As a child when I was allowed to stay up late, I could gaze up into the stars and see the moon shining down brightly. Casting shadows in the trees. All the romantic stories and dreams remembered.

But any storybook pictures that I seen as a child, it was in the sunshine. Sparkling sunlight in blue water. Rainbows and sunshine.

As many of my readers know, I married young. Left home and started my own life with my husband and children. I was 16 years old and determined to become an adult. But when you come from a dysfunctional home and into a dysfunctional marriage, every day is a challenge. Every moment is set in fear. Even during the happy moments, the fear that something is going to go wrong lingers in the background.

After I’d been married for a few years, I started to realize that once in a while I would speak up, defend myself, and try to make a point to my husband. This usually ended in a horrible screaming match, and I would end up jumping in the car and going for a drive. I started to notice that every time I was going on one of these drives to calm my thoughts, there was a full moon. Bright and shining into my eyes. I would often park near water and just watch it shine on the water. I would return back home to generally a quiet house because my husband had gone to bed and in the morning all would be well again.

As the year’s passed, I realized that the full moon affected me. I know everybody talks that there’s more accidents, there’s more police calls, there is more ambulance calls, there’s more disturbances during the full moon. I started to realize that it affected me deeply. My tolerance level was low. It’s like stupid suddenly became something I could not tolerate in anyone or anything, including me. I detested hatred, anger, and confrontation. My feelings were often just gut feelings. They didn’t necessarily have any logic behind them. It was like an anxiety and fear all rolled up into one. So that when I was challenged or made to feel bad, I would fight back. I would snap at people. I demanded people be kind and not so damn mean!!

If I was depressed, the depression was more serious. The night I decided to commit suicide in 1981, it was a beautiful full moon in June. It was a calm night, and I could even hear the river and the power dam in the distance. The new leaves rustling in the trees.

My parents had passed away in February March of lung cancer. I really felt I had no one. Nothing left to depend on. Although my parents were not exactly the ideal, warm, loving people, they did love me. They may criticize me, they may tell me I’m nuts, but if I really needed them, they would try their best. My husband was making me feel more and more as a failure. That I wasn’t good for anyone or anything. I got to the point where I convinced myself that everyone would be better off without me. That I wasn’t any good for my children. That I wasn’t a good wife. I wasn’t a good anything. I had sat looking at the moon, drinking a half a bottle of rum, and deciding that I was going to go walk to the river and just keep swimming and swimming and swimming until I could swim no more.

Then my two year old cried. I was drunk and needed him to go back to sleep so I staggered into the house and got him a glass of milk out of the fridge and got him back to bed. But my husband woke up and I didn’t make it back outside. I was drunk which scared him really bad. He was the alcoholic. I never drank. I had been crying all night. My eyes were swollen shut. He made me lay down and he called my brother. Poor guy. He drove two hours to sit with me.

This was almost 50 years ago. I did seek doctors help. I was given a antidepressant, but it made me almost comatose. I couldn’t function and so I quit taking it.

I convinced myself that I just had to be able to take care of the kids and my husband better. How I felt wasn’t important. It was how they felt.

I started to learn to just watch for when the full moon was coming and really really pushed myself to stay quiet. Don’t start any controversial conversations. Just sit quiet. Basically a yes sir or no sir human.

Now, today, after years and years of therapy, some very kind medication, and wonderful support people around me, I can admit that the full moon puts me on edge. Maybe it’s just psychological, but it definitely feels physical. I feel the tightening in my stomach, and the rigidity in my muscles. It’s like I’m waiting for something to go wrong. I have to admit that the moon is beautiful. It’s shine against the water, and in the sparkles in the night.

Tonight it is again full moon. I celebrated this day by staying indoors. Not conversing any more than I absolutely had to do with the outside world. And just trying to take a breath. For tomorrow’s a new 28 days.

May I be safe. May I be happy. May I be healthy. May I live with ease.

I grew up with a very superstitious Irish father. Fear of anything 13, black cats, snakes, gremlins, etc.

My Dad was the ironworker you see in the old photos, sitting eating lunch on a steel beam 30 stories over the city. No safety equipment. No fear. Just jump up and walk the beam with a riveting gun and a pail of hot rivets.

As I got old enough to understand calendars my mother drilled into me not to tell Dad it was Friday the 13th. Why? Because my Dad would refuse to go to work. And we were dirt poor. My Dad refused to have his wife work and as a result our family survived on one often seasonal income. (I won’t even discuss the drinking and gambling effects on our family income.)

Being a long time union man, his coworkers knew his superstitious ways. No third light on a match for him. So a coworker yells from a steel beam 24 stories up, “Hunter what are you doing here on Friday the 13th?” My Dad dropped and hugged the girder. They needed a crane to get him back on the ground. When he got home it was not pretty.

I was a curly blonde haired, big blue eyes, and freckled faced girl. Thanks to the World of Disney I knew all about fairies and magic. I can remember my Dad declaring, when I couldn’t find my mitts, that the gremlins had stolen them. Apparently they slept behind the wood stove with the leprechauns. They were mischievous little buggers that made all sorts of things break or be hidden.

I once ran out of my room on the way to a great adventure outside. As I grabbed my shoes I realized I forgot socks and plunked my shoes on the table. As I came back into the kitchen my Mom is yelling, “Do you want to cause a death in our family?!?!” This seemed a little severe for forgetting to put on socks. That was the day I learned the consequences of putting shoes on the table. And here I thought it would be about getting dirt on the table.

I am a happy healthy 15 year old and my Dad is driving me to the town 10 minutes from our hometown. As we take the curve exit from the highway, and picking up speed into town, a black cat runs across the road. Dad slams on the brakes. I go flying into the dash, face against the windshield (before vehicles came with seatbelts). He fired it into reverse, and drove around the town to another entrance. And after, he drove out of town by another exit, avoiding the tainted section.

I learned quickly that like religion, superstition is more about needing something to manage life’s hopes, dreams, and cruelties. Reality sucks often and we need something to make us feel safe. To protect us. Make our odds of survival better. Whether this is a god we have never met or seen, or a force from the ladder that will cause bad luck when I walk under it. It’s all a way to try to take care of ourselves. A way to be safe and healthy. A way to problem solve. A way to be brave. My Dad let his fears and demons control how he behaved. Control his decisions. Control his problem solving in a logical manner. Damn, plan for his future.

My take is a little different. I do believe there is an invisible life force that gives me the intelligence and ability to care for everything and everyone. Some call it God, Buddha, Creator, etc. I choose to say Creator. I do believe we only use half our brain when all of it is available. We just haven’t figured out how to use those gifts. Although I believe that icons, symbols, and ceremonies can help one feel closer to our Creator, I have to be honest that I believe God gave me intelligence and caring. The rest is solely up to me. I am the Captain of my ship. I am in control of me and everything around me. I am.

May I be safe. May I be happy. May I be healthy. May I live with ease.

One of the key parts of depression, in my case, is the habit of procrastination. It took me a long time to realize that if I just pushed myself a little harder, and I got the task completed, I felt so much better.

And when I say procrastination, it’s not big things. It’s all the little things that add up to horrific dissatisfaction in myself.

There used to be a time where I would become so depressed that I would grab the worst romance-historic novel, lay down on my bed, and read for the entire day. I would realize that the kids are going to be coming home from school. I would have to make supper. I hadn’t done the laundry today. And I hadn’t washed the floors, And the house was just a mess. What a horrible failure I am! What a horrible wife I am! What a horrible mother I am! But then the next day after the children are gone off to school I would pick up my romance novel, lay back down, and the cycle would continue.

Any person with confident mental health would say, “Just get off your goddamn ass. I don’t get it. Just do it.”

Until you’ve suffered from what I called the crippling depression that puts you in that loop of accomplishing nothing except sadness. And if you don’t find the support from family, friends, and mental health therapy, the loop just keeps pulling you back down.

I’m not a young kid anymore, I’m 68 years old. And in my journey to become healthier and happier, I have learned to just get er done. Plus with the help and support of my family, friends, and mental health therapy, I have learned to just do one step at a time. And now the steps become easier. The elation in having my life in order comes much easier.

Two of my grandchildren have been taught by their parents to make their beds the moment they got up. And that is the beginning of the order in their day. So at 60 years of age, I decided that if young children can be motivated to make their beds every morning, it is a small step that I can do each day.

The result is hard to explain but if my bed is made I feel stronger. If my kitchen is clean I feel proud. My house is pretty damn clean these days. And that is because I no longer have to hide away and escape from the reality of everyday living. My days are now filled with laughter and joy.

These days, I can actually laugh when I realize that I am trying to put something off until later. In a future post I’ll share some of the silly things that I do still procrastinate about. I just say it’s not the big things anymore, it’s those little things and little pushes that have to show up to keep me organized and functional. Oh, and happy too.

May I be safe. May I be happy. May I be healthy. May I live with ease.

Each day starts with a stretch, a yawn, and taking a look at the weather forecast for the day. It’s been a long winter and I did really good. Much better than I have in other years.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned through the years is that the winter weather, although sometimes extremely beautiful, can wreck havoc with my inner peace. It’s like my mind needs to dream, create, and accomplish. It needs to imagine or know that something really good is coming up. For some people, the little hints that spring is going to finally eventually come along is enough, but for me, I need the definite goal of something definite.

So this year, I decided to just cosy on down, watch some movies, learn to adjust to the -40 below weather, and relax. Going on a southern vacation just seemed to be too much money to just lay in the sand. As much as I love sand and beaches and sunshine, I liked my bank account a little bit more.

So as I lay in my recliner, with a cool drink in my hand, in -35 Celsius weather, I find the movie Ticket to Paradise. A love story set in Bali. George Clooney and Julia Roberts are parents of a young woman that recently graduates from university and takes a well earned vacation to Bali. There she meets the man of her dreams and chooses love over career.

As my eyes viewed the beauty of Bali, I remembered how often I was going to put it on my bucket list, but just assumed that I could never ever afford to be able to go there. Hell it’s above Australia and below Thailand. Only the super rich must be able to afford to vacation in Bali. But I was curious so I clicked on Expedia. Then I really checked it because it was saying that I could fly from Canada to Bali, 9 nights stay in a hotel, close to the beach, and fly home, for under $2500 Canadian. Oh my God.

I began my research. I double checked to make sure that I was on the real Expedia site. I reviewed all the presets and choices, and reviews, and YouTube videos. I took all the advice that I could find for which hotels were for me. I could choose the over 50 crowd at a much higher price per night, or the over 30 crowd and a much more reasonable price. One was a little farther from the beach to ensure that they had the quiet ambience. I was happy to just be closer to the beach, patios, and music.

Then I started looking at all the tours or sightseeing. Wow waterfalls, hike up a mountain to an active volcano, actually walk in paradise. I was starting to find out that the Canadian dollar really does quite well in Bali. Food was just as cheap as eating it in Canada or less. I could hire a driver for the day for $20 to take me anywhere.

So I took the dive. I figured out the days that I could go. I booked the days off from my work. I made a rough plan of what I would need to save to really enjoy this dream vacation. I clicked all the choices on Expedia. Triple reviewed my choices of flights, days, and costs. Then I made payment, got the confirmation of my itinerary, and was on the way to the most exciting few months I’ve had in a while. Now to plan.

To be continued…

May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be happy. May I live with ease. 

Brain broke connection with mouth again.

Very often my mouth jumps ahead of my brain. I come off as extremely rude and uncompassionate. It’s one of my worst traits. I am not sure how I developed this habit and it’s always been a struggle to control it.

Many of you that have followed this blog know that I very much respect and attempt to honour the Seven Sacred Teachings of the Ojibway/Anishinaabe First Nations. Courage, honesty, humility, love, respect, trust, and wisdom.

For many years, I was treated as if my brain had nothing worthwhile to give anyone. I was not encouraged to speak out, give my opinion, or in anyway have the confidence that I may have something worthwhile to say. I spent the last 30 years growing some sense of love for my own thoughts. Many friends, both in business, volunteer groups, and work places, praised me for my knowledge and ability to speak in public and my ability to convey my thoughts in a comprehensive manner. Some good friends/ colleagues just ask what the hell is Carol talking about now!! Some good friends say I just love jumping from one story to the next and forget to hit the stop button.

