Uncertain Relief

I have heard each of the phrases: ‘breaking the surface’, ‘coming out of a tunnel’ and ‘coming out a hole’ many times over the years usually speaking of lifting depression. My post today is descriptions of what each of those could feel like to those that have suffered acute depression, and possibly even suicidal thinking. A patient of mine, a young girl, from another hospital at another time told me ‘I know my depression’. We were discussing what happened for her to have recurrent suicide attempts or frequent hospitalizations. Relapse is a phase of any chronic disease. Doing the work to ‘stay afloat’, to feel the warmth of the sun or to take part in a beautiful world in a world of painful reality is the work of those that need to be welcomed back. Here is:

Uncertain Relief

Breaking the surface of water

after nearly drowning amid

waving, leafy seaweed and sinking 

into soft welcoming mud at the bottom

surprises constricted and burning lungs

with a cleansing breath of welcome air.

Discovery that to remain afloat and keep breathing 

strikes panicked flailing and fear.

Coming out of a long long tunnel

after years of just walking and walking

in it’s comfort and dark shelter 

dripping moisture echoing and beating

a gentle kindness despite 

the scurrying of unseen companions

surprises eyes accustomed to darkness.

Discovery of life's brilliance and colour,

while coming into focus, is too sharp and painful

Coming out of a deepening hole

after years of nesting at the bottom

welcomed by the protection of solid walls

pleased with a circle light from above 

until uncomfortable and curious 

attempts to climb walls with few handholds,

digging and scraping finally creates footholds

surprise fills the senses with raucous colour and harsh birdsong

Discovering a world grown foreign is frightening, threatening to overwhelm.

“The only thing that makes life possible is permanent, 

intolerable uncertainty; not knowing what comes next.”

~ Ursula K. Le Guin

Treasuring the Hunt - or Not

Entering a book store there are often shelves, tables and maybe even stacks of puzzles. Puzzles in book form, in jigsaw form, in tactile Rubik's cube like form, Pick-Up-Sticks and Board games of strategy and word. I’ve played many of them but definitely not all of them. But there is one puzzle that I never anticipated that I would have to play - no playing, no pensions! So this is a Public Service announcement to anyone - which is most of us - applying at anytime of their life for a earned, paid for pension. Keep any document with dates all the way back to when you were born. I’m not kidding! Any kind of life change, including a change of province, country, marital or employment status.

When managing money, it is always wise to get clear identification from any person asking for a portion of that money. However, how many of us save every scrap of paper, and in an organized fashion, that has come into our hands over our life times. I had the good fortune to work in Texas for eleven years from 1988 to 1999. So, in the last several weeks I have been locating documentation that will prove that to said pension organizations. 

Beginning towards the end of May this year, I started on the trail of all the required details. In previous blog posts, I wrote about a Paper Life and Personal Archaeology. My files were strewn on every available service, except my sofa and my bed. As the weeks have gone on, these unorganized piles of folders and papers, while colourful, had become so much overwhelming clutter. This week, I have stacked up the folders. I’ve made three specific folders for each of the pensions I am applying for, including a separate folder for other information necessary to all three. My dining room table is clear - almost. Discovery of clarity out of chaos has rewarded me with a calm not felt for a long time.

When the puzzle pieces are all back in the box, or in this case documents in labelled folders, then this great, exhaustive puzzle becomes manageable. One document at a time, one phone call a day (or maybe three) and keep all the pieces in the box. When one critical piece is missing, and for any good puzzle, that will happen, find another one that fits - thus the phone calls. To Kelowna, to Lubbock, Tx, to Regina and within Victoria. So keep all your documents and file them away where you can find them: dates and places and status kept safely as part of one’s ID documentation. If you aren’t a fan of puzzles this is really important for you!

“Not every puzzle is intended to be solved. Some are in place 

to test your limits. Others are, in fact, not puzzles at all…..”

~ Vera Nazarian,  The Perpetual Calendar of Inspiration

A Childhood Memory

True story:

It was growing dusk in my small prairie hometown. The cars and pickups that had lined Main Street on both sides were gone. Everyone home for supper I suppose. I don’t know why my friend (or was it a cousin - or was I alone?) and I were in Mr. Brock’s grocery store just before he closed at six. But there we were. We were skulking - as much as two six year old’s could skulk (or were we seven). This is a memory so some of the details are kind of wavery. It must have been fall, because I was wearing a coat. Seems to me it was brown. And there it was. A bag of candy tempting me. But it was too big to slip into my pocket, so I slid it down my coat sleeve. My mistake? I chose a bag of candy with the crinkliest, noisiest cellophane on the shelf. But I was six? What did I know? We walked, very casually I’m sure, to the door to leave. We had to get home for supper or we’d really be in trouble (I still think it was two of us). Mr. Brock's voice boomed - I'm sure it boomed - from behind the till:

‘Susan, what have you got there?’

‘Nothing’

I’m sure there was more conversation but the only things I remember after that was the choice I had to make. Mr. Brock did suggest I go home and tell my mom and there’d be nothing said - or maybe he said he call mom and let her know what happened. I think that’s when I started to cry and said that I didn’t want to - I couldn’t……

‘Well then, I could call the Mounties (they were stationed a block away) to take you home to your mother.’

Then I really caved in. I desperately didn’t want to be seen in the back of a police car! It was a small town. Everyone would know! (Maybe I was by myself?) So, the next part of this memory is sitting in the living room with mom. What was said I do not recall, but I do remember a feeling of compassion. Did mom have a difficult time keeping a straight face? Probably. 

 I discovered two things from that black day in 1953 or was it fall of 1952?

        1. A life of crime was not for me.

        2. Panic attacks me when I have to speak up for myself with people in authority.

By the way, I didn’t even like the candies I appropriated - does anyone remember Chicken Bones? Yuck!

“The truth.” Dumbledore sighed. “It is a beautiful and 

terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution.”

~ J.K.Rowling, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone