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~

The Box

Happy 1-1-11 Day everyone!

This is the first time I am writing a post that is currently title-less. I mean, by the time YOU read it, it will have a title, but at the moment, I've got nothin'. Because I am just not sure what I want to say.

There is an awful lot on my heart right now and I am having one of those the-world-is-on-my-shoulders kinda days. I wish I could say I rang in the New Year with a joyful heart, but that's not entirely true. And that's not to say that I didn't have a great time with Brian and Hannah and Jackson, but underneath the smile my heart is heavy.

Do you ever feel incomplete? Like part of you is missing? Or like you're somehow not in sync with the people around you and the person you think you should be? That's how I feel. I've been so emotional and the sane side of me is yelling in my ear that I am being ridiculous and need to snap out of it, and the other part of me is finding ways to justify my tears.

I feel like my heart is broken in two pieces, and half of it is here on my sleeve for the world to see, complete with all the tears and honesty and impulse, and the other half is sheltered away inside of me where no one can touch it. That half, the sheltered one, it needs to be nourished right now. It needs to be protected and loved and lured out of its death grip. It needs to learn to trust. It needs time.

This day last year was also a very hard time for this girl. I remember specifically crying equally hard tears, taking equally shaky breaths, having to be equally brave to get through it. Only this year the reasons are so different. As I was unpacking my Christmas decorations this season I found a silver ball that I had decorated with fabric paint at Winter Camp last year. And it says "This too shall pass, '09". I know it sounds depressing, and I suppose that's where I was at. I was struggling and sad in my singleness, feeling terribly lonely and isolated. I spent New Years Eve that year with two of the dearest friends I could ever ask for, and yet when it was all over I went to my home, sat on my couch, and cried the most bitter tears I can remember crying in my entire life. I wept. I bawled. I mourned. I really, really cried. Then I got up, went to my room and started gathering up every last item that I was holding onto for my future: baby clothes, wedding magazine clippings, index cards with ideas and plans on them, letters I had written to that elusive man...I even got a blank CD and burned off every song I wanted played at my wedding, then promptly deleted them off iTunes. I was on a rampage trying to stuff everything I had ever hoped for into a box, which still to this day stays sitting untouched on a shelf in my closet. I also wrote a letter that day, the content unknown as I was obviously in quite a state. I'm trying as we speak to decide whether or not to read that today, this first day of yet another New Year. Perhaps I will.

Last year I had a very hard time grasping the concept of hope. My counsellor would get very frustrated with me from time to time because for me, the line between hope and expectation is very, very blurry. In my mind they are the same thing, which is so not true. I was always expecting all this good to come to me, when in reality the best I could do was hope for it to come. So that was what I set out to do in 2010. To re-learn how to hope. How to have faith. And low-and-behold, as soon as I gave those dreams of mine to God (respectively in a box on my shelf), and as soon as I chose to take up hope and faith rather than expectation, good things came to me. Very, very good things. One in the form of a man who has blessed my socks off. Who is better than I could have ever imagined or asked for (pardon the cliche).

So this year I face a very different challenge, and I can tell you right now that the challenge is going to be trust. You will have to hold me accountable, as I know this will be hard. Brian and I have been together for 6 months now, and though we have been through many ups and downs already, I know there are many more yet to come. And we're getting to that point now where trust is an issue. I need to learn the meaning of it; need to feel myself submit to it, to embrace it, to be okay with it. It's scary, but it's so necessary. Otherwise we're going to keep going in circles: me needing tons of reassurance that I am loved and cherished, and when those things aren't said or shown, feeling rejected and sad. I don't like it, and I want things to get better. I want to trust that I am loved, regardless of feeling. I want to know it. I want to trust it.

I sat down here tonight to say a warm and heart-felt Happy New Year to you, but instead ended up pouring my heart out. It's feeling bruised and a bit sore, but so much better having let out some steam. Thanks for being my sounding board, and I truly do wish you and yours all the best this next year. Play hard. Dream big. Do things that scare you.

Love like never before.

