I’m moving in a little over a week and while I’m excited to be moving to a big sexy house I’m also quite stressed out. I’ve moved several times in my life and have always been the chill person, not worrying too much about the packing and such, I always got it done in time. But there is something different about this move. I can’t quite put my finger on why but I have more anxiety than ever before. I’m even having funky dreams about the whole ordeal. Maybe it’s because I’ve never used movers before.

I have more than half of the apartment packed already but it doesn’t feel like it. I fret over all the stuff that isn’t packed yet. I have a fear that the movers will arrive and we won’t be ready, we’ll run out of boxes with no time to get more. I try to calculate how many more of what size boxes we’ll need to finish the packing. I go through this worry cycle several times a day and it’s exhausting.

Although we are moving in the middle of the month we are paid up to the end of the month which means I don’t have to worry about cleaning until after we’ve left. My brain and nervous system don’t believe me and so I often get this feeling that I need to start the cleaning immediately or it won’t be done in time for a final inspection by the landlord.

Everything about this move feels super urgent but it really isn’t. There’s not much packing left and there’s tons of time to clean. So how am I coping with the anxiety? I’m teaching myself how to knit by perfecting one stitch before moving on to the next. I’m teaching myself macrame; I picked up a kit with a simple project for beginners and only have to learn two knots. My art suff is all packed but I do have a colouring book which helps soothe the nerves.

Working out these feelings isn’t just one and done. As I’ve said, I go through this cycle several times a day which means I have to cool my jets several times a day. On the bright side I’m getting lots of practice at self-regulation and soothing my nervous system.

Saying it out loud is still awkward but here it goes, “I’m an artist.” My friends have been calling me an artist for a couple of years and I’ve always fought it. I didn’t feel like I had the right to say I was an artist. I feel like my art is just a step above finger painting and play-doh in spite of the time I’ve invested in practicing painting or sculpting every day.

No, my art isn’t good enough to be called art. At least that was my argument but then my partner pointed out something very interesting. I don’t have to like my own art for others to buy it. Then, as if the universe wanted to teach me a lesson, I sold two paintings and was a commissioned to do a piece within days of putting my paintings on display in the hallway of my apartment building. Also four of my paintings were stolen and people don’t often steal something unless they like it.

My partner then pointed out that I can’t say I’m not an artist any more. My therapist, among others, have also jumped on the bandwagon. I still tried to fight it but more evidence manifested against me. I sold a fourth painting for more than I would have I imagined, and the paint wasn’t even dry yet! I showed a guy I know a picture of it and he told me to name my price, so I did. I promise it was fair.

I have since been going through canvases like crazy, but not because I’m producing actual paintings rather because I keep messing something up and need to cover them with gesso. Frankly, it’s easiest to go over a painting with black gesso than white so I end up with a lot of black canvases. An artist friend of mine joked that I may just become famous for only painting on black canvases and only a select few will know the real reason why.

The same artist friend insists I’m an artist too and has been mentoring me. He has been listening to my artist woes; nothing is working out the way I want on the canvas, I hate everything; and I get paint everywhere. Of course he laughs and says, “Welcome to the wonderful world of being an artist. I was exactly where you are. You will waste a lot of paint and go through a lot of canvases in your process but you will get there.”

Years ago I tended bar at a “local watering hole”. It was all regulars and I knew everyone’s drink order. There was this businessman and his buddy who came in three to four days a week and drink . The businessman would drink himself into a stupor whilst his buddy would drink a little slower. I would have gladly cut them both off but my boss back then told me not to. She needed the business. In hindsight I regret not cutting them off, it would have been the right thing to do.

My boss often comped him a pizza and he liked hot peppers on it. I can’t stand spicy food, it feels like I ate the sun. On one of the many occasions he and his buddy got drunk and ate their complimentary pizza, the businessman looked at me straight in my face and asked me if he could have sex with me. he was quite serious.

The nerve! I was aghast. Who does that? I felt so disrespected and objectified. I wanted to climb over the bar and choke the life out of him. Instead I simply replied, “Nah man, you just had pizza with hot peppers.”

He and his buddy laughed and then his buddy said, “How about me, then?”

I replied, “Nah man, you had the same pizza!”