Recently, I forgot about the humility part of the seven teachings. And that led to me using my mouth more than I did my ears. I cut someone off mid-sentence, waved my hand, and said pssht, that’s not relevant here. OMG I should’ve stopped, listened, and then responded. Sometimes when I feel like I’m right, I definitely come off as sounding bossy or dismissive of others. In fact, I know people must think what an ignorant bitch. I am immediately regretful, but usually by that time I have made someone feel uncomfortable and hurt. I apologize immediately, but as my mother used to say sorry doesn’t help if you’ve done the same thing over and over.

I know in our staff meetings I now put up my hand instead of cutting someone off. My coworkers appreciate this new approach as the old one again came off as rude and judgemental. Which was never my intention but definitely the end result.

As a problem solver and someone who grew up avoiding crisis, my mind races ahead. During the race it has no time to listen, just run. My task now is to slow it down. This is not a life or death experience. I can always take the time to think and listen. If I lose the thought that I wanted to express, then maybe it wasn’t that important.

I will definitely work on being a kinder listener. And a kinder talker.

May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be happy. May I live life with ease.

This will be short and sweet. I have tried really really hard to be aware of my triggers. At the job that I work at, we call it shark music. When we start to hear the shark music, we have to prepare our brains and hearts to just calm down and look at it logically. What is happening now? Do I have to stop and take that deep breath?

We also have to be aware that others have their own shark music. Their own traumas that they may be recovering from. So not only do we have to care for ourselves, we have to remember to care for others. At the moment of the pain it seems that only you can feel it. Often the person you are talking to is reacting to their own traumas that they too are trying to recover from.

Patience with yourself and patience with your family and friends will work you towards a positive result.

So as you gather with family and friends, coworkers and neighbors, remember that we each are in our own space. We are each trying to get through sometimes a very difficult season. Remember to take the deep breath and be thankful for everything we have. Remember to say a prayer for those in pain. Remember, it is better to give than to receive. Happy holidays to everyone.

May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be happy. May I live with ease.

(This was written over a year ago. Only published now)

I know I continuously talk about finding happy. Well I fell into the pit hard.

I could feel in the last couple of weeks that stresses were increasing. I was becoming more tense with any changes, sad interactions, angry interactions, and conflicts at work.

I was caring too much with the illusion that only I could fix things. When I couldn’t fix everything I condemned myself for failing. My usual happy cheerful self, definitely went the wrong way. I was harsher, less patient, and wasn’t choosing my words well. Be kind and gentle is a false motto if I was not keeping my thoughts and actions calm.

I recognized the stresses building, and I asked my employer to schedule me a definite break. I didn’t realize how bad I was until one failure on my part brought me back to my childhood.

When I was a kid the most horrible times of my life was when I couldn’t stop crying. Mom and Dad would have a fight, I’d be laying in my bed trying to cry against my pillow. Eventually my dad would come in, sit on the edge of my bed, and tell me to stop my goddamn crying!! If you can’t quit crying, I will give you something to cry for!! My dad often hit my Mom while drunk so the fear was real.

The hiccoughing gasps as I tried to stop crying. The sobs begging for air. My throat aching. Wishing the sobs to stop.

When dad got up and left, and it was quiet in the living room, I knew that Mom had had time to go to bed. It would be quiet soon.

The morning would have Mom and Dad pretending nothing happened. My swollen red eyes and puffy face would bring a look of guilt to my Dad’s eyes. I would do something silly or cute to make him smile. I didn’t want my Dad to be sad because of me.

I never wanted anyone to have pain because of me. I would always be the fixer. The helper. Never be the cause of pain or sadness.

That plan didn’t work out so well. Depression makes a person constantly think that they are hurting other people. Everything becomes your fault. Everything bad is caused by you. There’s no excuses, no rationalizations, no logical reasons. Only a horrible person could cause that much pain to so many people.

Two days ago I caused a person I love trauma, and all the hatred of myself came flooding in. I was supposed to be the kind person. I was supposed to be the good person. I crumbled in self hatred.

So I start my road out again. I know I have to climb out of the pit. I am a good person. I am a kind person. But I have to remember to be kind to myself. When I’m feeling the stress is building I have to be able to stop and acknowledge that my behaviour is not what I want it to be.

I have to hope my friends and family know I would never intentionally hurt them but that I am human. A very imperfect human that needs to forgive herself some days. Okay like today. 🤪😃 Or maybe tomorrow.

May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be happy. May I live with ease.

I am not an expert in religions of the world. Being of European decedents and living in a small village in central Canada, I grew up with a very narrow understanding of various Christian religions such as Lutheran, Catholic, United, Baptist, Ukrainian Catholic, Presbyterian, etc. From a child’s point of view pretty basic. Ten commandments. Heaven and hell. Good and bad. And then just a bunch of rituals, singing, and fancy stuff.

My parents were Swedish Lutheran and Irish Protestant. When they discussed baptizing my brother it started an argument. Dad said the Irish have been fighting for centuries over religion. So they left it for us to decide.

When I was four my grandfather came to live with us. He would play solitaire for hours. Beating the devil if he could. I cheered every time he beat the devil. I learned how to count and add using cards. He was prepping me for crib. He looked like Santa Claus. White hair and beard. Round belly and hardy laugh. From what I learned years later, he had been a tyrant as a father and husband. But I was his buddy.

The subject of the bible came up. One always sat on the shelf in the living room. Grandpa said that God spoke to some men. About three thousand years ago those men attempted to write out books in their language on scrolls. Those men then took the scrolls, which were translated into Latin by priests. Six hundred years after the New Testament was completed, the Quoran was written.

Then men, supposedly guided by God, copied and translated and interpreted what God meant.

But all you have to remember Carol is to be good. Be kind. Be caring and compassionate. Four simple steps. God is smiling if you do them.

Seemed too simple compared to the big book with tiny print. But it stuck. Everything else I questioned.

My grandpa died of a stroke when I was almost six. The only time I seen my Mom cry is when she got off the phone call from the hospital. There was a lot of talk of heaven. That’s where people went when they died. Yes we buried them in the cemetery but then they go to heaven. Okay got it. Not really dead. Just go to another planet above the clouds and live there.

That July a Robin hit our big picture window. I ran out. The bird’s neck was limp. It sure was dead. So I went to the side of the house and dug a grave. I placed the robin in it and covered it up. I waited three days because someone said it takes a few days to rise to heaven. That hot afternoon I dug up the robin. To my horror all I could see was feathers and maggots.

My Mom calmed me by explaining about body and soul. But the nightmares lasted a while.

Around 9/10 I went to Sunday School and Bible Camp. Interesting. But I didn’t have fancy dresses for church so I only went once in a while with the neighbours.

I can remember getting into an argument with my best friend, a dedicated Ukrainian Catholic girl, who bragged about getting her confirmation gown, presents, and communion. My rebuttal was the following: You have to talk to your priest in a box. I talk directly to God!! So there!!!

Through the years I have attended services at Synagogues, Catholic, Jehovah Witness, Protestant, etc. churches. I toured the Vatican and seen opulent churches throughout Europe.

It all confused me. I realized I better understood the feeling I had in the forest. By a river or lake. Walking on a mountain. Swimming off a tropical beach. This was a beautiful creation that I get to love. Flowers, trees, a bright blue sky. A warm fire. Ice cold water to drink.

Every human needs hope and faith. Without it we have no purpose. I pray to a Creator/God.

I am pretty special. Two eyes, two ears, two kidneys, and a pretty well functioning body. I can think, plan, dream, and love. I have everything here on earth to survive. And I must care for my environment and world. Something must have had a means to create us. Something stronger than ourselves. Now it’s my time to use all the gifts given to me. My mind and body. The world and all of humanity. I have to do my best.

I do try to honour the Seven Teachings of the indigenous peoples in my area. Courage, Honesty, Humility, Love, Respect, Truth, and Wisdom. Again they are simple. I believe that if anything you do brings you peace and joy, it must be a gift of God/Creator. Creator loves you. Continue to spread that simple faith. Let it make you stronger. Have people in your life that have faith and hope in themselves. Share your hope and faith. Be kind. Be caring. Be compassionate. Be good. Keep it simple.

May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be happy. May I live with ease.

