Orphan, Already?: A blog about grief.

I was only 12

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Fri, 01 Jun 2018 19:34:00 +0000

From a journal entry May 31, 2001

"Today I found out my family thought I was just acting when I cried... [...] I have been having the most serious suicidal thoughts... I think the best way to kill myself would be to sufficate (sp?) myself with a pillow... not that painful and it's not messy or hard."

Those of us who are friends with Death

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Thu, 22 Feb 2018 00:37:00 +0000

“[We] see the exit signs much clearer than you do.”

From here

...and who are we, the betrodden?

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Thu, 14 Dec 2017 05:23:00 +0000

To many, the "story" of my life begins with the murder suicide - as though before that moment, no publisher would deem my life worthy of writing memoirs.

But what story ends in any form of suicide whose beginning is pristine?

My childhood was unhappy. My family was dysfunctional. The first 19 years of my life culminated in blood and fire.

I have spent my life fighting against the odds, trying to be a good person. Yet whatever I do, I am held against the same standards as everyone else. I am expected to struggle and make sacrifice as though I haven't already done more than my lifetime's share of just that.

I spoke on the phone with a friend today. A friend with similar circumstances, similarly struggling against society's expectations of being a "good person" - trying to reconcile the raging desire to finally, finally live on one's own terms with the rules that are dictated by what everyone else decides is "fair".

But we grew up in unfair worlds, and unfair situations. We were young and innocent and pure, and we were dealt a losing hand. And by still living and still striving, we see ourselves now as successes - but everyone else, who compare us only to the situations that are familiar to them, see us as weak and lazy and cruel and lacking.

And who are we, in this world?

Are we children of this universe, destined to come into our own as has never been given to us?

Or are we bleak anomalies, dark smudges to balance out those with glittering lives?

If the latter -- I'm ready for the revolution.

Road test

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Tue, 06 Dec 2016 20:55:00 +0000

It never ceases to amaze me just how unexpected a moment of grief can be.

After a few months of learning to drive, I passed my road test today. I was absolutely giddy. I was so proud of myself. And then as steadily as the giddiness wore off, it devolved into grief.

I suppose in my mind my father was already associated with learning to drive. Even from a very young age, when I was a passenger he would point out aspects of how the car works and rules of the road that would be important for me to know as a driver. I remember being very small and being amazed when he demonstrated that the wheel doesn't make the car move forward. I remember the massive blackout of 2003 when he taught me that an intersection with traffic lights that aren't working should be treated as a 4-way stop.

And I suppose in my mind I'd already associated my instructor with my grief. In the hours we logged in the car together, we had already had conversations about losses we've had and suicides we've experienced. With my study topic and his wife being a mental health counselor, we both had a lot to say about the importance and the role of mental health in society.

So I suppose the setup was already there.

But I never expected that on the day of my road test, his teenage daughter would tag along in the car. How sweet, I thought, that on a day she had off from school she wanted to spend with her father. How nice, I thought, to meet a family member of someone I had gotten to know over the course of our lessons. And then I passed my test, and he told me he was proud of me. I drove back home, and gave him a hug, and thanked him for his support in getting me to this point.

And then he drove off with his daughter and I went home alone with no father to tell about my accomplishment.

And it's not until you're alone that you actually realise that your heart wasn't warmed by watching a happy family interact. It wasn't cute to witness that father-daughter banter. It's not until you're alone that you realise that the quip he made about having no alcohol tolerance, and your response about your father being the same way, wasn't humorous small talk.

It was all an atmosphere of hurtful reminders to make you vividly aware that your own dad wasn't there to witness yet another important moment in your life.

...Damn it.

Another Feb 26

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Fri, 26 Feb 2016 15:30:00 +0000

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

You were a good man. I wish you had had more people in your life to tell you that.

I'm off to an isolated cabin today without electricity or running water. Just a fire, some food cooked on a wood-burning stove, and books to read for the weekend. You would love it. I thought it would be a great way to spend our birthday.