~C

Fight the Good Fight

Ever have one of those weeks that you actually feel will never end? You get to Thursday and all you can think is that it STILL isn't over. I'm having one of those weeks, friends. Not gonna lie. I knew from the start that my plate was full, that I served myself up more than I could handle, sure, but the knowledge that I am capable of surviving all this is not cutting it right now. I know it could be worse, that I could be in the midst of a week where I lost my job, crashed my car, got robbed, or any of the above, and none of those terrible things happened, but I feel so far removed from summer right now that I DO kinda feel robbed in a way. Gone (for now) are those long beautiful evenings of taking slow, peaceful walks, or the days of setting up camp somewhere warm and scenic and reading an entire book in 2 days flat---for fun. Because this week has been one obligation after the next.

Just to clarify, I am not talking about work-related things, and I am not referring to my new position. Of course it has been a steep and challenging climb this week as I have sought to regain lost footing and right some wrongs, but overall it has been a week of watching puzzle pieces that I never imagined would fit come together in such a way that I am finally seeing the bigger picture. This is thanks to an amazing staff team who are dedicated beyond the call of duty to making summer day camp a magical experience for the children in Abbotsford. Part of me is sad that there are only 3 remaining weeks before we pack up camp for another year, because we're in a good place right now. I am loving this.

Rather those obligations I have mentioned are in the form of school work. Blackberry messenger has a great emoticom of a "smiley" face bawling, and those of who communicate with me on bbm know first hand how often I have used that one this week. Because seriously, I do feel like bawling. 60% of my grade happens between now and Monday. Keep in mind the fact that I am working a nearly 50 hour week, hours that seem to blur into each other in such a way that it's usually 3 or 4pm by the time I remember a little thing called lunch. I come home hot and tired and sweaty and stare with dread at the mountains of homework that await me. It's not that I can't do it, it's just that I really, really don't want to do it. I'm like a little child who can't sit still these days, and all I want to do is run and skip and play. Well, usually. The concept of watching an entire movie from beginning to end is such a distant reality right now that I would rather not even imagine it. It would be like heaven.

Okay, so I know I am being a giant baby right now. I know that this is life and that we all have to do things we don't want to. I know that in 4 sleeps this exam will be over and done with, my term paper will be submitted, and there won't be anything I can do about it. I ask you this, though: How the hell do I get from here to there? How do I go about gaining enough momentum to study for more than an hour or two straight? At what point between then and now do those last 3 pages of my paper get written, and not only written, but written well?

(insert bawling emoticom here)

It doesn't help that I miss somebody pretty badly right now. I'm not quite ready to say who, but it's someone pretty freaking special. So maybe, just maybe, this girl is a bit too distracted and lost in a dream land to focus. That's all I'm sayin' for now. : )

I had a little freak-out moment tonight when I realized that what I thought was a completed essay was 3 pages short of finished. I just happened to be on the phone at that moment with someone who cares about me enough to make me hang up the phone, tie on my runners, and take some aggression out on the pavement. So I did. I tied on my runners and I started to run. And I ran and ran and ran, and every time I felt like quitting, I thought of that stupid bloody horrible essay and I ran some more. And it really, really worked people. By the time I ran back into my cul-de-sac I was smiling again. And you know, it may have been the wrong choice, but I decided to turn a blind eye to that paper tonight. Because what good is a half-assed essay anyways? So instead I kept a special person company until bedtime and then had a wonderful 1.5 hour conversation with my oldest best friend who I needed to connect with desperately.

4 more sleeps. Just 4 more sleeps.

You know, I had my staff fill out some peer feedback evaluations this week, and I got one turned in that was for me. It was a surprise because I wasn't expecting to receive one. Someone told me I was Superwoman. I think that person got a little confused between that and Batman though, because they wrote "nananananananana SUPERWOMAN!". I had a little chuckle about that one. But you know what my friends? As flattering as that was to hear, it's not really true. I'm not Superwoman and no one ever asked me to be. I am just an ordinary girl who needs to do some homework, who needs to get some sleep tonight. All this pressure is so unnecessary, no? And if I don't get an 'A' in Anthropology I am okay with that. Because that silly little letter is not worth all this bawling and stressing. It just isn't.

I can think of a hundred things that are more worth my time right now. One of them is closing these hazelly-green eyes of mine and getting enough sleep to wake up in the morning and fight the good fight once again.

Finish this week strong, friends. Finish strong.

~C~

Simple Song

I don’t usually post entries on the weekend because readership goes down as you all jet off on fabulous adventures. But just so you know, this is kind of a two-part series, and even though tomorrow is Saturday, I will be posting something important. Something I need to share with you.

