Roots

I have been thinking a lot about roots lately. Literally and figuratively.

Remember that post where I talked about my land? Well, for the first time ever (sans watching my Lama puttering around in our backyard) I have become a gardener.

I like to think of of it as my own little Garden of Eden. Um, except for the sinning and eating of forbidden fruit and serpents and nakedness and all that stuff. It’s the Garden of Eden because I am growing vegetables and strawberries for my little bunny Eden. She has quickly taken up residence in my heart, and I want to nourish her. I want to provide good things for her.

So yesterday, I got my hands dirty. I dug and pulled weeds and shoveled and rested and shoveled some more. It was awesome.

(I didn’t do it alone, though. Here is a shout-out to TL and CH for all their help! Thanks for the herbs and veggies, T!)

There is something totally therapeutic and satisfying about dig dig digging, coming to the bottom of a deeply rooted plant or weed, and pulling it right out of the ground. You hear a ripping sound. You feel your muscles relax as that weed succumbs to your strength. You hold it in your hands in awe of its size and weight. You realize that you did it. You uprooted something.

But somehow I think that feels better in real life rather than in theory. Because when you think of how deep our emotions, like roots, run, how much more painful is it to dig to the bottom and rip those weeds out? Pretty stinking painful, I think. Ahem...I know, actually. It hurts. But I think in some ways it is even more satisfying than plants. Because it is healing.

A few weeks ago I started an anthropology course called First Nations of British Columbia-Traditional Cultures. Uh, have I mentioned to you guys yet that I am aboriginal? Some of you have seen it in my slanted eyes or ridiculously thick, coarse hair. Some of you have seen my eyes shift downward when I have told you about my heritage. It is typically not something I have nurtured in myself or been all that proud of. I have talked briefly about my dad to you guys, and for the record, he is the one from which my native background stems from. He kind of bailed on me, so that is why I haven’t tried very hard to learn about my paternal roots. He never seemed proud of it, so I didn’t either.

When I started the course, I felt a little overwhelmed, knowing that all kinds of stuff would start coming up for me, being someone who cares deeply about my past and “baggage”. So I followed my instinct and I emailed my big sister Marcy. I really love her and have looked up to her my whole life, but sadly we don’t know each other as well as I wish we did. Emailing her about our history and background was the right thing to do though, because she was really helpful in explaining to me about these things. She told me our dad was (is?) a registered Metis, and that I could be registered, too. From what I have read about in my text book thus far, Metis are not a dominant band in BC, and somehow that makes me want to learn about them (us) all the more.

Suddenly, a spark of interest has come over me. This is part of who I am. It is in my genes. It is part of my make-up. I have relatives I have never thought about in my life. I think I may have turned over a new leaf here.

My back is sore from gardening today, but this is all just a part of the next chapter for me. Sore back today, yes, but I am prepared for sore emotions in the coming months as I dig deeper in my life AND in the garden, and learn even more about who I am. Isn’t that exciting?

Remember the shout-out my brother received a while back?

Well, I want to now honor my sister Marcy and let her know in a public forum that she is totally loved and adored by me, her little sister. Thank you for your help, Marc. : )

Stay tuned as I uproot more of who I am, and plant more of what Eden the Bunny will be eating this summer. Because trust me, you will be hearing aaaallll about it!

Life is grand! : )

~C~

as a side note, this will hopefully be my last internet-less week and I can be a bit more consistent with the posting...I miss talking to you guys as often as I have in the past!

Brother

I have a younger brother. He kind of drives me crazy. Always has, and always will. But it's not at all bad. My brother has a very good heart, but he has had some tough struggles in his life. Details are unnecessary. But ya know, we're not that different, he and I.

My brother isn't living at home right now, and we haven't spent much time together at all in the past few years. I think we are both uncomfortable with the idea, which is absolutely ridiculous because we are family. 100% blood. He is my only full sibling. But we definitely have had our share of significant differences which left quite an impression on our relationship and bond.

On Sunday I went to see my brother. I hope he wouldn't mind me sharing this with you, but he read a letter that he had written me. It was honest, and raw, and heartbreaking, and abrasive, and uncomfortable. But he told me that unless he had the chance to read it, he might not heal. What is it with my family and letters? We seem to communicate better in the written world. Anyways, my brother was so exposed and open and vulnerable in that moment, and it was quite something. He deserves a pat on the back. He deserves a better relationship with me, his sister. With all of us, actually.

Because of our tumultuous past, I haven't always built up my brother in a positive light to my friends. A lot of the friends that I went to high school with need to know that he is totally changing. He has come a long way. I am proud of him. I am sorry if he has felt judged by me. I am happy that he is healing. I love him.

How are your brothers and sisters doing? Have you told them lately that you love them?

~C~

Somebody To Love

It doesn’t seem to matter what kind of mood I am in. Happy or sad, tired or energetic...there is just something about the song Somebody To Love (by Queen) that makes me want to sing and dance.

The lyrics are very interesting. "Can anybody find me somebody to love?" I know that love is a many splendid thing, and love lifts us up where we belong, and all we need is love. But I think sometimes we spend too much time and energy focusing on a certain kind of love that we miss out on other ways to love.