I love you so much. I've been thinking about you a lot lately. I wish I had had more opportunities to learn from you. More and more as I age I look to your advice and wisdom about how to be a good person and what to take out of my life.

Don't be afraid of joining me at the cabin, Daddy. There will be a lot of quiet to fill. Maybe if I listen really carefully I will be able to hear your voice again.

A Valentine's Elegy

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Tue, 16 Feb 2016 22:39:00 +0000

Daddy, it's our month again.

My pillow was barren next to me on Valentine's morning. I miss the days when you would come into my room while I slept and place a poem on my pillow, so that from the moment I awoke I would feel loved. (The days when I felt safe and secure enough to sleep through the night, let alone through the sounds of someone entering my room, are long gone now.)

When I left my bed there was no stack of pancakes waiting for me in the kitchen, so that even if I had to go to school I could still start the day feeling pampered. (The days when I could even eat your pancakes, made with milk as they were, are long gone now.)

And the rose on the table waiting just for me - well, I suppose I can't comment on that this year. A friend brought a perfect, red rose just for me. (But, goddamn it, the days when I could get a rose on Valentine's and feel a loving warmth instead of the aching void you left behind are long gone now.)

Would you ever have imagined that your successes as a father would have someday caused me only hurt? A friend, when I relayed these Valentine's traditions to her, commented that I at least have these memories to keep me warm. There's no warmth in them, Daddy. Only an aching. Only a longing. You showed me what it was to feel loved and then you took away everyone who loved me.

Daddy, do you want the truth?

The days when I felt worthy of anyone's love are long gone now.

Stuff 2.0

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Tue, 17 Nov 2015 01:55:00 +0000

Many years ago I wrote a blog post on the pain of having and losing the "stuff" of my family - the physical, tangible reminders of them. I wrote about how hard it was to have had all of my family's belongings lost in a fire, to have a lifetime of memories drowned in soot. I wrote about my envy of others who cope with their loss by smelling an old sweater, or wearing a mother's old dress, or sitting in a loved one's room.

I wrote that post because I had lost one of a pair of earrings that my mother had made for me. At the time, it was absolutely devastating. It was maybe a year, no more than two since she had died, and even the most insignificant things could still hurt me profoundly.

I remember a few years back when I lived in London, I recognised that the physical reminders of my lost family no longer mattered as much. On a night out in town, I lost the iPod that my mother had had engraved for me. I was hurt, yes, very much so - but I was also excited, because it was outdated and I relished the excuse to put behind me a relic and move on. It was an expensive, personalised gift from my mother, and my getting past that loss was, for me, a major turning point in how I viewed my remaining relationship with them.

I am now immune to "the stuff," I thought.

Fast forward to today.

"Your coat caught fire."
"What, what do you mean?"

(And so it goes.)

As they say, you don't know love until you've lost it.

The last time I properly went shopping with my mother (her favourite pastime) was to buy me a coat. I knew exactly what I wanted going in: a double-breasted, black-and-white houndstooth coat, with a belt. My mother told me again and again that I would not find exactly what I was looking for. I was adamant. And - we found it. Not only did it fit exactly my requirements, but it had an incredible red and gold Chinese-inspired lining, which for the next 8 years I would receive compliments on.

One thing my mother always expected of me that I could never quite obey was that I take care of my material possessions. I'm clumsy. I break things, spill things, tear things - I've come to terms with this aspect of myself. But I took care of that coat. That coat lasted me over 8 years, and was nowhere near falling apart. It was one thing I treasured and really treated well.

The irony is not lost on me. One of the few things from her that I saved from the sooty destruction of my home has been lost to its own idiosyncratic fire.

The memories flooded in. The emotion flooded in. My mother's smile, her touch, her warmth. I didn't think I could still break like this.

I broke.

(It makes me wonder: what other tiny, physical things in my life have so much power over me? Power that I will never know about...until it is wielded?)