“You are gonna get sent to the mental!!” was a retort often heard by children in the school yard in Tyndall.

The Lunatic Asylum was created in 1871 at Lower Fort Garry, 35 km north of Winnipeg. Selkirk is 27 km west of Tyndall.

In 1890 the Home for Incurables was built in Portage la Prairie. It was later named the Manitoba School for Mental Defectives, and then the Manitoba School of Retardates.

In 1884 the original building in Selkirk was built to care for the mentally ill in eastern Manitoba. In 1910 the name was changed to Selkirk Hospital for the Insane.

By 1929 a new brick and Tyndall stone building was built and the name changed to Selkirk Mental Hospital. That is the building that stands today. The original building was demolished in 1978.

But it was this current building that I remember from my childhood. It’s where my Dad came out of the pretty doors and huge steps when Mom picked him up so he could come home for a weekend.

Eight months prior to that my dad had major back surgery. Part of his shin bone was used to fuse discs in his spine. This was 50 years ago. Body in traction bed. Flipped like a rotisserie chicken three times a day. After weeks Dad came home in a body cast. No work. No insurance. And there was no way Dad would allow welfare, or his wife to go to work. We lived on nothing but our garden, wild meat, and the charity of family and friends.

A while before the surgery our next door neighbour was selling their piano. It was beautiful. I could play a bit by ear, or what my great uncle Emil had taught me. Soon I was taking piano lessons at Mrs Mordens. I was on cloud nine.

I honestly don’t remember too much else about that time but I definitely remember the day my weird childhood got a whole lot crazier.

I remember waking up for school. Having my puffed wheat and my brother and I leaving for school. It was only two village blocks but my brother was always ahead of me. Three years older he did not want to be seen walking with his little sister. When we left the house Dad was walking around in the back yard. The cast was off by this time but he was still not fit to do his iron worker job. He was not able to walk steel girders yet.

Because our house was so close to the school, we always went home for lunch. And as usual my brother was home already because I was playing too long. Finally I walked in the door.

On the couch was my Mom and my Dad was on her lap. I started to laugh. My parents never showed affection much. This was pretty silly to a 7 year old.

My Mom yelled, “Go to Mrs Sargents! Call the police!”

Dad yelled, “Tell them she stole all my money!! She hid it somewhere!”

Then I seen the old butcher knife. The one my Mom used for cutting meat. Dad was holding it in his right hand. His arm was around her shoulders.

I ran out the door to Mrs Sargents next door. She was crying yelling into the phone, “He might kill her!! Please come now!”

I wanted to be somewhere safe. I wanted to go back to school so I started walking. My Dad started yelling at me out the back door. Mrs Wenzoski, our across the road neighbour, yelled at me to come to her house.

She too was on the phone trying to get the police to come. 50 years ago police avoided domestic violence like the plague. But the threat of a messy murder must have convinced them to show up.

From Wenzoski’s front window I watched the police officer arrive. Dad stood in the doorway talking with him. The knife was dropped. Then he followed the officer who walked backwards to the police car. He opened the back door for my Dad. My Dad was talking and pointing at the officer. Slowly the officer moved to the hood of the police car. He undid his gun holster and placed it on the hood. My Dad climbed into the backseat and the officer slammed the door shut. He put his holster and gun back on and left. I didn’t see my Dad again for two months.

The only thing that I do remember is having to sell my beloved piano. We needed the money I assumed, but of course I remember my brother teasing me that my piano playing drove Dad insane.

My Dad’s younger brother committed suicide. We never talked about it. My Dad spent three months in a mental institution. We never talked about it.

I attempted suicide. We never talked about it.

I had a breakdown. I talked about it. I suffer from depression. I talk about it.

I still get triggered. I remember the fears. I remember feeling helpless. I remember feeling alone. I can’t just get over it. I have to face it. I have to accept that memories are subjective. The trauma occurred long ago. My mind chooses how I recall moments.

So I can give myself a break. I don’t have to get over it. I have to make peace with it. I have to recognize the power of those memories. I have to remember I am stronger. I am in control of me! I can take action to feel safe. I am never alone. I have me!!

May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be happy. May I live with ease.

