Present Company Excluded

Posted on April 25, 2023 by clubfredbaja

Here’s your assignment: The next time you watch a movie or a TV or Netflix show, pay attention to characters speaking on the phone. Now, watch to see if they say “Goodbye” or “Bye” before they hang up. My guess is that about 90% of the time, you will not hear either of those words or any similar spoken farewell. I also predict that, once you realize this, you will always notice the lack of goodbyes in onscreen phone conversations. 

Why does this happen? Simple: Goodbye is an unnecessary word in a script. The average movie script is about 25,000 – 30,000 words. Compare that to an average novel, which can be between 70,000 – 120,000 words. With so few words available to script writers, cutting phone “goodbyes” is an easy choice. It’s also a fascinating sleight of hand, because unless some spoilsport like me points that fact out, viewers really don’t notice. They assume the goodbye is implied or their brains kind of fill in that gap. I didn’t notice that weird movie quirk until someone filled me in, and now I am doomed to notice it forever.

Sorry.

There’s also another bit of writing advice that applies equally to novels or films: Enter late and leave early. Essentially, this means not to waste precious words with action or dialogue that does not serve the story. For example, if you’re going to set a scene at a dinner party, where a character is going to reveal they are leaving their wife, you don’t need to start with the character arriving, greeting the hosts, hanging up their coats, taking off their shoes, commenting on the weather, being introduced to other guests, etc, etc. Unless those things are critical to the story in some way, they’re unnecessary. Just start the scene with the party in progress. The reader or viewer will figure it out and it will keep the pacing and tension tight. (I’m going to do that right now and assume, in the scenario I just described, that you can figure out what “leave early” means.)

Once you seriously dive into learning the craft of writing and storytelling, you’re frequently bombarded with advice to cut, trim, sacrifice, and avoid the unnecessary. For the most part, this is good advice. It’s also advice I’ve absorbed into my very molecules over the decades.

Why am I telling you all this? Because these deeply ingrained habits of cutthroat literary economy and narrative tunnel vision aren’t always my friend in these Chronicles, where the “characters” are real life, flesh and blood friends and family. I’ve hurt people I love by excluding them or minimizing their role in the story, all in my subconscious quest to follow the rules, keep the narrative tight, and keep my readers entertained.

It’s happened to different friends and family members over the years. It always hurts me. It always makes me feel like a terrible writer and a worse friend. And yet, I still write these Chronicles, knowing this could happen. My learning curve is flat?

I’ve tried to walk away from my Chronicles a few times, but I always come back. I’ve tried to journal privately and that usually lasts about a week before I’m bored and quit. I spent a mostly-sleepless night last night trying to figure out why I keep writing these posts the way I do. It’s part self-therapy, no question. This is the place where I wrestle with ideas and emotions, the events of my life and the wider world, and try to make it all make sense. But if that was all it was then I wouldn’t need to share them. It’s also storytelling, which, apparently, I have not shaken completely and still love. But, again, I could write those stories in a journal for myself. The answer, when it finally came, was a little embarrassing: it’s the audience. I love an audience, I crave an audience, and I always have.

I don’t mean this in the modern sense of being noticed for the sake of being noticed. I am not a Kardashian or an influencer. It’s not “me” that needs the audience, it’s whatever slice of art I make. If I create something, I want it to be seen, heard, read, and appreciated. I will never be happy just writing for myself.

These Chronicles satisfy me on multiple levels: I get to work through whatever jumble of thoughts and emotions are knocking around in my melon; I get to keep my storytelling skills at least moderately tuned up; I get an audience (however small that may be); and, as an added bonus, I often get to make connections, or deeper connections, with other real people. (Oh, and as an added, added bonus I get a record of my life, since I clearly suck at journalling or keeping a diary)

But they are also minefields, these little posts. I have lost friends over my words. Sometimes when I’ve least expected it. That will never not hurt.

Since my fun little breakdown of February 2021, I’ve mostly used these Chronicles to dive into the world of mental health. Specifically, my mental health. It’s been interesting and challenging to write about the struggles of depression and anxiety from the “front lines”, so to speak. I’ve attempted, sometimes successfully and other times not so much, to convey what it feels like to live with a brain that seems hell bent on ruining every good thing in your life. Depression and anxiety are vast and complex topics to cover and the best I can do is share tiny slivers of my own experience. But I choose to share, as honestly as possible, and to do my tiny part in shrinking the stigma and shame around mental health. Overall, I’m content with the stories I’ve shared.

Do you feel the “but” coming?

BUT, between my desire to pull you fully into parts of my depressed and anxious world, my need to maintain some boundaries and privacy, and my hardwired writer instincts to cut all but the most necessary elements of the story, important details often get left on the cutting room floor. In my Absent Imaginary Friends post, for example, I wrote of how I couldn’t go to Palm Desert with Fred because I couldn’t afford to board the cats for another two weeks and I had to work, but what I left out was that I really could have gone with him on that trip. If I’d asked, I’m sure our friends Amy and Derek would have looked after the cats, as they’ve done several times before, and my manager would have been okay with me working remotely for that time. What I left out, for personal reasons, was that Fred didn’t want me to go with him. He desperately needed some time on his own, time to relax and not worry about me and my never-ending mental health issues. A perfectly reasonable request but I’m sensitive about sharing anything publicly that might hurt him or make him feel as if I’m portraying him as a bad guy. He’s not. And, believe me, if either of us had had the faintest idea of how bad those two weeks were going to be for me, we would have made much better arrangements. (Also, it’s embarrassing to tell people your husband didn’t want you to be with him, no matter how much you understand and accept the reasons why).

Something else that I have left out of many of these stories is the most important parts of the big picture: the amazing people who have supported me for the past two years.

I think I have inadvertently created a picture of me as suffering solo, with minimal assistance from the outside world. I need to correct that.

I am lucky to have far more kind and caring friends in my life than I could have ever dreamed of. I’ve told you about some of them over the years, and I could write a novel about all the love, encouragement, and support I’ve received over the decades, but for today I want to focus on a small group of people who I have leaned on heavily during the past two years.

First, of course, is my husband Fred. I’ve shared loads about Fred with you over the years, but this time of my life is unique. In the blink of an eye, Fred became my nurse, cook, cleaner, real estate agent, bodyguard, chauffeur, motivational coach, confidant, and tear-absorber. He has done all this while silently and privately mourning the loss of the woman I used to be, the wife he thought he had, and taking care not to let me see how much this loss has hurt him. (Can you see why he needed a little time away?) Oh, he slips up now and then—he is only human—but his efforts to guide me through the labyrinth of mental health crises has been nothing short of heroic.