My missing parents

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Sun, 06 Sep 2015 21:14:00 +0000

A lot of the time I don't even think of them. They are so far removed from my life now, existing only in these vague memories that could be real...or maybe it was just all just a vivid dream. Usually when I do think of them it's in an intellectual capacity: I have x behaviour because my dad taught me y when I was twelve, and so on. A lot of the time now they are very emotionally distanced from me.

But then, every once in a while, I miss them so deeply that my body aches.

I'm starting the second year of my PhD at an Ivy League university. Do you know how proud they would have been of me? I do. There would have been a lot of "we're so proud, but we're not at all surprised!" They would have each separately written me a letter, detailing how proud they are and how much I mean to them.

Well, here I am. Working hard at being a success and no mom or dad to be proud of me.

I wish grieving were simpler. I wish it were as easy as "I feel hurt that my parents aren't here to see how far I've come." Because it's never as straightforward as that. It starts with "I wish they were here, they would be so proud" and it becomes "they have no right to be proud. They weren't here. I did this on my own. They have no right." The hurt is always so closely intertwined with the anger - when I grieve, there is just this flood of emotion. It sweeps over you, pummeling you so that you have no strength to try and disentangle what exactly you feel. And when you don't understand what you feel, it is that much more difficult to heal.

I feel like such an orphan today.

Building blocks

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Fri, 14 Aug 2015 17:14:00 +0000

From a message from my mother:

Keep well and remember that everything you are doing is a building block in your life's path - sometimes they just stack up, sometimes you have to eliminate some, and sometimes they just have to be beside each other - but they all have to be there for you to make your way. Embrace your challenges and celebrate whatever achievements you make - tiny or big - they all count!

Love you my darling daughter,
Love Mommy

IF I AM DEAD

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Thu, 13 Aug 2015 16:02:00 +0000

I discovered this recently - a will of sorts that I made in June 2009. It breaks my heart a little to know that a 20-year-old girl - when all of her peers were in university, exploring and discovering themselves - was more concerned with the division of her estate and the well-being of her best friend than what she would declare as her major or whether she'd have a summer romance.

In case I should die before I make a proper will.

To whom it concerns:

This was created not out of fear of impending death, or as a suicide note, or in any other circumstance that may find itself under scrutiny. I'm creating this only because my parents and brother recently died, so the idea of my property being sifted through is a thought that is on my mind. Thus, should any circumstances surrounding my death be suspicious in any way, please know this is irrelevant.

I would like my property to be divided up as follows:

All of my personal diaries, journals, clothing, stuffed animals, artwork and writings (including sketchbooks as well as loose papers), perfumes and oils, jewelry, shoes, magazines, computer hard drives, computer tablet, makeup, purses, hair ties and clips, art supplies, iPod shuffle mini, make-up mirror, posters, and the butterfly snow globe inscribed with "May Only Good Things Come Your Way" now belong to R* H*, living in Waterloo and attending school in Kingston at the time of this writing.

The remainder of my property now belongs to my brother, S* E*, and my aunt, J* R*. Should they be deceased at the discovery of this, R* H* becomes the sole inheritee.

Should all of the above mentioned persons be deceased, please give the entirety of my estate to H* S* of Fleet, England.

Please pass along these messages:

To R* H*:

R*. Poodle. I know it feels like you've lost your best friend, but that's not the case. The reason I've died is because I was never alive with you to begin with. Hun, I've been your guardian angel since day one. We've reached a point where you don't need me with you in corporal form anymore - but I'll always be with you in spirit. I'm in the coin I led you to, do you remember? I will be with you in that forever.

As for what I owned: all of my journals and artistic creations, please do what you choose with them. I know you know me, and I know you love me, and so I trust you to do what is best for me in terms of them. Whether that should be destroying them, publishing them, keeping them and passing them down to your descendants - whatever you feel is best.

Live a long, wonderful life for me, beautiful one.

