A poem from Mar 10, 2013

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

"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

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

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.

In Coming Home

There was an emptiness in touching down in Toronto - and in greeting my best friend - and in catching up with my people.

There's an emptiness in the thought of going back to Kitchener for Christmas. An emptiness in the thought of opening gifts and eating turkey.

There's an emptiness.

I will never again have a mother's love.

My mother's love.

Her love was my home.

I'll never be able to go home again.

Oct 15

You were so flawed. I have a lifetime of complaints and grievances I could make against you. There was so much about you that I didn't like and I never want to become. I have a lot of issues and troubles that I'm sure are a result of your imperfect parenting.

But the thing is, Mommy, you were still perfect. You were still everything I could have ever asked for. Because you were my Mommy - and I am your daughter. Your imperfections and fears and failures are, as much as your successes and strengths, my legacy. You are every contracting beat of my heart. You are every resounding echo of my footsteps. You are the dimples in my smile and the salt in my tears.

I do not miss you. I ache for you.

Mama: with my every breath, I love you.
Please rest in peace and in happiness.

Happy Birthday
xxx

Molest

"To subject to unwanted or improper sexual activity."

I have been lying to myself and to my loved ones for a very long time. I've been lying about my past, about my problems, and very much about my grief. I hit a very deep and dark low a while back, and I confessed to my family what I thought I would take to my grave.

The truth is: my brother molested me.

When he was still alive, I hated him and feared him and was disgusted by him (and I loved him). But when he died, I started creating narratives in my head: "he just wanted to explore." "He didn't know what he was doing." "He was a child too." I was creating ways by which I could preserve his memory. So that I could grieve him like everyone else; like all he was was a brother lost.

But none of it was true. Whatever his thoughts or intentions, he was older than me. He knew better than me. And it was his job to protect me, and instead he hurt me.

I confessed my dirty little secret to my aunt and brother, and suddenly I could admit to everything that I'd always known was true:

My brother used me for his own gratification. I started self-mutilating because he made me feel worthless. 

I have never stopped hating myself or blaming myself, and I don't know if I'll ever be able to escape those thought processes.

The year before he died, I wished with everything in me that he would kill himself.

When he died, I was immensely relieved.

I do love him, and I do miss him - but I'm glad he's gone. Because now I'm no longer afraid that he might touch me again. Now I'm no longer afraid of what he's thinking when he looks at me. Without that pervasive fear, I am able to actually love him and miss him.

This is the true source of why I always feel so alone and so broken; and I have a lot more to work through surrounding this than I do about losing my parents.


I had never identified as having been 'molested.' When I first spoke it out loud (to my best friend back in high school), I used words like "he made me touch him." As if different words would mean something different. But the morning after I broke down and told my family, I looked the word up. Quite simply, "to subject to unwanted or improper sexual activity." And if that's the definition, I was molested as a child. And my big brother molested me.