of Soul and Skin

I've been pondering laziness quite a bit lately as I explore what low iron and adrenal fatigue mean—and, of course, lifelong depression. For so many years I've thought I just needed to "kick my own ass" or "try harder" or "smarten up," but finding momentum for my life, at the pace of my own rhythm, has actually never been positively or sustainably affected by such approaches. Turns out I've needed more of . . . something. Maybe more rest. More nutrition. More nurturing. More time. More healing. More support. Any number of things. When I've struggled, it hasn't been about me being fundamentally faulty. This is a huge thing to ponder, a massive perspective shift. This article came my way today via social media and speaks to much of this topic.

As a woman of size—a middle-aged woman of size, no less—I often struggle with being marginalized, being seen (or, more accurately, unseen) as invisible, viewed with discrimination, even. And sometimes it hurts. But here's what I know right now: I'm the size I am, right here, right now, because of many physical and emotional factors over the years. My weight tells a story, if to nobody else but me. So instead of judging and berating myself for those factors, I'm listening to and nurturing myself. I'm learning the difference between desperately wanting and trying to lose weight for the sake of my health and wellbeing and understanding how my physical self is a reflection of my inner, emotional self.  There are many personal reasons (too many to describe here) why my current physical self manifests as it does but thankfully I have connected with mentors and a supportive network who show me daily how to sink into my strength for emotional and physical healing. What tha...

The vintage Staffordshire English teapot by Gibsons, which my late granny gave me years ago, became even more of a treasure when she died two years ago.  Her last words to me were "Are you making tea?"  I wasn't—I was actually just opening up a can of ginger ale.  Knowing what I know now, I wish that I'd answered, "Yes, Granny, I am making tea."

It's not often that I go to a world-class, upscale tourist destination, but today was a bit different: Niche Magazine hosted an afternoon tea and fashion show event  at the Empress Hotel ; a portion of each ticket sold offered support to the BC Children's Hospital Foundation. And because I adore fancy tea situations, and don't find myself in nearly enough of them, it seemed like the perfect opportunity. Goodies at the Empress Hotel, November 30, 2014 Now, because of my late grandmother's lifelong tea-loving ways, I've sentimental feelings for super-floral china tea cups and teapots. But I am by no means a tea aficionado—I just like a good Orange Pekoe, a fancy tea pot, and Granny-type cups and saucers. Add a few dainty sandwiches with the crusts cut off, arrange them on a tiered tray, and I get giddy. Accordingly, I spend a lot of time on Pinterest collecting images of what I call tea-rotica, and have a little cup and saucer at home that I use ritualistic...

I'll be forty-five in a couple of months, and as the days and weeks inch closer to my birthday, I feel a deep, significant shift taking place. The undercurrents have been there for at least a year, but I feel it more strongly as the season's changed. Leah's moving out again, and Daniel is gearing up for graduation in less than a year and is moving towards his own independence. Emotionally, I feel great—and how could I not with such a terrific partner? In love, I couldn't ask for more; in fact, I feel almost guilty for how fortunate I am. But even with my most fundamental needs met, I feel mentally and creatively restless. I'm thinking about going back to school, but I'm not sure for what exactly. I know I need more education, though. I want to power up. I'm not sure what that means precisely. When I consider education, I want to stoke what lights a fire in my belly, soak up knowledge, expand my understanding, and then go out into the world and apply it. ...

This past weekend, one of my three younger sisters invited me to join her on a float in our city's Pride parade this weekend. It was, of course, fabulous to the extreme—especially since my sibling had recently won the title as the exquisite Mr. Gay Vancouver Island (in her drag king incarnation as Eddi Licious). She honoured me by asking me to participate with her. I've been a lover of Pride festivities for years. I've enjoyed them in Montréal and Toronto, and find the celebrations here in Victoria to be particularly charming for reasons that are hard to articulate. Maybe it's because the crowds are smaller; the participants, too, seem so legitimately joyful, and not at all jaded. So when I was invited to be on an actual float in a parade that would take me throughout the downtown core in full view of a large population, I decided to go for it, no holds barred. I have a not-so-latent drag queen living inside of me, as evidenced by my passion for all things sparkly and...

Ah, to simply be in this existence with a child-like joy and wonder —but there is much to release in order to be born again into that newness.

About ten years ago, I went to a coffee shop in Parksville to meet a friend. Another patron was there, a woman who looked to be in her early twenties; there was something going on with her that gave the impression that she was developmentally challenged—something in her posture or her speech—but that's not what ultimately drew my attention to her. "Unbreak My Heart" was playing in the café via a local radio broadcast, and this young woman was quietly singing her guts out to this song. Her eyes were closed; tears streamed down her face; her hands gestured with every word. She didn't seem sad—she just seemed like she was deeply connecting with the song itself. I'd heard this song a million times over the years—I liked it well enough—but somehow this woman changed the whole feel of the song. It was such a vulnerable, childlike, private display that I was, at first, unsettled, but her freedom and expressiveness moved me so deeply that I've never forgotte...

A couple of years ago, I passed by the old cabin where my ex-husband and I lived with our two children. There was still stuff left there from our divorce nine years ago; he'd abandoned the car and van that I signed over to him when I went to Toronto. I guess the property owners don't go up to the cabin very often, nor are they motivated to remove those old cars. In the now-rusty station wagon was his old teddy bear that he'd had from the time he was a little kid. He'd left that behind, too. I cracked opened the car, choked on the stench that filled my nostrils, and pulled out the teddy bear. It seemed so sad in that old, abandoned car, and it was covered in mould. He's allergic to penicillin, so I figured it would be a bad idea to try to clean it up and send it to him. I left it there, sadly, and drove away.