Maybe this sounds generic and too simple, but I miss the feeling of loving people just for the sake of loving them. I want to dance with babies and hug my best friend. I want to listen to the tales of old folks and draw on the sidewalk with the neighbourhood kids. I want to make eye contact with and greet every person I walk past at Mill Lake. I want to be kinder to the people who work at Starbucks. I want to volunteer somewhere and I want to write a letter to an old friend. I want to bake cookies for someone who is feeling down and hand out more encouragement cards. I want to be more generous with my love and less selfish with my time. I want to be known as a lover. As a giver. As a friend.

Can anybody find me somebody to love...

As you can see, friends, love is all around. Love is all you need.

Love IS a many splendid thing.

Je t'aime, mon ami...je t'aime.

~C~

What's Up, Doc?

Tomorrow I have to go to the doctor. It is a doctor/patient consultation with a brand new doctor here in Abbotsford. I haven't been able to find a family physician since my paediatrician (MD) retired 3 years ago. It's been walk in clinics all the way for me, baby. And it's just not cutting it anymore.

I don't have any life-threatening health issues, but I have had some problems in the past few years including an auto-immune disorder and some lung restrictions. It isn't fun, and it isn't very effective to be seeing different clinic doctors every few months who have no idea who you are. I am excited to be going in for some testing and hoping to get to the bottom of some questions I have been having.

Here's the thing, though. My mom and I were chatting on Sunday night, and she really thinks I need to tell the new doctor about my past struggle with bulimia. For me, that is really scary. I can tell you guys, sure, but to tell a professional is a different story. I am so worried that she is going to look at me like I belong in the looney bin, or like I am not strong. And one day if I need a doctors note to travel or be part of some organization, I don't want her to say that I have psychological issues and need to be monitored or something. I know it's a long shot since I have been in the healing process for some time now, but it is still a scary thought.

On the other hand, bulimia isn't funny and it isn't healthy and who knows what kind of unseen damages I have caused my body. It makes me sad, really. Sometimes I look in the mirror and have to apologize for the ways I have hurt myself.

In the end, I will probably mention it to her. She has hopefully been trained to be somewhat sympathetic and won't judge me, but it is still pretty hard. So stay tuned; I will let you know what my decision was and how the kind doctor handled it!

~C~

Mama and Lama

This is a giant shout-out to the two ladies who raised me and the troops pretty much single-handidly. Some people might think that if you have an eating disorder something traumatic must happened to you. Like, if you are that insecure then obviously you are a victim of child-abuse. Just sayin' here, that so isn't the case. Yes, we all have had our share of suffering, and yes some horrible things do go on in this world that we just have to deal with, but I firmly believe those things make us stronger and more empathetic. Case closed.

Mama and Lama were the ones who tucked us in at night, made millions of PB+J sandwiches on white (no crust), and sat on a bench and watched over us protectively as we played at the park. They braided hair and sewed us matching outfits (haha) and came to our school plays and watched endless Disney movies on Friday nights. They stayed up late on Christmas eve to make sure we were convinced St. Nicholas had come. They gave up holidays to take us camping and saved their pennies to buy us a bike for our 10th birthdays. They got to know our friends and treated them with respect. They gave us their change so we could go to K-Mart and buy Polly Pockets and Hot Wheels, they washed our clothes and made sure there were no germs in the bathroom. Mama and Lama picked us up when we fell, put band aids on our knees, and hugged us till the pain went away. They played house. They cut out baby dolls from cardboard and gave us their Mother's Day chocolate. They bought us gifts on each others birthdays so we would feel special, too. They wrote out heartfelt cards to their babies who had absolutely no reading comprehension, just so one day we might look back at those cards and smile. They gave us nicknames and helped shape our personalities. They paid for braces and choir fees and piano lessons and hot lunches. They allowed us to pick out our own clothes (albeit rolling their eyes). They supported our dreams and wishes and hopes and fears. And you know I am not just talkin' about my Mama and Lama, here, right? You know I am talkin' about yours, too. Or perhaps it is your Papa, or Granddad or Auntie or Uncle.

I wanted to acknowledge my parents today, the women who raised me. It probably kills them to know I struggled with something so badly for so long, and I am deeply sorry if they feel any blame. It is completely the opposite. They have done nothing but make me a stronger, healthier, more beautiful person. I am their kin. I am their daughter. And one day, should God bless me with a tiny baby girl of my own, I will love her through her issues, too. Just like Mama and Lama have done for me.

I've got money in my pocket.

I like the colour of my hair.

I've got a friend who loves me.

Got a house, I've got a car.

I've got a good mother, and her voice is what keeps me here.

Feet on ground, heart in hand.

Facing forward. Be yourself.

~C~

Letters to My Father

I was a huge fan of the counseling centre at my high school. I buddied up with the weary and over-booked guidance counselors, and alternated between my roles as a student with issues to a student who was freakishly empathetic and could usually relate to their weariness and heart-aches. I could often be found there in those counseling offices, instead of in class and even instead of with my friends during lunch and nutrition break. It was a soothing, quiet, comfortable place, as burdened as the atmosphere was with the troubles of hormonal teenagers. After I graduated I realized that counseling costs a pretty penny in the real world, and as much as I would have loved to have a safe place in which to pour my heart out to professionals, my empty wallet didn't allow for that luxury.

