I have not written since early February and I figured it wouldn’t kill me to give you all a little update, especially for the generous paying subscribers who did not get their money’s worth in March and April. I will try to keep this update short and unedited in the interest of publishing it.
When I posted my last series of posts on teenagers, trust and social media, the trucker convoy in Ottawa was in its early days. My month of February was completely overwhelmed by the convoy. As some of you know, I work for a City Councillor in Ottawa. I also live with a City Councillor, a different one. Once my work advising and supporting the Councillor who pays me ended, I switched to advising and supporting the other. My life, my burdened mental and emotional space, were overtaken by the rage and toxicity of the protesters, the counter-protesters, the elected officials with a mayoral race to run, and every other person with an opinion. I had to mute countless friends and acquaintances on social media for defending the convoy’s means and tactics as my City reeled, its core paralyzed, its costs mounting, its businesses closing, and as several of my colleagues lived in fear, holed up sleepless in their downtown apartments during the coldest, darkest weeks of winter. Overnight, I went from working part time — I’m still on sick leave as a result of the severe depression brought on by the end of my marriage — to working 24h a day. It was not a good scene. When the person signing off my sick leave noticed that I was no longer claiming sick days and called me to check in I told her: “I need better boundaries between my personal and professional lives because I’m not in a good place.” That evening I became completely unhinged and lost my ever-loving mind on my unsuspecting housemate, triggered by something I had seen coming a mile away. I watched him recoil as white hot rage took over my body. I yelled, and swore, and slammed doors over and over again until I left the house, heart racing, out-of-breath, feeling like I had just run a marathon.
The convoy ended and as on cue, my family was hit by a mental health crisis that spilled like an oil tanker and covered us in its thick heavy, sludge. In the midst of it — silver lining — I realized that I was able to deal with Paul without being overtaken by trauma and anxiety symptoms (heart racing, cold sweats, tight throat) for the first time since the previous winter. Not knowing if turning this corner was permanent or just a blip in the recovery journey, I decided to take the opportunity to discuss the outstanding support issues in our separation agreement, a process that I had only been able to deal with — slowly and at great cost — through my lawyer.
March came and went and I have no idea what happened to it. One evening I broke down and made a very large puddle of snot and tears on my housemate’s shirt asking: “How did we end up here?” He held me but didn’t have the answer. I don’t either. I keep hoping that someday I will look back at the last two years (yes, it’s been two years since April 2020), laugh and say “Weren’t those some crazy years?” but for now, 2 years in, I still think this might be a nightmare I will wake up from.
April unfolded tentatively, as winter decided to fight it until its last breath. The kids and I were finally able to try the new skateboards we received for Christmas and I’m learning how to stand and push…. literally and figuratively. I feel like therapy is working: my life is still a dumpster fire but I’m learning to stay healthy through it. I read a little, knit a lot, wake up early in the morning to drink my coffee alone and listen to Tara Brach tell me that I’m ok. I haven’t gone down a death spiral of depression since the children went back to school in January and I scrounged up enough of my old confidence to purchase 6 plane tickets to take 5 children to France for a family reunion this Summer.
I’m writing this update on Easter Monday 2022. Damien is turning 8 in a few days. I haven’t been to Church since the pandemic started. Last week, the children and I joined our City Councillor housemate for an iftaar, the evening meals with which Muslims end their Ramadan fast at sunset. We sat near our hosts during the call to prayers and for a moment, I felt in a “thin place”, a moment in place where the distance between Heaven and earth collapses. I remembered my own spiritual background in which beliefs - like those of my Muslim hosts — are made visible through movement, sounds, and dress. I yearned for the lost certainty that God had my back, that my life had a purpose. Suddenly, I wanted to find myself in the goodest of Good Friday offices, the one with the most bells, and smells, candle burning and prostration, kneeling and standing, venerating and chanting. I wanted to partake in the buoyancy of a community of believers, I wanted my boat to rise with the tide. I didn’t quite make it. The Church and I still have some issues to iron out before we can be on speaking terms again. But it felt good to miss it, even for a second.
To the rebirth, still elusive but long promised.
V