To S* and Auntie J*:

I love you both so much - that will never change. I'll always be with you. I'm with Mommy and Daddy and D* now, so I'll be well taken care of. I'll give them hugs and kisses for you. And, someday, I'll see you guys again. Love you forever.

I will print, sign, and date this note. The signed copy can be found in my box of letters.

Sincerely,

Tee

Every time I cry

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Tue, 11 Aug 2015 13:36:00 +0000

From PostSecret

Spot on.

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Tue, 04 Aug 2015 14:03:00 +0000

If You Could See Me Now

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Mon, 27 Jul 2015 19:37:00 +0000

"If you could see me now would you recognize me?
Would you pat me on the back or would you criticize me?
Would you follow every line on my tear-stained face
Put your hand on a heart that was cold
As the day you were taken away?
I know it's been a while but I can see you clear as day
Right now, I wish I could hear you say
I drink too much, and I smoke too much dutch
But if you can't see me now that shit's a must
You used to say I won't know a win till it cost me
Like I won't know real love till I've loved and I've lost it
So if you've lost a sister, someone's lost a mom
And if you've lost a dad then someone's lost a son
And they're all missing out, yeah they're all missing out
So if you get a second to look down on me now
Mom, Dad I'm just missing you now"

- If You Could See Me Now, The Script

Good things

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Mon, 22 Jun 2015 21:11:00 +0000

I sent a message to a friend of mine today, someone I love very dearly, and whom I hadn't spoken to since before my uncle died.

Do you ever have moments when -- you have no idea how exactly you feel, what exactly your emotions mean, how precisely to represent your internal state, until you've already said it?

I said to her, "I was a bit scared that this would be my life, always dealing with another tragedy. But I think I've learned so much about myself since my family died, and I think now I know how to take care of myself, after I cut myself off I felt good again, really good, like almost better than before it happened. Maybe because for all these years I've been a bit terrified that one more thing will destroy me, and here one more thing has happened and I'm doing just fine."

And then -- I reflected. I think I had felt that somewhere inside myself for a long time now, but I had never really understood what I was feeling. There still exists that pervasive, broader sense of melancholy and tragedy -- but somewhere within it, a lot of hope and happiness. Like a bright dawn trying hard to break through storm clouds.

Maybe (do you think?) I'll actually be okay.

Maybe, after everything, my life isn't some broken girl's unending tragedy. Maybe instead, it's just a normal life with a few bumps in the road. And maybe instead of a lot of bumps I had just one big one, and they'll only be littler from here on out.

Let's all cling to good thoughts, to hope, to happiness, to light.

Good things are out there.

True secrets

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Sun, 10 May 2015 14:22:00 +0000

" ...true secrets are more often not the positive sentiments we post about ourselves on Facebook or see reflected in Hallmark cards, they are the complicated feelings we struggle with in the dark because they make us feel alone."

-- Frank Warren, Postsecret

Always -- The Societal Silence.

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Sat, 09 May 2015 00:08:00 +0000

Earlier this year, I slipped on some black ice and landed on my face. I bit my lip pretty badly, resulting in a lot of blood, some scarring, and a tooth biding its time until a root canal is necessary. I was physically (and by physically, I mean visibly) hurt. But I was in decent spirits.

People rallied around me. There was an outpouring of support, love, and good intention. I laughed about my accident, got nervous about my tooth, but continued on. I was okay. And people were there.

Then, a little while ago, I was hurt much, much deeper. My Uncle Bill took his own life - my dad's little brother, following in his tragic footsteps. I learned long ago not to lock things away (a death sentence, that), but to reach out to people as often as is spiritually possible. And I did. I told friends, acquaintances, professors and colleagues. I made sure my loss was heard.

I left for the service.

I came back - and I was surrounded by joviality. My friends, my acquaintances, they asked (in good spirits) - how are you doing? And I said - not well.

Silence. Avoidance.