His gentleness has shocked me, in the best way. I’d always joked that, given his lack of caregiving instincts, if I was ever diagnosed with a debilitating illness, I just wanted him to put me in a facility. I don’t know where he found his inner caregiver, but, even while in the throes of the deepest sads, I have been awed by his attentiveness and sacrifice.

I could not have gotten through this without him. Full stop. And while I’ve been shit at showing it, thanks to my stupid brain, I love my husband more fully and deeply now than I ever have.

Another vitally important person for me during this two-year ordeal has been my friend Amy. Now, Amy has always been supportive, encouraging, and kind, especially with my writing—even when I continually rewarded the fictional characters she despised and punished the characters she loved. She is one of those rare individuals who quietly assesses what you need and then finds a way to provide it, as well as she can, expecting nothing in return but your happiness.

Homemade spa kits, long walks and talks in the woods, lunches to get me out of my cave, little gifts, and constant encouragement, are just a few trademark Amy-isms from the past two years. She and her hubby Derek also babysat our cats for us for the past two years so that we could enjoy a few weeks of vacation without worrying about our babies (or going broke!) and adopted us for family dinners for holidays and other special events. And I could go on…the list is LONG.

Without hyperbole, Amy and Fred, the dynamic duo, are the reason I am sitting comfortably in a coffee shop, typing these words before heading off to a job I love, and not curled up in bed, loaded with meds, and fighting to find a reason to care about anything at all. During my most recent trip to Depression and Anxiety Hell, Amy was the only person who could coax me out of the cone of silence and isolation I had built around myself. Even while she was knee-deep unpacking and settling into her new home, she made time, almost daily, to reach out to me and to let me know that she would always make time for me.

I don’t deserve a friend like Amy, but I’m sure glad I have her.

On the far away friends list, Pat & Joyce, Griffin, and Sandra have always been quick to notice when something wasn’t quite right and to send out a lifeline. Something as innocuous as a two-line, vaguely written, Facebook post has been enough to trigger their radar during these two hellish years.

Griffin is a wonderful distractor. Whether it’s bombarding me with silly memes and videos, chatting about writing, or luring me into a weekly online RPG with fellow nerds, he has a killer instinct for knowing how to remind me that life is still fun and there’s lots to laugh at even when my lying brain has convinced me otherwise. He’ll also have the serious talks, when needed, but I get the idea he knows when enough is enough and the sad lady needs to smile for a change.

Sandra must own a Time Turner because amid the entrepreneurial/mom whirlwind that is her life, she has not missed an opportunity in two years to send me reminders that I am a good person, a worthwhile human, and a friend she loves. Oh, and she also sends many hilarious Tik Toks, which I love even if I refuse to join Tik Tok. She has more daily challenges than I do, by far, but has never made me feel that I am undeserving of compassion and empathy because of that. I regret that I have not had more energy to promote her first book launch (Death Coach, it’s awesome, buy it here!) but I thank the universe for putting her in my path all those years ago!

And, lastly, Pat & Joyce. What can I say about my beloved Martha and Patty-Cakes? My former next-door neighbours who became lifetime best friends. Joyce has been through it all with me, good, bad, ugly, and everything in-between and these past two years I’m sure she hired a psychic to let her know whenever I was struggling. A message, a text, a call, Joyce was always there to make sure I was okay and to remind me I have friends ready and willing to help. Pat and Joyce’s house, “Casa Roney”, has always been, and probably always will be, my second home. And so, when Joyce invited me to come over for a mini-vacation, I didn’t hesitate. I knew I could be myself there; I knew this was a place where I would not be judged, a calm refuge.

It was during this latest trip, while telling Pat & Joyce how grateful I was for the invite, and how much I needed a change of scenery for a while, for my mental health, that Joyce said, “You’re always welcome here. You can show up at our door at 2am, out of the blue, and we’ll take you in.”

*Necessary pause while I cry a bit.

There are no greater friends than that. Period.

There have been many more friends and family members who have checked in and helped out over the past few years, and while I’ve only shone the spotlight on a few, every single person who made an effort to reach out or offer help has made an enormous difference to me. For anyone who has ever felt unacknowledged for the help you’ve offered me, I’m sorry if I made you feel that way. You are appreciated. Deeply appreciated.

I want to wrap up this very sloppy and rambling narrative by trying to offer a little insight into why, no matter how much love, support, and kindness someone (me) may be shown while in the throes of depression and anxiety, they (me) can feel entirely alone and isolated.

That state feels like being kidnapped. “Regular You” and “Depression/Anxiety You” always exist side by side. When things are good, Regular You does what they can to stay healthy and live their normal life, while D/A You slumbers in the background. But when something jolts D/A You into action, they grab Regular You, toss you into a soundproof booth, and lock the door. Regular You is forced to watch and listen, helpless, as D/A You rearranges your reality.

You could be in a room packed full of people who love and care about you but when D/A You is in charge they tell you, “These people don’t care about you. They tolerate you because they feel sorry for you. You have no talent or skill, you’ve wasted your life, you’re taking up room you don’t deserve. You’re pathetic and they know it! You’re an object of pity, nothing more. And it’s only a matter of time before they all figure it out and ditch you. Even your husband. You think he loves you? Grow up. You’re an anchor around his neck. If he could, he’d leave you today and go live a life that makes him happy with a woman who makes him happy. Why do you even try? You’re a loser. I hate you most of all.”

Regular You knows these are lies, but she’s trapped, screaming for help inside that locked booth where no one can see or hear her. It feels like being torn in two. It feels like those dreams where you need to run but your legs are too heavy. You withdraw and fold into yourself, because the thought of fighting that internal battle while trying to act normal around other people is exhausting. D/A You steals everything—your energy, your joy, your confidence. And when you fight back, and fight back, and fight back, and keep losing, after a while you just…surrender to it.

This is all to say that, if you’ve tried your best to reach me and I fail to reach back, please know that Regular Me is still in here. She sees everything you’ve done and—even if you can’t see or hear her when she’s locked up—she keeps on fighting because of it. She wants you to know that she’s thankful, even if the few, heavily edited missives she manages to send out to the world don’t convey that.

So, thank you, all of you, for standing by me when I needed you most.

I’d say goodbye but I’ve already used too many words.

Posted in Health and wellness, Life, Mental Health | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

What Next?

Posted on April 20, 2023 by clubfredbaja

It’s no secret that the past three years have not been my finest. I’ve made progress but the graph of my mental health and overall happiness would look very much like the rollercoaster it has been. This winter, in particular, hit me with an unexpected wave of loneliness and malaise. (And by “winter” I am also referring to the spring that refuses to arrive in our corner of the world.) 