Today, an acquaintance of mine was talking on Facebook about Honey Boo Boo and her family being in a car accident on Monday night. Some people were indignant about even caring, and criticized the original poster about even mentioning it when there are other people in the world more "worthy" of sympathy or empathy. Another commenter even went so far as to wish the Boo Boo family "poorly" instead of wishing them well. As a follow-up empathy "test", the original poster shared a link to a news story about O.J. Simpson's apparent brain cancer . People are people. Everybody hurts. I don't wish cancer on anyone. If O.J. has cancer, then my condolences go out to him for the suffering he has to experience. What is required of me beyond that? He's not a "real" person in my mind—he's a media projection with whom I have no relationship. He's too abstract and has turned into a caricature (either by his own choice or by the whole media ma...

Last night I was talking to a lifelong friend about her relatively new job. She's had a long, successful career that I've often envied and always admired, and she's had tons of variety and opportunity. Well, in this new job, she has the longest commute she's ever had (at least one hour each way), works a night shift, is not particularly challenged by her responsibilities, and isn't getting paid as well as she has elsewhere. However, the people that she works with are fantastic, she tells me. They're thoughtful and considerate, and she feels like she's part of them; she feels deeply appreciated, even more than she has at other jobs where she's been in important leadership positions. It just goes to show you how crucial relationships are, and what a difference they make. People *really* matter.

Sometimes creating one's own momentum is the only way to start working one's way out of a depressive episode. Yup—I've been depressed. Like, actually depressed. As someone who has been clinically depressed for pretty much the entirety of my life, it's too easy to see depression as the normal way to live. It's easy to forget what it feels like to just feel centered and balanced and just okay. Not exhilarated. Not over the moon ecstatic. Just...okay. In general. Without feeling like everyday life is rubbing my nerves raw in a persistent, insidious way, making everything gray and achey and foggy and sluggish and difficult and muddled.  Granted, this hasn't been a great winter. Between being *really* sick in November, and the lack of light and the "goings-on" in January—experiencing the illness, hospitalization and death of my grandmother, I've totally lost my stride. And it's been dawning on me: I see the signs:  —I've barely b...

Well...asleep by 10:45 p.m., awake at 4:30 a.m. after hours of vivid melatonin dreams. I may just get up and *stay* up now and see if I can actually keep reasonable hours. There's much I want to do, and losing the day to catch up on sleep always leaves me feeling rather defeated.

It just hit me: in the last year—if not longer—I'd have a daily sense of anticipation and anxiety that I'd receive a phone call from my mom saying that something had happened to Granny—that she'd taken sick or died. I carried that fear around for a long time. In fact, I think I've carried that fear around for decades. It became a habitual thing, that anticipatory grief. I just had that old sensation once again, like feeling around for a tooth that I used to wiggle, but finding only space. It's very disorienting. Anticipatory grief has done me no good; I certainly don't feel more prepared for this loss, and it only stretched out the sadness over the years.

Like a constant hum, insistent, hard to tune out:  gone she's gone she's gone

Remember, my darlings,  The memories we shared Gathered like treasures Throughout the years Think of our laughter, our visits, The times we embraced. I'll be there in spirit When you make a hot cup of tea.  Life is fleeting and precious With love carrying us through; Despite the loss and the pain Love will bring us together again.

Room B530 The beeping of machines and the dripping of morphine are somehow synchronized to the rhythm of your soft breathing and the beat of my breaking heart.

Once again I am ruminating about the sense of belonging. It seems to me that I've spent a great deal of my life trying to really feel convinced that I belong. But what does that mean, really? As far as I can recall, it had to do with identifying with a group of people, and interacting with those people in a recognizable place. As someone who moved a lot, and as someone whose biological father was not present for the first 17 years, a sense of belonging was not something I had a firm grasp on. That's not to say I didn't ever feel that I belonged; it's just that it was enough of an issue to cause me some definite pain. Did I belong in Toronto with my mother's side of the family? Or out west, near my uncle and cousins and, eventually, my father and sisters? What about my friends? How did I carve out the substance of my identity? All of these questions (and more) generally went unanswered with any lasting measure of satisfaction. I thought I could find that sens...

Fragile moments of temporary vulnerability, parting like curtains in a dark room. On the bus ride home after work today, packed in tight with other droopy bodies, a gangly, pale, red-eyed man got on with his companion, a woman so thin and pale that she was not much more than a whisper. "We don't have any bus fare; she just got out of the hospital and we had to get medication" he said to the driver in a plain-spoken but steady voice. No entitlement or arrogance, but definitely a tone that expressed that he was dealing with troubles far greater than regular conventions could even touch. The bus driver had him pass through quietly, and the pair unsteadily made their way together and sat right across from me. She was thin like a bird, and I could see on her wrist that she still had her hospital identification and a Medic Alert bracelet. She was so thin that I have no idea how she was even standing, let alone out in public on a crowded bus. The woman leaned against the gangl...

I went back to the gym this morning after about a 9 week slump. I've already been through the entire self-hatred cycle about that so I'm not going to even bother picking that apart in this entry. Need to look forward, only forward. I will say, however, that I see a fine line between finding momentum and getting frantic about exercise, and I was getting a bit frantic, methinks. Whatever the reasons (over-ambition, self-defeating patterns, perfectionism, simple laziness), I stopped exercising, and man , did I feel it. Anxiety and inertia crept in like mold and I started to feel immobilized and raw. Sometimes it takes my anxiety and depression to grow intrusive enough to make my skin actually hurt before I listen to it. When it gets like that, my thoughts ring loudly in my head like bad electric guitar feedback, distorting my perceptions and taking up way too much bandwidth. I can't concentrate. I feel  hollow. It takes me to darker places, and with the summer just around ...