In 2006 one of my best friends gently talked me into going back to counseling after suspecting that things were worse than she thought on the whole bulimia front. It's not that I was resistant, but I was afraid of being labeled forever as a failure of some sort; someone who couldn't stand on her own two feet. I don't know what had changed for me, where this prejudice had come from, especially considering how gung-ho I had been about counseling in the past. Nevertheless, off I went, 20 years old and in real, live counseling for what felt like the first time. My counselor, who I will call Julia, was really, really young. The reason I could afford her was because she was a student at Trinity Western University with ACTS Seminary and charged at a discount rate since she was technically still learning. Julia and I spent a few weeks scratching at the surface of some basic struggles; valid yet mediocre issues that we needed to get out of the way.

It was probably about 3 weeks into my time in counseling that the subject of my biological father came up. There was so, so, so much to sort through where he was concerned, and I didn't know where to begin. Julia and I began by making a family tree and she helped me put members of my family in their respective places. There was one weird thing that came up, though: to save my life I could not think of the names of my paternal aunts and uncles or my grandparents, and I did not (do not) even know how many cousins I have. When I looked blankly at Julia she asked me if this surprised me, and I said yes. I guess I felt this huge void in that moment, this crazy feeling of detachment and distance from the very people I share a blood line with. Julia started to dig a little deeper, and whether it was her intention or not, I began to feel like half an orphan. It made me angry and sad and confused all at the same time.

For the record, my dad and I were fairly close for most of my life. Sunday was "dad day" and he bought me toys and we went for bike rides and stuff like that, and there were some happy times in the mix of divorce and custody and child support and fear. It wasn't until I kind of "grew out" of dad day and started forming my own ideas and perceptions that it occured to me that we were not at close as I thought. I have always known that my father loved (loves?) me, which is more than some kids can say. But in the moments where I desperately longed for a daddy to shelter and protect his little girl, I felt a loss. There was so much inconsistency and disappointment in our relationship that it caused a lot of distrust between us and I always set us both up for failure: Neither of us could seem to come through for the other. He was always late (if he even showed up), and I was always too chubby. I was super, duper sensitive, so when I would sing along to the radio and he would turn up the volume, I automatically projected that as him believing I had a terrible singing voice. I thought he was embarrassed of me.

Coming back to counseling and Julia, she would send me away at the end of each session with homework to think about. One week the task she set in front of me was both daunting and exciting all at the same time. She simply asked me to write this man a letter. The man who I both adored and feared. It started with your basic 3 point essay: thesis, intro, p1, p2, p3, conclusion, and was actually a lot of fun. The Letter grew and grew until it was probably about 6 pages long and it was stuffed full of what I consider grace. There were memories in The Letter, both good and bad, as well as deeply rooted thoughts and emotions. The most important part, though, was where I forgave him. My father never beat me or abused me the way some kids go through, and I do believe he loved me the best he could, but there were still things that needed to be forgiven and I felt good letting go of those things. The Letter brought about freedom, and not just for me. When I read it to my mom and younger brother they both cried their eyes out and I think it helped them. Here is the thing, though: that letter was supposed to be a healing exercise and that is it. It was never my intention to send it to him. But I did. And I still to this day honestly don't know whether that was a good choice or bad.

The Letter was mailed in July 2006. At that point I hadn't spoken to my father in well over a year. The silence continued until that September when a letter arrived via Express Post to my mom's house. It was from him. His Letter was pretty brutal. He was mad. Really, really mad. It stated, "[...] I can only hope that the Jesus you claim to know is more forgiving and understanding than you [...] Have a nice life [...] From, Asshole". There were other things in his letter not worth repeating. I was embarrassed for pouring my heart out to him and receiving such a harsh reply, but I didn't cry. Instead, the binge/purge cycle intensified as I desperately clung to the hope that I am loved. I am loved. I am loved.

I never heard from that man again. Ironically, I will miss him until the day I die.

It took me a long, long time to stop throwing myself under the bus and reliving the repercussions of The Letter(s). I don't know what percentage of the times I over-ate and then puked were due to him, and my intention is not to blame him in any way. I am 100% responsible for my choices and behavior, and I am thankful that I even had a father to give me life and care for my needs for so many years. But it makes me think: would it have been better to have been raised solely by Mom and Gramma? Would I still have struggled through half a decade with an eating disorder had it not been for this man? I wrote this post not only for you readers this time, but also as a way to evaluate the situation. It's been awhile since I visited this topic.

So counseling sure opens a can of worms as you can see. The crazy thing is that over the course of 3 or 4 months in counseling, bulimia did not come up even once! Oh, denial. My time with Julia was only the beginning of a long road to self-discovery, healing and mistakes. But I guess in the end I don't regret writing/sending The Letter. I have to trust that my Daddy (in my heart) knows best and has orchestrated this all for the sake of healing and peace. And I have certainly got my share of love. Yes I do.

~C~