With all that in mind, I decided to accept the invitation of our dear friends Pat & Joyce and head to the mainland for a mini-vacation to visit friends and family, enjoy some of the perks of the big city, and just generally shake myself up and get out of my head. It has been a long-damned time since I’ve spent solo time in that part of the world, and I was looking forward to five days with little in the way of an itinerary or expectations.

The trip was everything I’d hoped it would be—relaxing, fun, a needed change of scenery—but with a little bonus lesson: You can’t go back.

Fred wisely suggested that I take his GPS to navigate and I’m sure glad I did. The days of me knowing every street, neighbourhood, shortcut, and nook & cranny of Vancouver and the surrounding areas are long, loooooong gone. Only one navigational error was made, and that’s on me, not the nice lady who lives in the GPS. That error, however, led to one of the most enlightening moments of my trip.

I’d spent my first night in a hotel in Richmond, which sits next to Vancouver, close enough that I could bop over to see my brother and his wife without battling city traffic for hours. In the morning, I turned my wagon toward Port Coquitlam, with plans to hit the mall for a few hours before checking in at Casa Roney. Distracted by the pleasant drive and deeply engaged in my new audiobook, I misheard the nice GPS lady’s directions to take exit 11 as exit 7, and that’s how I found myself crossing the Alex Fraser Bridge to North delta.

I was in no hurry, so I wasn’t stressed. I would cross the bridge, turn myself around, and head back.

Or would I?

North Delta is where I grew up. I hadn’t been to my old “hood” in decades. What if I took an extra hour out of my day and indulged some nostalgia? I knew from my last pass through that North Delta was no longer a pastoral, suburban playground but I was curious what my old house looked like now and how many old landmarks were still standing. So, I unplugged the GPS and continued up Nordel Way toward good ol’ Scott Road.

Now, before you travel with me any further, let’s pause and jump in my handy time machine.

My parents moved to North Delta, from Vancouver, in 1974. I was on the cusp of turning five and yet can still remember how HUGE our new house seemed. We were some of the first owners in this new section of the suburb near Scott Road and 80th Ave. Across from us were the Wingers, a couple who’d moved to Canada from New Zealand, and their young daughter Tania (a year older than me) and baby Aaron. Next to us were the Lillquists, with their daughter Tricia (my age). Eventually the Mangats would move in and complete the quad of houses, with their daughter Rita (one year older than me) and their younger son Rob.

Our house and the Wingers house marked the end of the development, and we were bordered on one side by old orchards and bush. Pheasants and deer frequently wandered into our yard, and there was no shortage of bugs, birds, snakes, wildflowers, and berry bushes. Geographically, you couldn’t have picked a more perfect place to grow up—quiet, clean, lots of wild spaces to play, and yet only a 30-minute drive to the city and all it’s offerings. My elementary school was so close that many times I walked home for lunch.

North Delta grew as I did, and while I lamented the loss of the old, haunted chicken coops up the street, I had no complaints about the new strip malls and video stores. After all, North Delta was never going to be a “big city”, there would always be plenty of farmland, open spaces, and greenery. A few modern touches were fun!

I understand The ‘Burbs much better now than I did when I was living in them. Suburbs, especially those of the Spielberg variety with gangs of young kids on bikes, running through sprinklers in the summertime and playful snowball fights in the winter, paint a picture of life as safe, wholesome, and family-centric. In reality, there was a lot of darkness behind many of those doors—abuse, addiction, loveless marriages, affairs, and the constant struggle to appear happy and perfect. There was also heaps of open racism, sexism, and homophobia. The dangers in the suburbs weren’t the burglars or gangs of the city, they were the secrets hidden behind closed doors and the social penalties for not fitting in.

Even so, I was formed in the suburbs and my memories of North Delta, and my neighbourhood, contain a powerful magic. Almost 50 years later, with perfect clarity, I can hear the smack of hockey sticks against asphalt and high-pitched cries of “Car!” that would send us all scattering; smell the smoke of chicken and burgers charring on briquette barbeques; taste the slightly metallic water from a garden hose in the heat of summer; feel the scratches of thorns as we reached ever higher for the plumpest blackberries to fill our empty ice cream buckets. For fourteen years, this was home, and this was where I became “me”.

And then I was standing there, on 119A Street, in 2023, staring at my old house, my old home. It had been renovated and they’d done a good job, (my mom would be happy to know that), but the foundation remained the same. Here was what had once been the center of my universe and I felt…nothing.

A young Indo-Canadian man pulled up in a security company car and slid out of the driver’s seat, bleary eyed, with a thermos and a pillow. Returning from the night shift, I assumed. He looked at me—standing across the street, staring at the house–with naked suspicion. I approached him amiably.

“Do you live here?” I asked.

He squinted at me, uncertain. “Yes.”

I smiled widely to let him know I was not a threat. “I grew up here!” I pointed to his house. “My parents bought this house when it was new. We were the first people to live here!”

It wasn’t difficult to see that he was exhausted and did not care about the crazy old white lady babbling about her old house. But, just then, a younger girl, maybe 16 years old, approached us with a happy looking pit bull at her side. I repeated my over-excited spiel and she was a tad more receptive than her brother (cousin? father?).

“We renovated the house,” she said.

“It looks great!” I replied. I babbled a bit more about how our house had been the end of the road when we moved here, and about the deer and the pheasants and the orchards. Her eyes glassed over, uncaring, and I realized I’d run out of things to say.

What had I expected? I’m not sure but it wasn’t this complete lack of interest in something that was a cornerstone of my very existence.

“I lived here! Do you understand? That’s important! This place formed me. You are living in a piece of history! There is magic here!” was what I wanted to scream, if I’m being honest.

In reality, the magic was all in my brain. That time, that place, is gone and there’s no going back. This is their North Delta now.

I was wrong, too. The green spaces were not invincible and have almost all been plastered over with houses, condos, high-rises, and strip malls. Few recognizable landmarks remain and, truthfully, as I drove past them, I realized I really didn’t care about them at all. Even if little Shum’s market had still stood on the corner of Scott Road and 80th Ave, the kids who rode there on bikes, collecting bottle caps in the parking lot, and trading cans and bottles for Pixie Sticks and penny candy, are ghosts.

North Delta may have helped form me up to the age of eighteen but neither of us stopped growing, and there have been much bigger and more important influences on me since then. Other municipalities, cities, islands, countries, cultures, and even suburbs have all done their part to inform my worldview and build my identity.