The humour in my replies allowed the men to save face without feeling completely rejected. The problem is that I was embarrassed and put on the spot; objectified and disrespected and I was expected to just put up with it. These days I have more confidence and stronger boundaries, and would probably report the business for over serving and leave the job.

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More than once in my life I have seriously considered a permanent solution to all my problems, most recently back in 2017. I had reached a new low due in part to a poorly functioning thyroid added to a lifetime of trauma I had never dealt with. I felt unlovable, unworthy, and abandoned. Every mistake I had ever made was weighted with guilt and shame. Taking a bunch of sleeping pills with a bottle of wine looked like it was my only way out.

Back then I was drinking day and night, smoking more weed than Snoop Dogg just to dull the pain I felt. I barely left my bed, let alone my bedroom for about three months. I was eventually admitted to detox and treatment for addictions. I spent twenty-one days in the hospital and when I got out I went right back to smoking, smoking weed and drinking, though not quite as badly but still pretty excessive (I hardly drink at all anymore, incidentally, I still smoke weed for physical pain though).

I felt as though I’d lost everything; my partner and I were splitting up; my kids weren’t really speaking to me; I couldn’t afford to live on my own so I would have to to sell everything to move into a friend’s house. I didn’t think I had anything left to lose or anything left to live for.

One night, before I went to the hospital, I had been drinking and contemplating suicide, I counted out my prescription sleeping pills, there were thirteen. I wasn’t sure that would be enough to do the job so I decided to wait until I picked up my next refill. I swear it’s the only reason I’m still alive.

I wouldn’t have said so at the time but I’m glad I didn’t succeed. It has taken a few years of therapy but I feel like I have finally come out the other side. It was hard navigating a way out and most days I just stumbled around in the dark looking for the slightest hint of light.

So many women I know have experienced the desire to end their own lives at one time or another, some have even tried but are now glad they weren’t successful. It can be impossible to see when you are in the thick of it but nearly all problems are temporary and wounds can heal.

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Visiting my son’s family was vastly different than visiting my daughter’s for many reasons but the most striking difference was that his children had been removed from the home by Child Protection. My son and his girlfriend have limited supervised visits while they get counselling for their respective healing journeys.

The supervised visits felt intrusive. That’s the best way I can describe it, intrusive. Imagine having a stranger in your home watching you interact with your spouse and children and taking notes on your behaviour. It’s almost as if you’re not allowed to have a bad day and you have to be the perfect parent all the time.

While some of the Family Support Workers who supervise were friendly and try to be unobtrusive there was one who made for an uncomfortable atmosphere, her silence deafening and her stares judgemental. She reported my son’s girlfriend for saying “shit”. Seriously! Even with the friendlier Family Support Workers I felt as though every move I made was scrutinized, I can only imagine how my son and his girlfriend feel. It was hard trying to acquaint myself with my grandchildren while being observed.

I could clearly see how they became frustrated with the process. Frankly, the children should have been back home by now but there was a minor altercation with a neighbour that caused Child Protection to delay the reunification.

**Don’t be too quick to judge people whose children have been removed from their homes temporarily. They aren’t all abusive to their children nor are they all grossly neglectful. Sometimes the parents need therapy and time to heal from their own trauma so they can break the cycle with their own children.

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Even though I had words with my daughter and vacated her home I can’t say this trip has been a total waste. I have reconnected with my son in a positive way. My feelings towards my son’s girlfriend have somewhat changed, she’s been nothing but a kind and gracious hostess. They’ve made me feel very welcome.

I met my thirteen month old granddaughter for the first time and have spent time with her and my grandson whom I’ve seen only once before. He can’t quite say grandmother or grandma so he calls me grammer. They’re both so precious and adorable. I love them both to pieces.

I met with my biological daughter for the first time in two years and things went really well. We both left feeling encouraged and hopeful for the future. Even though I left suddenly I did spend some wonderful time with my granddaughter painting watercolour cards at the kitchen table and playing with her horses. I went for lunch and then coffee a few days later with my godmother who was very significant to me in my youth.

Because of where my son lives (out in the country) I wasn’t able to meet up with any of my friends but that’s fine, there will be a next time and I will have a plan (and gas money) for transportation.

I would say part, not all, of my trip was fucked up but the SNAFU allowed me more time with my other grandkids and more time to restore my relationship with my son, and parts of my itinerary were still fulfilled.

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