Those closest to me gave their support, saying they were only a phone call away. I thought - oh, good, people are there for me who care, they understand. But then, I cancelled a study session I'd arranged earlier, citing my inability to be a good host.

The response: "hey...what's happened? Are you okay? Cheer up!"

I asked for a 6 day extension on an assignment, as I'd been out of the country for 6 days. I was given 4, by the same professor who earlier had professed her unwavering support in my time of need.

Nobody seems to understand that this is exactly the problem.

There's this dreadful fear and avoidance of people who have suffered an emotional injury. When my injury was physical, people were happy, willing and effusive in their support. When my injury was an invisible one - an emotional, spiritual one - people shied away in fear, awkwardness, misunderstanding.

I'm blunt and explicit with my suffering. I have learned this skill over the six years I have been, what they call, a "suicide survivor". I know how to and am skillful at forcing people to listen to what I need to express - and I am very lucky that way.

But not everyone is.

I can't help but see the connection between the people around me who are afraid of my emotional burden, and the complete aloneness felt by my father and my Uncle Bill when they were most in need of someone to listen.

Do you want an understatement? I am fed up. This awful society is designed to silence those who most need to speak. The result is that they break - and then we are so ashamed that they have broken that we pretend it hasn't happened, and we shun those who dare to speak of it. I am so fed up.

I will not be silent. I will be as loud as I can about my grief. I will shout my hurt, not just for me, but for my Daddy, and for my Uncle Bill. And anyone who has a problem with that? Come at me. You come at me. I will bury you deep into the ground.

“My uncle has died.”

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Thu, 07 May 2015 21:07:00 +0000

That sentence says nothing.

It doesn’t say how a man 700km away went out of his way to make a broken girl feel his presence.

It doesn’t say how that man somehow always knew when to get in touch, always knew when she was about to shatter, to give her the warmth of his love.

It doesn’t say how an uncle tried his best to fill the void of a missing father.

It doesn’t say how he instinctively understood the bond of a father-daughter shared birthday, and made sure that lonely girl’s birthday was never silent.

It doesn’t say how a family tragedy has become a family trend.

It doesn’t say how much heartbreak can ripple and resound in a family.

It doesn’t say anything about four brothers, two lost.

It doesn’t say anything about two fathers, stalwart for their families.

It doesn’t say anything about two men, tortured in silence.

It doesn’t say anything about two daughters, broken and abandoned.

It doesn’t say anything about the anger, the pain, the sorrow, the guilt, the fear, the hopelessness.

It doesn’t say anything about the warmth of his heart, the power of his love.

That sentence says nothing.

Christmas #5

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Wed, 10 Dec 2014 19:00:00 +0000

I tend to crumble this time of year.

I love Christmas. I love the magic in the air, the love and presence of family and good friends. I love the sight of a Christmas tree glittering in a darkened room. I love the look on people's faces when they open the gifts I've gotten them. I love the snow, I love the music, I love the food. I love it all.

But Christmas is also the last time I saw my family.

The excitement for Christmas tends to come early. By the time mid-December rolls around, the excitement gives way to a conditioned dread. Some years I recognise it for what it is. Other years I can't understand why I have suddenly become so miserable.

This will by my 5th Christmas without them, as we approach the six-year anniversary.

I remember the first Christmas. I was so intent on having a nice holiday with my loved ones, but by the time the week itself arrived, I fell into a dark numbness. After ages of insisting that we still practice our Christmas traditions, I bailed completely. It was too soon. I could not face it. I sat quietly with my eyes shut, counting the minutes, desperate for the day to pass. I tried desperately to pretend it was any day except that day.

I remember the emptiness of the dinner table. A family halved. Three quiet survivors and a mass of food waiting for consumption. I remember the toast. I remember that I had held myself together quite well, until the toast. With my glass lifted in the air, I shattered.

They have gotten steadily better since then, and our last few Christmases have been some of the best of my life.