I was heading to one of those very suburbs, as it happened. And there I knew I would be greeted not with suspicion and indifference but with open arms, friendship, and love. That is real magic. The only kind that matters.

I plugged the GPS back in and the nice lady gave me directions to the Patullo Bridge, which, for the record, is just as terrifying to drive across as it was forty years ago. There is a new bridge under construction because I suppose someone realized that sometimes change is necessary. Off I drove, toward Port Coquitlam.

My chance visit to my distant past wasn’t all for nought. I felt like I was finally able to let go of something that has had far too much of a hold on me for far too long. My childhood wasn’t always all that great, my brain has simply chosen to hold onto the best parts of it, as children’s brains often do, and I think I needed a new perspective to see that. There were many things I hated about living in North Delta, not the least of which was the constant drumbeat of “Conform! Conform! Conform!” The ‘burbs of the 70’s and 80’s could be hell for a young person with a wild imagination who longs to express herself beyond the narrow limits of acceptable societal norms.

It was also a timely reminder that nothing is static. Yes, I have been in a sad place but that will change. Everything changes, whether we want it to or not.

White-knuckling my way over the Patullo Bridge, I found myself asking, “Well, Kristene, what next?” This wasn’t a question the nice GPS lady could answer; this was a question about my future.

I didn’t have an answer then, and I still don’t, but something about that feels like freedom.

Posted in Family & Children, Friends, Life, Mental Health, Nostalgia | Tagged , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Absent Imaginary Friends

Posted on February 16, 2023 by clubfredbaja

“Oh! I thought you had someone in here with you,” Gram said. And then, after a puzzled silence, “What are you doing?”

What I was doing, hours after my official bedtime, in the dark, was acting out one of my countless dramas with my collection of stuffed animals. This was a frequent occurrence for child me, after I reckoned that everyone was asleep and I could safely open Kristene’s Nighttime Theater. I was writer, director, star, and audience in these productions. In later years, Nighttime Theater would give way to books, then to a combination of reading and writing. But no matter the materials, the common thread was always…stories.

What I now call my Story Brain was relentless. It hated everything that got in its way, including sleep. Insomnia was a constant companion in my youth and into young adulthood. Story Brain needed either to be consuming stories or creating them. The longer it was deprived, the more it would keep me awake at night to vent. 

I didn’t call it Story Brain back then because I’d never experienced life without it. To me, it was simply “my brain”, my thoughts, my personality. I was sometimes lonely but never truly alone because there were always stories locked in my brain, dying to get out. Too many stories, at times. Even the events of my life became fodder, going into my brain as banal facts and coming out as high drama.

Working with Fred, on the jobsite, where I was supposed to be focused on the very physical labour in front of me, Story Brain would take over. “What chapter are you on now?” Fred would often call, to snap me out of my daydream.

As much as Story Brain interfered with daily life, and sleep, it was also an unappreciated blessing. I would learn this the hard way.

I’ve never understood people who can’t be alone. Yes, there have been some times in my life when I’ve been sad on my own but that was always because of external events—a breakup, a financial disaster, a death, the loss of a friend, etc. When everything was good in my life, and I had time alone, I was perfectly fine. In fact, I loved those times! Story Brain would be let off the leash and whether I was writing, reading, or just cleaning the house, I was free to let all those voices in my head whisper, talk, scream, and sing all they wanted. Eating alone in a restaurant? No problem! I’d bring a book or eavesdrop on other conversations (more fodder for the stories).

Once Fred and I had solidified our relationship and were cohabitating full time, I certainly missed him when he’d go away for work or for short trips with his buddies, but I never sulked or protested his leaving. That was my chance to indulge in all the movies or TV shows he didn’t like, read books uninterrupted for hours and hours, write, take life at my own pace, and spend lots of quality time with Story Brain. Oh, and I usually had real life friends to spend time with, too… just in case I’ve painted myself as an anti-social hermit, which I am most definitely not.

I never imagined a day when I would not enjoy, or at the very least tolerate admirably, time on my own.

Until this year.

Since 2020, Fred and I have had to rethink our vacations. First it was Covid that changed the rules and kept us at home. Then, I got a job that I loved, which also meant a limited amount of time away from home per year. When we were fully vaccinated and cleared to fly in 2021, we sucked up the cost and annoyance of the Covid tests and planned two weeks on the Big Island of Hawaii. By renting a condo with a full kitchen, in a place where we could be outside and safely distanced from others, we figured we could mitigate the risks. Two weeks was a far cry from the two to three months we usually spent south of the border in California and/or Mexico but after two years of isolation it was better than nothing and we counted ourselves very lucky for the privilege.

For 2022, we planned a return to the same remote cays in the Bahamas where we had lived and worked 20 years earlier. Due to the expense of renting a house and boat (yes, you need a boat in that part of the world, trust me), we were once again down to only two weeks away. We flew east with high hopes.

The vacation was…okay. We got to spend time with some good friends, which was amazing, but the wind made boating less than fun most days, and boating is pretty much all that you do in the Abacos. My new constant friend, anxiety, made the unpleasant conditions even worse. Fred did his best to be the kind and understanding partner he has been since my mental health took its own vacation three years ago, but this was supposed to be his fun and adventure time after a season of incredibly hard work, and I was a human wet blanket. The kind of ocean conditions that would barely faze me ten year ago, now leave me a panicked mess. Yay.

So, after that trip, back home again, in the middle of winter, in the darkest, coldest, and most depressing time of the year (no, we don’t ski anymore and we’re not going to start again so just leave that whole “go skiing!” advice right there), with nothing to do and half our few local  friends off on their winter getaways, Fred said that he was going to head south for a few weeks to stay with friends, play tennis, play some poker, get some sun, etc. I had to work and care for the cats (we’d already blown the budget on cat sitting for a week in November), so I would man the fort while he was gone. No big deal. I mean, as mentioned, I’ve always been fine on my own, no matter the weather. We booked his flight and rental car, and he was on his way.

It took less than 24 hours for me to realize how drastically things had changed since 2019.

We moved to Campbell River in 2021, at the height of the pandemic. There was no opportunity to get out and socialize in our new community. I still work on Quadra Island, which means all my work friends and other connections are…on Quadra Island. Oh, and I have only just begun to feel “normal” again, with my mental health, so that hasn’t exactly engendered a ton (any) new friends or acquaintances outside of work. My one available local friend had just completed her move to Quadra Island and was knee deep in unpacking and organizing. I did the math and what it showed me was that I have exactly zero friends where I live now.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Story Brain? Vanished. The ever-present voices in my head? Silent. The imaginary friends I have lived with since before I can remember? Absent.

