Trigger Me

 

Trigger Me

Relax

That’s the word my stepfather used before he started in on me.

Relax

Each and every time.

Relax

I knew what was coming.

Relax

I was just a kid.

Relax

The sexual abuse went on for three years.

Before he touched me, he would always tell me to relax.

I was fifteen when I escaped and left home.

No longer would my stepfather tell me to relax.

Many factors and hellish moments filled those days, and months, and years.

They are still a part of me.

My only choice was to come to terms with it.

My stepfather telling me to relax was a problem.

My therapist, Buddhist teacher, or friend telling me to relax was not the problem.

Even I could tell myself to relax.

Trigger words are all around us.

Let’s neutralize them instead of allowing them to haunt our lives.

I started to find it all ironically funny.

That was probably the moment I decided to make friends with my fucking trigger word.

Relax.

My stepfather no longer owns me.

Cancel him.

Cancel his hold over me.

Cancel it all.

But let me keep my ability to relax whenever the fuck I want to.

Or choose to.

Some hurts stay forever.

Some things are beyond my reach.

Some anchors still hold me back.

But not reacting to a word is comparably easy to fix.

Bottom line

Relax

if I stay

Again… What’s Next?

Four years ago I wrote a blog titled “What’s Next?”

I had no idea what the future would bring but knew being elected as a Vancouver Park Board Commissioner would be an experience I would never forget.

Politics, Covid, meetings, Stanley Park, media interviews, heat domes, golf courses, access, and talking and talking and talking and more.

Fast forward 4 years and now I know what it’s like to run in an election and lose. November 7th was my last official event as an elected official. It has been a ride.

So… what’s next?

My goal at the Park Board was always to speak up for seniors and people with disabilities. Clearly that is never going to end. No matter where I am or what I’m doing this will continue. It has to.

The line “what’s next” came from the West Wing TV Series. When President Bartlett was ready to move on he would say “what’s next.” Everyone around him understood he had already turned the page. I don’t know if I’ve totally turned that page but I do know it’s time.

My book was supposed to be written four years ago. It’s time. It’s overdue.

Being a politician and elected official is an experience everyone should try. Public service mixed in with being a public person. The balancing act was daunting.

Many people showed me their kindness and compassion throughout these four years. I’m going to focus on that and not the hate that often comes along with the position.

I could never have survived without John Coupar sitting at the Park Board table with me. He was my mentor, partner, and teammate. He has become a great friend.

John and I at our last official Park Board meeting

Thanks to all of you for your patience and encouragement.

I hope you’ll stick around to find out…

What’s next.

 

 

 

COVID and My Depression

Like so many others, I wake up in the middle of the night.
Sometimes I get up and write.
Lately my depression has been filling my 3am thoughts.

COVID and My Depression

My depression has been waiting on the sideline.
Waiting for the chance to step up.
Waiting for my guard to drop down.
Waiting for the moment to step in.
Waiting to take over and rule the day.
Waiting.

My depression is patient and bides it’s time.
It plays a very long game.

Covid gave my depression a battering ram.
But I’m pushing back as hard as I can.
Covid gave my depression keys to the door.
I’m struggling to keep it shut.
Covid gave my depression all the passwords.

I’m fighting.
I’m giving it all I’ve got.
Right now there’s a 50/50 chance I won’t win.
Every day is a battle.
The door’s barricaded and I’m searching for another way out.
What happens if depression gets past my defenses?
What then?
I’m looking for the exit sign.
Where is that way out?
Fuck, did a window just break?
Do I stand my ground?
Can I hide until it disappears?
Do I call for help?
Can I outrun it?
Will it always find me?

In the end, I get to decide…

 

 

I’m Not Dead; Only Sleeping

Last month I promised to get back to my writing.  The subject matter is usually memoir. Here’s a piece I wrote a few years ago about my younger years. Based on the conversations I’ve had over the last couple of days I thought this might be the one to share.

We rarely know someone’s story.

 

I’m Not Dead; Only Sleeping

Camping isn’t fun.

If we hadn’t slipped into Canada I would’ve been warm and comfortable. But just how comfortable can you be living in a car with three other people?

We’re at the Banff National Park. It’s known as a tourist destination and famous for providing guests with a taste of wilderness in the Canadian Rockies. I couldn’t have cared less. We were only passing through, a pit-stop of our life on the lam. Probably on the move to dodge the police or debt collectors. It was my childhood norm. Every step we made back then was based on how close the authorities were and how visible we had become. This time, we’d snuck out of Boise and were winding our way back to Vancouver. Crossing state lines was good, but crossing the US/Canadian border was a better way to disappear. Years ago, passports weren’t required and few questions were asked. I was happy to be heading back to my real home. Everything and nothing was better in Vancouver.

I thought of it as a cold safety net.

Winter months and living in a car is best if you’re in California or maybe Texas. You can sleep outside. I remember the joy of stretching out on the car hood. Florida wasn’t ever a good option. Hot, humid and too many bugs. Miami insects feast on sweat. Homelessness in Florida has no redemptive qualities. Everything smells. Food stored in the trunk rots, and ice doesn’t exist. Even parking next to Disneyworld didn’t make Florida better. Goofy and his friends weren’t going to help us.