I have fought one single thing most of my life, fear. Fear is what can motivate us or freeze us in our tracks.

Too often, I am triggered back to memories of extreme fear. Not knowing what was going to happen next. Scared for the consequences of others actions, and of my own. For the first 40 years of my life, I was scared, even as I accomplished things and went to school, had friends, interacted with other people, my life was still always guided by fear.

I learned I am really good at motivating others. Reminding them to be brave. In enforcing that they can be whatever they want to be. They can do whatever they set their mind to. I remind them that they are brave and strong and able. I think that the reason that I do this is because it was exactly what I missed as a child.

I lived in a constant crisis mode. Everything I thought, every choice I made, everything that I did, from the time I woke up to the time I went to bed, was preparing for what could go wrong. I had to keep the peace. I couldn’t add to all the other things that were going wrong around me. If I was the catalyst to a family argument, or something going wrong, or just causing havoc of one kind or another as kids do, I would lie at night wondering what I could’ve done different. Going through the scenario 100 times of what if this would’ve happened, what if that would happen. And that fear just never ever went away.

I was in my mid-20s when my parents passed away. I had a family of my own, but I still constantly worried that they would drink, they would fight, and I wouldn’t be there to stop them. More than once I got a call that Mom was black and blue and dad was extremely remorseful. I hated to worry about what these two adults were doing while I was trying to deal with my own family.

My husband and I just continued the cycle of fear. If I did this, he might get angry. If I did that he might get angry. Every decision that I made or that I guided my children to make was to avoid making my husband angry. When he was mad, he would break things. He would have a reason to drink more. He would lay all the blame for his anger on me, or the consequences of having to be with me and our children. It was a constant and never ending circle of guilt, anxiety, and fear.

After 17 years of marriage, I was finally brave enough to leave. Leaving took away some of the anxiety, but he made sure that his actions forever affected me until the day he was gone.

I met my second husband and learned what unconditional love really meant. There was no fear. There was no jealousy. There was only caring and understanding. We didn’t agree on everything, but we respected each other‘s opinions and choices. We advised each other. We didn’t order each other. Our extended family was generous with their love and their caring. My daughter and my youngest son got to see families function with kindness, sincerity, and a really good sense of humor. It was a wonderful time.

After my first and second husbands passed away, one of alcoholism and one from prostrate cancer, I finally learned to be brave. I got a new career. I travelled to Europe. I left the fears behind. But I had never truly dealt with the scars that had formed from 40 years of fear and guilt. The therapy and medication treatments in the last 15 years have me living a pretty serene life. I have six healthy, successful, intelligent children. I live a very active busy life as a semiretired Early Childhood Educator. But….

A few weeks ago, I had an altercation with someone I care very much about. His anger brought all the fear back in a moment. I went back in time when I feared saying something wrong. Something that would trigger them to be angry. Something that would start everybody mad and yelling at each other. It surprised me how deep I felt that fear again. Fear I hadn’t felt for almost 20 years. It’s even hard to explain.

A friend came over one day this summer and was helping me with something in my garage. He was getting a little frustrated with something that wasn’t going quite right. I said, “ I have to tell you something. I came from a life of Can’t you see I need some help? to If I needed your fucking help, I’d ask for it!! So soon as I have to make that decision on whether to help or not help I have to be told. Or I panic.”

Had the same conversation with Brian when he was changing the toilet in our bathroom and he was getting very very angry at the toilet seal and I started to cry. He asked me why I was crying and I said, “ Because I have been taught that there’s only one right way to help. But I don’t have any idea what that is.” I was back to can’t you see I need your help. To if I needed your freaking help, I’d ask for it.

So here I was a few weeks ago, crying and screaming for about 5 minutes. Cried for another hour or so and then calmed. It is not my job to fix another’s ability to cope. I am only in control of my actions and reactions.

I am a wonderful person. I deserve to be respected and cared about. I never have to interact with people who scare me into silence. Even if I love them with all my heart. Being back 30 years to that crying screaming scared woman was what I now feared.

I am not that scared child. I am not that scared wife. I am not that scared mother. I am Carol. The best I can be. Taking on life with bravery, kindness, and understanding.

May I be safe. May I be healthy. May I be happy. May I live with ease.