For the first time I can recall, I was utterly and completely alone.  

I want to tell you I was brave and found an inner strength I didn’t know I possessed but that would be a lie. I fell apart. My anxiety and depression hit like a hurricane. I spiralled. I didn’t sleep. I cried. A lot. I cancelled the few commitments I’d made and retreated into a well of self-pity and despair. I forbade Fred from returning home early—it was the least I could do after raining on his Bahamas parade and it would only have made me feel worse—but those two weeks stretched until it felt like months.

The silence ate me alive. Silence…how strange, how unnerving. My whole life has been a cacophony of interior conversations, story ideas, character voices, writing plans, and fully realized “movies” created by Story Brain. I’ve never known actual silence.

A few flesh-and-blood friends sensed my unhappiness (thanks, Facebook) and checked in on me by phone or internet, but I was lost in loss yet again. I thought I had grieved the loss of my desire to write but this was something else. This was the difference between a phone call to let you know a loved one has died and staring at their corpse right in front of you.

I did seek out medication to calm myself and eventually Fred returned. I have settled down and as depressing as the darkness and cold and rain continue to be, at least there are other voices in this house besides my own.

I’m not sure what to do next but I decided to write this post as a way to perhaps, somehow, through some remaining dregs of magic, remind myself of the voices that were, and of the imaginary friends that may return someday…if I don’t stop believing and if I’m lucky. I know that this year I need to focus on meeting real people in the place where I live. I need to continue building on my strengths to keep my head above water. I also need a Plan B, C, D, E and even F, in case I find myself alone again.

To quote Mark Watney from The Martian:

“At some point, everything’s gonna go south on you… everything’s going to go south and you’re going to say, this is it. This is how I end. Now you can either accept that, or you can get to work. That’s all it is. You just begin. You do the math. You solve one problem… and you solve the next one… and then the next. And if you solve enough problems, you get to come home.”

I have problems to solve. It’s time to begin.

Posted in Friends, Grief and Mourning, Life, Mental Health, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

The Switch Flipped

Posted on December 26, 2022 by clubfredbaja

“You wouldn’t give up the bottle,” my dad said. “We tried everything. You’d scream bloody murder if any of us tried to take it from you. And then, one night…”

His eyes twinkled mischievously. I loved this about my dad’s well-worn stories—the shifts. No one did it better than him. Serious to whimsical, right on cue.

“We were all sitting in the kitchen, your mom, Kelly, and me,” he continued. “You came in wearing your pajamas, with your bottle, walked over to the garbage, and threw it in. And that was that, babe, you never drank from a bottle again.”

This story always made me laugh but, decades later, it has also shown me a pattern of behaviour that has followed me through my life: no matter how attached I am to something, when my brain says I’m done…I’m done.

Why did toddler me decide that was the night I was finished with drinking from a bottle? Who knows but the switch in my brain flipped from “yes” to “no”, as it has done on everything from dance lessons to boyfriends, over the years, with seemingly no reason or schedule.

The problem I’m facing now is what happens when the switch flips on something you love deeply, something that defines and sustains you, something that has created a community for you, something that once promised to make a small living for you?

What happens when your brain says no—after almost two decades of hard work and hustle—to writing?

*

January 2020 couldn’t have been more perfect. Winter travel plans kept changing due to events beyond our control and our usually fast-paced sojourn to the back country of Baja California, Mexico, became a languid stroll with plenty of time to catch up with old friends, make new friends, and re-explore old haunts on the Bahia de Concepcion and points beyond.

When one of your spouse’s nicknames is “Fast Freddy”, and for good reason, you get used to a certain pace. But there we were, sleeping in late every day and then going out for breakfast every day because it was so cheap; lazily skimming along the bahia in our little tin boat just to take photos or play with dolphins or fish; hanging out and chatting with friends for hours because why not; having the kind of meaningful husband and wife conversations that time never seems to allow anymore; cuddling up in our trailer with our cats and watching movies. It was, in a word, heaven.

Best of all, though, Fred had plenty to occupy him at every stop, which meant I had plenty of quiet time to write and read. I was in a state of creative feast. I had a solo novel manuscript on the go (ironically about a pandemic); I was working with my Warpworld partner, Josh, on a new “hopepunk” type manuscript that we were both excited about; and I was writing short stories when I needed a change of pace. My brain was electrified. It was all I could do to capture a handful of the never-ending stream of ideas that ran through my brain. And, unexpectedly, things got even better.

In mid-January, while we camped at our beloved Estero Coyote, a job opportunity that seemed custom made for me appeared in my inbox. This would be a one-year contract, with great pay, to report the news on tiny Quadra Island through an award-winning, online national news platform. When I was shortlisted for the job, we decided to cut our trip a month short and head home so that I could prepare…just in case.

Through all this, Fred had been monitoring the news, and was growing increasingly concerned about stories of a virus that was rapidly spreading in China.

I was too happy to be worried.

On the road, I found out that I did not get the job but I wasn’t too disappointed. After all, I had my other writing projects and Fred and I had talked seriously about buying a home of our own in the next three to five years. We were optimistic and energized.

Here’s where we utter the obligatory: What could possibly go wrong?

We all know what the pandemic did to the world. In my little corner, things were perhaps as safe as they could be. We had abundant space to distance from each other, our government listened to scientists and medical professionals and acted accordingly, most people followed the rules and did whatever they could to protect themselves and each other. And, yet, every morning I watched the daily global death count shoot up and up and was overcome with feelings of helplessness.  

My sudden disinterest in working on any of my manuscripts or short stories, I chalked up to this radical upending of the global status quo. Once things returned to normal, I would get right back to it.

As my depression and anxiety slowly took hold of me beneath the surface, I threw myself into volunteerism and community outreach. I turned my writing skills to a more practical use—keeping my fellow islanders updated on the situation in our community and organizing help for those who needed it. I even found a new job with a non-profit organization, which further fulfilled my growing need to serve my community.

The time Josh and I would usually spend writing, we now spent talking or messaging about life and politics and the damned virus. Neither of us felt the urge to hit the keyboard, though we assured each other we would after this was all over. Things would get better!

Except they didn’t. In early 2021, Fred and I got the news that our secure living situation was…not. My already fragile mental health imploded. Fred took on the Herculean task of caring for me and scrambling to organize our finances and find a place for us to buy (there were no rentals), in the middle of a pandemic, when the paltry handful of houses available for sale were laughably overpriced.