But the emptiness is always there. Those three empty chairs are always conspicuous. The relative quiet is a reverberating shout.

My Christmases are haunted by ghosts.

Learning How to Mourn

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Mon, 27 Oct 2014 14:12:00 +0000

It has been over a year since I have had an urge to post here, which I believe says a lot about the progression of my healing process. But the following (which I came across on Buzzfeed, of all places) really resonated with me, so I had to share:

"It’s difficult enough mourning my parents’ deaths and going through adolescence and now adulthood without my mom or dad, but on top of the sadness I already feel I also have to fight against other peoples’ judgment about suicide. Justifying my need and desire to cope with this tremendous loss of life because my parents committed suicide is a task unto itself.

Most people in my life or who are familiar with my situation think they’re entitled to an opinion about my parents’ deaths because it was “their choice” to end their own lives. There’s so much shame attached to my parents’ deaths because of a lack of understanding about mental illness that sometimes it feels like I’m not allowed to be sad like people who have lost their parents to other diseases.

If my parents died of nearly any other cause within months of each other before I hit puberty, most people would see it as a complete and utter tragedy; they’d readily accept their deaths as worthy of mourning. Instead, I’m often discouraged from talking about my parents and their passing. A lot of my family members — including my maternal grandparents — pretend like neither of my parents ever existed in the first place."

From Learning How To Mourn My Parents After Their Suicides

Happiest Day

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Thu, 04 Jul 2013 18:34:00 +0000

In my aunt's backyard growing up there was a monstrous tree that had stood on that spot for a good century or two. My dad scrounged up some rope and fashioned a swing that he tied on a tall, strong branch. With eager kicks and a pair of strong arms pushing you, you could soar high enough for your feet to touch the leaves. That swing provided endless amounts of joy for my brothers and me.

I remember one summer day. The breeze was streaming off the lake and we were bathed in the fresh sunlight of that golden hour before dusk. My mom, aunt and brothers had already gone indoors; my dad stayed outside to push me on the swing for a while before we joined them.

I remember flying in the pure, Canadian air. It felt as though the very heartbeat of the earth was caressing me; it felt as though every sunbeam was a personification of joy. It was intensely simple. A young girl and her father engaged in play and sharing a perfectly Piscean moment. It was innocence personified.

In the loud silence of the birds and the breeze I thought to myself:

Remember this, Tee. This is the happiest day of your life.

Even as I made the mental note, I knew how naive and silly it was to think that a brief moment as a young child would overshadow every moment of my oncoming lifetime. But I have never forgotten. My terribly young self was much wiser than I am today -- it is still the happiest day of my life.

On Hatred

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Sun, 23 Jun 2013 14:20:00 +0000

I've had a special struggle this past year since 'coming out' about my brother molesting me as a child. It has been a roller coaster of disgust, hatred, and horrendously persistent self-loathing. When I finally stopped lying to myself about what he did I suddenly had to completely reevaluate my relationship with a brother who's no longer on this earth. I used to mourn a lost sibling while harbouring secret feelings of shame. Then the lies ended and I had no idea if I should mourn, or celebrate, or hate.

I chose hate, I think. I usually do - angry emotions are much easier to confront. They're useful, perhaps, in buffering you until enough time has passed that you're distanced from the event. And so, this past year has been my year of absolutely hating him.

I'm not sure why, but I opened the police report today for the first time in years. It has 1268 pages, and back in 2009 I spent months going through about 1230 of them before it finally overwhelmed me and I quit. I feel very weak today - a weakness that has been building over the past two months as I've struggled in a life and a job in which I do not recognize myself. I always come back to my dead family when I'm weak. Maybe it's the catharsis of the confrontation of emotions, or maybe it's by reminding myself of the omnipotent woman in me that overcame so much, but I find a renewal of strength in coming back to my dead family. Perhaps I thought today might be a good day to finish those last 30-40 pages.