You all remember Hannah, right? My California buddy? If there is one thing you should know, it’s that we are like little kids when we get together. She reminds me that life doesn’t need to be taken so freaking seriously all the time. She lets me get all crazy and dancy and loud. And I love her for it.

I don’t know whether to say we love Miley Cyrus, or we loved Miley Cyrus. I’m pretty sure Hannah isn’t sure either. I don’t love Can’t Be Tamed Miley, but I do love the funny girl from Tennessee that knows how to laugh at herself.

In her Breakout album she wrote a track called Simple Song. When I first heard it I was totally broken for her. The lyrics are not at all deep or philosophical or even that good, but if they are any indication of how she was feeling when she wrote them, they are real. And you know I love real.

You can check out the lyrics if you want to.

I was really worried about her. Maybe that sounds stupid to you, because she is an A-List celebrity and couldn’t care less about me. But I did care about her. She sounded so defeated. It broke my heart.

I think I first heard that song in the summer. Although I have explained to you guys that is wasn’t exactly the easiest summer, I was still in a better place then I am right now. I smiled a lot and was able to relax and sleep at night. I got through my days with ease and enjoyed people’s company.

As you all know, that hasn’t been the case lately. Things are just not looking up or getting any better, despite so many genuine efforts to keep my chin up. I am having tons of fun dressing up for girlie movies (SatC2 TWICE now!) and loving Eden and feeling blessed by my friends and family, but there is a general cloudiness in my life that I can’t seem to shake.

It seems that if I had the compassion and energy to be concerned enough to write Miley a letter (oh yes, it’s true), then I should have the same regards to my own well being. So I am making some tough decisions right now that you will hear about tomorrow.

In the meantime, there is no way I can post this entry without a little treat for you guys. I was so worried about Miley that I had to distract myself by roping Hannah into making a music video with me. ; )

We all want to hear a simple song, don’t we now. We all want to turn down the static and noise and unwelcome thoughts and demands in our lives.

This is the simplest song I could come up with on the spot...

Sing it with me, won’t you?

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine...

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine...

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine.

~C~

In the Meantime...

My First Nations anthropology class is going quite well, I think. Sure, there are times when it feels like I am learning a foreign language and get really, really overwhelmed by it all. But now that I am catching on I am finding that I enjoy it. Last Tuesday I met up with a few classmates at the campus library, which was a good move. If I haven’t already mentioned it, the class is online so meeting face-to-face with people who have been equally confused and overwhelmed was so comforting. Two of them were aboriginal. Like, braided hair and all. Such beautiful women. One of them walked in and immediately noticed my City of Abbotsford name tag which I so often forget to remove and exclaimed, “Your last name is Marand?!” Clearly this was a rhetorical question. I smiled and nodded, and she went on to say that we might be cousins. I wanted to laugh. I have enough cousins. Like hundreds of them. No joke.

She asked if she could explain the coincidence, and no one seemed to mind. Turns out that last year her family had hired a genealogist to trace their ancestry, and he managed to take them back to the year 1100, according to her. A few hundred years ago the family name had been LaMarande. She explained that along the way the ‘e’ had been dropped off the end, and eventually the ‘m’ had been reduced to a lower case letter. So now her last name is Lamarand*. She immediately knew that I was Metis. No one has ever come up with that assumption before.

It felt good. It felt like a piece of the puzzle fell into place. It felt like I belonged.

I may have a very small percentage of aboriginal blood in me, but at that moment all that mattered was that I had some at all. She started calling me ‘hon’ and ‘sweetheart’, and not in a degrading or condescending way. In a “I care about you for real” kind of way.

Yes, I am Metis and my last name is Marand and my hair is really thick and looks good in braids. When I was little, my mom made me moccasins and gave me a papoose so I could carry my favorite doll on my back.

Ask any of my closest friends and they will tell you that never in our friendships have they ever heard that come out of me. I’m sorry it hasn’t. But it will from now on.

Meeting new people is always an adventure in itself, and meeting my new classmate who is beautiful and claims to be twenty years behind in school and whose last name is Lamarand was no exception.

Here’s hoping for more exciting discoveries along the way. : )

~C~

*For the record, I was given permission to use her real last name.

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~

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~