By this point, it was all I could do to make it through a day. Writing of any kind was a hazy daydream. I was lost in loss.

My miracle worker husband came through with flying colours. Soon we had a home of our own. We moved in and I told myself that once I was mentally fit again, I would get back to my works of fiction in progress. In the meantime, I wrote some of these Chronicles as therapy.

Bit by bit, things improved. In September 2021 I flew to Atlanta, Georgia to attend my first in-person science fiction and fantasy/writing event in three years. I was going to reconnect with my squad, I was going to immerse myself in all things creative, I was going to come home inspired and get back to work!

I came home from Dragoncon with gratitude for my friends, great memories, a moderate case of Covid, and not much else. The creative well remained dry. I despaired.

What was wrong with me? Ideas flitted and teased but every time I grabbed one my brain’s response was, “Why bother?” 

It would come back. Wouldn’t it? Sure, I was out of practice but if I just forced myself to sit in the chair the old fire would return. It had to. Of everything I had lost since my sister and dad died so suddenly back in 2015, writing was the one thing I could always depend on. It couldn’t be gone. It couldn’t. Who would I even be without my writing?

About a month later, I found myself in Las Vegas for a convention related to Fred’s business. Coincidentally, the popular “20 Books to 50K” convention was also on at the same time, and a writing friend of mine was going to be there, just down the street, selling her books on the last day of the event. I popped in to say hi and, while I was there, I checked out the rows and rows of mostly indie authors selling their wares. Once more, I waited for inspiration.

What I found was exhaustion.

As much as the act of writing had eluded me these past three years, the idea of selling and marketing and promoting my writing hit me like a boot to the guts. All I could think was, “No, I don’t want to do this anymore! I’m done!”

The switch had flipped.

Truthfully, it had probably flipped in 2020 but I refused to believe it. Now, my body’s visceral reaction made denial impossible. I didn’t want to sell my fiction and if I didn’t want to sell it then why write it? Hadn’t that always been what drove me, the thought of people reading my stories? Without readers, what is the point of stories? Would my dad’s endearing story about the day toddler Kristene had given up the baby bottle have meant anything without an audience?

Which leads me to the biggest and scariest question of all: Now what?

*

Transitions are a bitch.

Leaving my first husband in 1995 wasn’t just about the end of a marriage, it was about me facing adulthood at long last. I spent three tumultuous years shedding the skin of a selfish, self-centered, self-destructive, naïve, irresponsible young brat. I have written of that time in my life that I was “broke and broken”. I’ve endured other transitions but, until now, that was the big one.

Here I am again except this time I’m shedding a skin I love, with no idea what the new me’s final form will be.

I have become the work in progress.

My writing community may just become my “community”, I guess. There are a lot of unknowns. What I do know is that I won’t force myself to write and I sure as hell won’t force myself to sell my writing. Whatever creative path I follow must be one that makes me happy. I have some ideas but I’m waiting to see which ones stick around for the long haul before I commit.

Even this Chronicle was an effort, though one I wanted to make. If for no other reason than to force myself to face the truth. And what is the truth?

I don’t want to write fiction. Not now. Maybe never again? (Ouch). I absolutely do not want to hustle and promote and sell my fiction. I’m both completely fine and utterly gutted by these truths.

So.

If that’s what I don’t want, what do I want?

I want to remain in the creative community, even if I’m not sure what my role will now be in that space.

I want to support my author friends. I will always respect the hustle.

I want to try new art forms. This is equal parts exciting and terrifying.

I want to be a good person. I want to bring good things into the world. I want to listen more and talk less. 

I want to build a new community in my new home. The thought of this is kind of exhausting—starting over is something I’m used to but is not nearly as easy or fun as it used to be.

I want to be healthier.

I want to forgive myself.

I want to keep learning and challenging myself.

I want to be okay with not always being okay.

I want to live honestly, even if that’s painful at times.

The switch has flipped. My brain has made an executive decision and I am tired of fighting my brain. What comes next is a mystery but one I’m finally willing to share and embrace.

Posted in Friends, Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness, Mental Health, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

Earned Smiles Only

Posted on March 11, 2022 by clubfredbaja

“A lot of times, the world wants the smile of a woman, especially black women…and I wanted to make sure everyone she comes across in this show has to earn her smile. You’re not going to just get it.”

~ Actress Dominique Fishback on her character in The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey.

“The way you speak, the way you act, you’re very…measured,” my counsellor commented during one of our sessions last year. She went on to explain that I wasn’t fake or dishonest, merely that the way I put myself out to the world was controlled and considered, even in that safest of spaces where I was expressly permitted to let down my guard.

I could only agree. And with my agreement came regret.

“You know,” I said, “after my sister and my dad died, I was heartbroken but also, in a strange way, liberated. I had a legitimate reason to be sad, to not be my usual upbeat and optimistic self, and it was like a crushing weight lifted from my shoulders. I could walk through the grocery store with tears running down my cheeks and I didn’t care. For the first time in a long time, I could just feel what I wanted to and didn’t feel guilty about letting it show. There’s this mask I have, and I’m used to wearing it to make the people around me feel good, but it’s exhausting sometimes.”

I suspect some of you—likely women of a certain age—may be nodding your head at that last sentence. Whether it’s nature, nurture, or a combination of both, there are those of us who are hardwired to want everyone to be happy, who avoid conflict, who have a smile-mask they can put on when the real smile just won’t show up. And for those of us smile-mask wearers, learning to be okay with not being okay usually feels like more work than it’s worth.

While it’s true that almost all of us paint on smiles now and then, and almost all of us understand that functioning in society means we don’t always get to express exactly how we feel at any given time, there is a small percentage of us who feel like showing any of the less-than-shiny parts of ourselves makes us failures.

To combat this, at least in the virtual space, I’ve tried to share as many lows as highs on social media. I’ve tried to show myself as I really am—wrinkles and messy hair and sweatpants and bad lighting—and to write honestly about bad times as well as good. Even if it feels a little awkward and occasionally like I’m sharing too much, it’s important to me to do what I often can’t do face-to-face, and that is simply to be a real person with a variety of moods and emotions.

Now some of you may be thinking, “Why can’t you be that way all the time, Kristene?”

Good question, reader.

Well, as I find myself slowly coming out of almost seven years of varying degrees of depression and a year of anxiety as the cherry on top, what I’ve learned is that we modern day humans are not good with negative emotions. On the few occasions where I’ve worked up the courage to express my pain or have run out of the energy to hide it, reactions from the people around me were frequently unhelpful and sometimes made the pain worse.