In the report are the three pictures of my family members. The pictures that today I barely remembered but had once been all but burnt into my retinas. The pictures of their bloodied and burnt faces that were used way back when to identify the bodies. They're massive in the report; nearly ten times the size of every other page, so if you don't expect them and zoom out in anticipation, they kick you full-force in the gut. I have seen this report so many times that I know exactly when to zoom out.

So there was my brother: green eyes half open, trail of blood from his mouth, frozen in the snow. He was 23 - younger than me now. There was my object of a year and a lifetime of hatred and disgust: eyes half open, blood in his teeth, snow in his hair.

That poor boy.

Oh, that poor boy.

He must have been so scared, so drenched in fear and anxiety and pain. He had such hopes, and such talent, and such a love for life and for people. And our Daddy took that all away from him. That poor, poor boy. Whatever mistakes he made as a brother, he did not deserve that. He did not deserve what he got.

What happened has become so factual now - so perfectly scripted and mundane. God help me, but I had actually forgotten what had really happened that day. I had forgotten that people were stabbed and burnt. I had forgotten that they had spoken, and screamed, and fought. I've been so entrenched in what I have gone through that I had completely forgotten what they themselves went through. My family, my darlings.

Maybe I will never forgive, and I believe that is okay. But it is time I stopped the hate.

Not one of them deserves my hate.

-- Perhaps me least of all.

A poem from Mar 10, 2013

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Sun, 10 Mar 2013 13:46:00 +0000

I Can't

Maybe I’m not the person
Everyone always told me I was.
They were always kind to me;
Predicting wonderful, magical things
For my life. Telling me I would
‘Go down in the history books;’
That they’d be looking for me there.
Praising my intellect, my wit, my charm
My smile – splitting my unassuming face in two.
I was the teachers’ favourite.
I was the youngest and the lone daughter
Of parents overflowing with love.
I was told I was beautiful – so beautiful!
My superbly-intelligent brother told me
I must absolutely have a higher IQ than him.
They said things like: you have the potential
To be an opera singer – gosh!
You have a lot of potential as a figure skater –
We’re bumping you into a higher class.
You could win an Oscar someday! A Nobel
Prize! You will be a doctor, a lawyer.
Why aren’t you taking physics? You’re
My best student! Why didn’t you accept
That journalism scholarship? You’re not
Pursuing English? You’re not pursuing
Chemistry? You’re not pursuing My
Subject? But you’re a star, you could shine!
You will excel! You will be unbeatable!
You are so special, we will miss you,
I will remember you for the rest of my life.
Keep in touch, you mean so much to me.
You’re so unique, you’re so interesting,
You’re so important, you’ll do so much.

Guys – I’m so fucked up.

I’m a victim who’s become so comfortable
In being a victim, that I perpetuate the title.
I’m uncomfortable when I’m not being pitied;
When I’m not being seen as so broken that
I can’t gain balance on my own two (very
Stable!) legs. I’m so hard on myself
That I force myself into terrible situations
Terrible health; terrible fear. I’m the
Absolute monarch on punishing myself.
This is nothing new – it’s a habit I started
When I was being hurt at so young an age
And wasn’t sure how to call attention
To my pain. Somehow I’d convinced myself
That if I could only make my life worse
And worse and worse, that maybe
Something will break. And when I’m
So fully broken, so completely shattered;
Everything will reform into the brilliant
Shape of a brilliant life. What a lie!
There is no Saviour waiting to make
Beauty out of your shards. Your pieces
Are your own to re-forge; and if you’ve
Sacrificed your very arms to the image
Of brokenness, what hands will pick
You up and reshape you?

Maybe my potential was there. Maybe
Their words were true; or maybe they
Were simply projecting their own
Wishes and desires from their own
Wasted lives on what was assuredly a
Blank canvas. I think in those days
I was so dedicated to sweeping myself
Under a rug, that perhaps I was
Anyone and everyone. An unformed
Character in search of an author. And
They were lining up to compose who I
Would be.