Our old Cadillac was parked close to the campfire. Tourist season was over and no one cared that we were there. The plan was for me and my little brother to sleep around the fire so my mom and step-dad could be in the car alone. This scheme had worked well in the past. I remember watching the fire burn down, knowing it was too cold. There were no sleeping bags to zip up around us, and only layers of the few clothes we still owned.

Night noises are scary. You have no idea what was lurking out there in the forest. Every sound was a wolf or bear or beast that would pounce if we fell asleep. We were children with imaginations and fears. Why were we expected to sleep outside and fend for ourselves? Why were our parents special and able to stretch out and be warm? Sure, they needed to be on top of their game tomorrow. This life required nerve and compromise.

And maybe just a good night’s sleep.

I made the decision to knock on the car window. Most of me wanted to stay by the fire. Sleeping inside a car with three other people was chaotic and stifling. The noise was bad, my step-father snored, and all the other breathing sounds drove me crazy. It always became too stuffy. People fart. There was no easy answer.

My brother followed my lead. He was small and had no voice. The car and life on the run was his norm. He wasn’t haunted by abuse, but he did know hunger. This was all he knew. I never minded sleeping next to him, and I know he huddled close to me for warmth. We all craved a good night. But most of me just wanted to be away from these people.

I would’ve given anything to be alone.

I don’t make any noise when I sleep; breathing so shallow that I hardly move. An old boyfriend said he often thought I was dead. My stillness scared him. Back then neither of us knew I learned this trick when I was young. It was a way to be invisible and hide.

I wanted to be alone but knew that’s where the real threat was

Sometimes my step-father’s cons went well and jobs panned out. We didn’t always need to live in a car.

That’s when my step-father would sneak into my room at night. He’d crawl into my bed. I wasn’t able to hide. It didn’t matter that I pretended I was dead. He plotted his perversion so well. I would’ve rather faced any forest creature ready to pounce and maim. Against them I had a chance. Against my step-father I was helpless. Alone in a bedroom I had no defense.

The only thing that saved me was my hate.

How can we make someone decide where safety is? And where the dangers hide? Outside, on the edge of a forest, or inside a family home? The answer to a safe haven should never ever be a car or the street. We should be better than this.

There was no easy answer back then. Eating, sleeping, being cold, and surviving. It was our reality. My norm. We have a way of adapting to the worst circumstances. Everything is relative. Listening to my step-father’s snores in the car was much better than hearing him open my bedroom door.

Sleeping outside in Banff would have been so much better. I remember looking out the car window at the dying fire and thinking a normal family would be having fun singing campfire songs and cooking hotdogs and s’mores. A normal family would be happy.

I didn’t sleep that night but I wasn’t cold.

The next day the sun was shining and we carried on our way. During the light of day I could pretend the next night would be in a hotel and include a warm meal. We even laughed during the day and my brother and I played road trip games. I spy with my little eye. I fantasized about buying a Winnebago where I could seemingly have the best of both worlds; a way to flee the police and never be touched.

A childhood dream. A childhood fantasy. All make-believe.

Now I’m old and have survived. I love Disneyland and even Disneyworld. I love going for long drives. I love the sound and smell of campfires. I hate people that snore. I’m often cold, but know I can put on a warm sweater and turn up the heat.

Today I’m happy to sleep alone, with the door locked, and my demons dead.

I barely breathe at night, and if you lay next to me, you might think I’m dead.

I’m only sleeping.

 

 

Be Creative

My boss inspired people. He genuinely thought the people around him could come up with good ideas. He expected us to step up. It was not an option.

I remember the day he told me to think of four ideas that could be made into Kokanee Beer radio commercials. He gave me the weekend to think. On Monday morning I gave him the list and was shocked that by the end of the week one of those little ideas was now a script and soon became a commercial and was heard on the radio.

When a creative genius has faith in you, well, you start to believe in yourself. My boss taught me not to be afraid of those little ideas in my head. I got to spend almost 20 years of him expecting me to be creative.

Last week I watched an old Kokanee television commercial. One of the little known spots from the year we traveled the province filming unusual people that drank Kokanee.

We spent one day in Victoria following a garbage man.

Me and the Labatt Beer client “on set”

Weeks later, back in the edit suite, we started to pull together shots to make some sense of what the commercial could be. It’s a lengthy process. Luckily I was the producer and was a part of every step of the production. I sat in the edit suite along with the creatives.

For some reason… and most likely because we were driven to “be creative”, I started to sing the old “Spiderman” cartoon song and replacing the word spiderman with garbageman. It was funny. It made us laugh. My boss liked the idea. Kokanee and Labatts liked the idea.

Very quickly the music rights were bought, recording studio booked, musicians and singers hired, and then finally the spot was finished and aired. (A little bit of a producer’s nightmare, but I was used to the process back then. It was my job and I loved it.)

Kokanee Commercial

My boss inspired people. He changed my life.

my boss

He taught me to never be afraid of that little voice inside your head.

You never know what it might become.

you never know