Dismissal (You’re blowing things out of proportion), denial (How you feel isn’t how things really are), anger (Stop feeling sad and moping around), frustration (Why can’t you just get over it), distraction (Look at all the good things you have and all the reasons to be happy), and advice (Get out and do something fun) are common reactions. Hell, I’m guilty of all these with my own reactions to pain and sorrow from others.

We’ve somehow become a culture that is unwilling to sit with sadness, with grief, with hurt and loss. If we feel those emotions, then we must fix ourselves, or fix the situation, or slap on the smile-mask and jump back in the joy pool. But what is wrong with allowing ourselves to feel the full range of human emotions and to step away from the constant happiness for a while to process difficult feelings?

My grief, my sadness, and my hurt have made me a better person. As awful as they have been to live with at times, they’ve also offered me new perspectives and have gifted me with empathy and patience. In those moments when I took off the smile-mask and stuffed it in a drawer, a new world appeared before me. This world was slower, somber, filled with obstacles and pitfalls that I could not see from behind that suffocating mask. It’s a world that demands attention and caution, a more considered step and less frantic carriage. In this world, there’s beauty in the cracks and hidden spaces, and the beauty of that other world is revealed as a façade, a trick of light, a fairy tale with a promised happily-ever-after dangling like a carrot above a pool of quicksand.

In this maskless, despairing world, the true happy-ever-after is merely connection. It’s that moment when you look into another person’s eyes and really see and accept each other, flaws and all. The nod of a head, a twitch of the lips, the released breath that says, “Why don’t you sit a while and feel what you need to feel”…without a word spoken. It’s knowing there’s space for all of you, not just the happy parts, the positive parts, the busy-making, striving, go-getter parts. It’s acknowledging the darkness without the need to shine a light. It’s silence, reflection, and stillness and, when necessary, shuddering howls and primal screams. And tears.

We need that other world. We need it so much.  

So here I am. Returning to the world of light and movement and busyness, looking at that old mask and wondering what to do. I like my happy self. I naturally gravitate toward laughter and music, and I enjoy the pride of working toward worthy goals. But I don’t want to fall back into those old patterns, I don’t want to end up trapped behind that mask because I’m afraid of how other people will react. 

I want to smile but I want those smiles to be real, to be earned. And if I’m sad, I want the right to be sad, to sit with that feeling whether or not those around me feel I have the right to it, and no matter how uncomfortable it may make them feel.

So, let’s make a pact, you and me. Earned smiles only, going forward. You feel sad, be sad. I’ll make room for your hurt, and you do the same for me. Let’s do the same for everyone. Let’s leave our smile-masks for emergencies only.

Can you do that? Can I?

I

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Tapping My Way Home

Posted on February 3, 2022 by clubfredbaja

Ooooooooo, Roxy Roller.

When I hear those lyrics in my mind, I am transported to my friend Tania’s basement in the late 1970’s. Her parents had not finished their basement, so the plywood floors became our roller rink. We cranked disco music and skated circles around the billiard table—the only furniture in the room. We laughed as we zoomed around and around with our crappy metal skates that pinched our feet and cut off our circulation if we tightened the straps too much.

Music permeates most of my happy memories. Even the lamentations of The Cure or The The can instantly and happily transport me to my best friend Trina’s red MG–cruising, singing, feeling the kinship of round pegs in a world of square holes. Charley Pride’s version of The Green, Green Grass of Home takes me home to my own Mama and Papa, listening to 8-tracks in our truck and camper, on our way to some campground and the promise of adventure. And, of course, Roam by the B52’s will always be the official “Heading to Baja” anthem, as Fred and I blasted it every time we pulled out of the driveway in the winter.

In short, I love music. Truly, deeply, madly, love music.

So, when I tell you that, for the past year, I found no joy in music, perhaps you can understand how low I felt. A song would come on the radio, and I’d think, I used to love that song, but when I searched for that feeling…nothing. Where there had once been elation, or despair, or motivation, there was only a flat, grey landscape of meaningless sounds. I didn’t feel happy, or sad, or angry, I simply felt nothing. I didn’t care about music. I didn’t care about anything. I faked it for myself and others but I felt nothing.

More than anything, this was how I knew I’d fallen deeply enough into depression that I needed serious help. If music cannot make me feel something, what can? 

This was also how I knew I was healing, when one day, without realizing it, I suddenly noticed that I was tapping my foot along to a song on the radio as Fred and I were driving. Such a tiny miracle: a tapping foot. But, oh how my heart lifted. I’m enjoying a song! My body is responding to music again!  

It is these small victories that I have come to appreciate. Actually, it is all the small things that I now see through new eyes.  

I went for a walk!

I did my yoga again!

I felt excited about something!

I finished a book!

I went an entire day without falling into a fixation loop!

It has been nearly a year since I fell apart. For the first time since then, I can honestly say that I feel hope and joy, that I honestly want to wake up in the morning and that a day is not merely something to endure but something to savour.  

At the same time, I have learned to move slowly. I’ve let go of old me and her rigid standards. If I feel tired, I rest, without guilt. If I walk for 30 minutes, instead of berating myself for not running for 30 minutes, I celebrate. I’ve accepted that only gentleness and kindness will get me through this. Something as unremarkable as a tapping foot might as well be fireworks to me now.

When you lose almost every good part of yourself, gaining the smallest thing back makes you want to shout from the rooftops. I feel like George Bailey coming back to reality except instead of “My mouth’s bleeding, Bert! My mouth’s bleeding!” I’m shouting “My foot’s tapping, world! My foot’s tapping!”

I suspect that there will still be down days ahead but feeling something about anything fills me with hope that I can find my way home. I will be a different person when I get there but I think I will be a better person, a person who understands suffering and sadness more profoundly and who will listen more closely to those who have yet to find their feet tapping again and will not judge them for it. A person who knows how it feels to be lost and how it feels to find their way home.

Yes, they’ll all come to meet me. Arms reaching, smiling sweetly. It’s good to touch the green, green grass of home

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Two Cats: This is not about cats

Posted on November 9, 2021 by clubfredbaja

I have two cats, Serenity and Ripley. They are sisters, from the litter I fostered five years ago. These two cats have been with me since they were five weeks old. Their lives have been identical, but they are not.

They eat the same food, receive the same care and love, live in the same environment, and yet they are very different cats. We call Ripley “The Ambassador” because she loves to meet strangers and will gleefully walk up and introduce herself. Serenity, on the other hand, disappears when new people come around and can often be found hiding under a blanket or in a closet. Ripley cuddles infrequently and on her own terms. Serenity’s nickname is “The Parasite” because she needs constant physical contact with me. Serenity is highly agile and thin; Ripley is a little clumsy and thick. Etcetera, etcetera.