I did not know who I would be, and
I do not know who I will be. I do not know
How to be. How to be me, how to be
Whole, how to form myself. I do not know
How to access my potential – of which
I have so much? I do not know how to
Breathe. I do not know how to even
Climb out from under my duvet.
This is my sad little cave; a makeshift
Sanctuary that is meant to keep me safe
But only exposes me to horrors, and threats,
And a crumbling life that I will never get back.

I know this. However you may judge me on my
(In)actions, I am not a fool. I am too self-
Aware. Too much so. I know every wrong
I am doing to myself. I know my every flaw,
My every trauma. I know the source of
My every tic. I know why, at 2pm, my
Pyjama-clad legs are huddled under the
Oppressive warmth of my too-long-
Unwashed bedcovers. I know why I
Could neither bring myself to attend
The match I was assigned to today,
Nor notify my team captain I would not
Be coming. I know why my heart jumps
Into my throat every time I hear my
Flatmate stir. I know why I’m more
Afraid to contact a friend of mine than
To crumple in devastating loneliness.

I know how and why I am so wasted.
I know exactly how (and how simply!)
To crawl out of the abyss. But—
Damn it—

I can’t.

Calm in Crisis, Freaking Out in Everyday Life

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 17:43:00 +0000

"Being aware and understanding what's going on in your system and then literally working it through your body, like retraining your body how to calm down, is really useful," Meredith says. For many of her trauma patients, it's a long and intense process. And if it goes untreated? "A lot of people don't heal, and it manifests in a lot of different ways throughout their lives. There's a study they did with Vietnam vets who'd had—clearly—a lot of trauma during the war. Twenty years later, they measured their levels of pain before and after they showed them intense footage from Vietnam. Pretty much across the board, after they saw this really intense, violent footage from the war, their levels of pain went down. Because when trauma doesn't get to work itself through your system, your system idles at a heightened state, and so getting more really intense input calms your system down." Which is why, she explains, "A lot of folks who've survived trauma end up being really calm in crisis and freaking out in everyday life."

From I’m Gonna Need You to Fight Me On This: How Violent Sex Helped Ease My PTSD

Past Events

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Sat, 09 Feb 2013 12:04:00 +0000

What are your opinions on how to approach the past? Should the past be remembered, considered and used to inform the present? Or should it be left firmly in the past and disallowed to have an influence the present?

Four Years

noreply@blogger.com (Tee) — Mon, 14 Jan 2013 18:02:00 +0000

It used to be that the day they died felt like yesterday. Time was running away from me, and I was still caught in a stationary bubble of grief.

Today -- today it feels as though forever has passed since they died. I feel nearly as though my life has never had them in it. Today, I am a woman. Today, I am an adult - and viewed as such by most around me. The day they died I most definitely was not. I was a teenager. A child. I'm not sure where these years have gone, or how exactly it was that I grew up just enough to pass that threshold into adulthood -- but these critical years were years without my family.

The person I am today is - yes, a product of my childhood and upbringing - but I have been powerfully sculpted by the last four years. By unforeseen responsibilities -- grief -- entering the work force -- by re-entering my own social position as Tee rather than the 'daughter of so-and-so'. I have passed and am passing through a fundamental transition of personal development ... while they remain in the past.

I wonder if they would recognize me as their daughter, and sister. I wonder if we would still get along in any functional way. I fear that neither is the case.

They're drifting away from me, and I don't know if it is personally a good or bad change for me. But I am absolutely terrified by how quickly they have lost an influence on my life. It has been four years. In another twenty - will I still even be their daughter?

I love you. And the farther I drift from you, the more I miss you. It used to be that you were so near in the past that I could reach out and feel you. I don't think I will ever be able to reach you like that again.

I hope your souls are as restful as mine is tumultuous - and that one day I can find on this world the peace that I know your tragic and untimely deaths have brought to you. I will have a better life.

xxx Tee.