These two cats are both wonderful in their own unique way and one is not better than the other.

These two cats have helped me understand humans a little better and their differences are helping me come to terms with the fact that I need to be on medication for depression. How? Glad you asked.

Almost from the moment I started taking medication for depression and anxiety, my goal was to get off it. I was going to do the work, heal, and then get back to “normal”. At one point, I thought I was ready. I had stopped taking my anxiety meds, I felt mostly good, and under my doctor’s guidance I halved my dosage of citalopram for depression. Hooray! I was on my way!

And then I melted down in the middle of spin class and ended up a sobbing, anxious mess in my car in the parking lot.

Back onto the regular dose again. Back to the counselor.

But even that wasn’t cutting it. As I said, I felt “mostly” good, but I also carried a constant, cold, tummy-tightening ball of anxiety inside me that refused to leave. I used all my new tools, and nothing worked. It wasn’t debilitating anxiety, most of the time, but was ever-present and uncomfortable. It interfered with everything I did and sucked the enjoyment out of any happy moments.

Back to the doctor. This time, I increased my dose of anti-depressants. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t a failure. I was not convinced.

It has been several weeks since the increase and…sweet valley high, I feel better! The constant anxiety is a shadow of a shadow. The feeling of failure has been a different story though.

That’s where the cats come in.

Also, society and North American culture.

Time for a side story.

When I was twenty, I worked at a fitness center. The center had a small spa in it, with a tiny but mighty Austrian woman named Irmi who ran the show. As staff, I was allowed some free treatments to help me sell the spa to customers. This was the first time I’d had a professional massage, a facial, and reflexology—it was all AAAAAMAZING! This was when I also learned that other countries do things differently. In Austria, Irmi explained, six weeks vacation was standard and for at least one of those weeks many companies would send their employees to a spa to relax and rejuvenate. Spa time was not a luxury there, it was part of maintaining good mental and physical health.

I envied the Austrians.

The culture I grew up in was about work. Work, work, work! Hustle, make money, get rich or die trying! If you’re not working hard, you’re a leech, a loser, a drain on society. Be thankful for your two weeks off and if you work REALLY hard for decades then maybe you can have three or four weeks off per year. Relaxation must be earned, don’t forget that!

I drank that Kool-Aid for decades. The belief that I am only as good as my productivity and my finances seeped into the marrow of my bones like a cancer. Rest, healing, self-care, these are luxuries, and the goal should always be to get back to your hardest working, most productive self.

Naturally, in my current state, I see myself as weak, a leech, lazy, sub-standard. I need to get off these meds and back in the game!  I mean, look at all these other hard working, successful, driven people. I should be like them, right?

Or maybe I’m just a different kind of cat?  

I don’t pass moral judgements on my cats. I don’t think Ripley’s better because she’s social or Serenity’s better because she’s cuddly. I can clearly recognize that their differences are beautiful and interesting and, most importantly, not a choice. They are who they are. It’s not up to me to change them but to learn how to give them a life that meets their individual needs.

I’m a different cat. I’ve never been great at hustling. I love to work hard…but only at things I care about. I have always valued rest and relaxation, and the chance to let my brain run wild and create stories. It’s not my job to fit into what society says I should be, it’s my job to be me. I didn’t choose who I am any more than my cats chose to be who they are. The failing is not that I don’t live up to society’s standards, the failing is that society demands we conform to an ideal that few of us can, or even want, to achieve.

In the words of Ted Lasso, “All people are different people.”

I am a person who needs an antidepressant to get through life right now and in the foreseeable future. I take longer to process big changes and emotions than other people. Things that other people can shrug off, I can’t. What may seem minor to others can be traumatic to me. And I need to keep reminding myself that all this is just fine. Serenity isn’t hurting anyone when she seeks the shelter of a warm blanket to hide from newcomers, and I’m not hurting anyone by taking medication and moving through life a little more gently.

I have two cats I love dearly not despite their differences but because of them. I hope I can learn to love myself the same way.

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Letters to Myself: Give Up on Your Goals

Posted on September 16, 2021 by clubfredbaja

Dear Kristene,

You are a planner. You got that from your mom, your adopted mom, who would spend the better part of a year planning a summer vacation. Remember the stacks of folded clothes on the basement table, months before you actually left for your destination? Planning well is a handy skill to have, sure, but also a weight around your neck if you’re not careful.

Planning and goals have defined your life for more than two decades now. The ever-present white board detailing by week, month, year, lists upon lists of tasks to be completed and deadlines to do so. When you were healthy and energetic, it was the means by which you controlled and directed the fire inside you.

And it all started to crumble after Kelly died. More so after Dad died. It was like one of those earthquake disaster movies where the hero watches the road before them crack open and fall in on itself, stranding them amid the danger. You spent the better part of five years trying to rebuild that road, trying to summon the fire inside you, which was barely a flickering flame. You tried and you almost succeeded. Then, 2020 arrived and cleared your whiteboard with one infectious swipe.

So here you are. No lists. No grand plans. No energy to do more than stand and gaze upon the rubble. This isn’t the first time you’ve failed, in fact, you’ve always embraced failure as a challenge. But this time is different, isn’t it? This time it feels permanent and personal. This time you’re angry at yourself and frustrated that the part of you that always got back up and kept fighting has been KO’d. You’re fragile; a single word could break you. Without your precious goals, who even are you?

Painful but true, yes?

Okay, kiddo, let’s get real. You didn’t start writing stories all those many decades ago because you wanted to be a published, professional author. You wrote because you loved it, because it was fun, because there was magic in stories and you wanted to learn and master that magic.

Guess what? There’s still magic. Lots. You haven’t even scratched the surface. 

What if—hear me out now—what if you just wrote for fun, for you, with no thought of what the writing should be or where you could sell it or who would read it or all the RULES of good writing? What if you simply wrote to make yourself happy?

Because, my friend, that’s the real goal, to seize as much happiness as we can. Life is too short and unpredictable as hell. You’ve seen that with your own eyes. Remember how Mom said that when she retired she was going to golf? When she died, at the age of 57, her clubs remained, untouched, in the closet. Why did she wait? I’ll tell you why. Because she made a plan and plans must be followed! Think of all those summer vacations and Mom’s inevitable meltdown once you all returned home. Not because the vacation was over but because it did not align perfectly with her meticulous planning.

Plans and goals are great… and they are also traps.

You’re standing in front of that road that has cracked open and fallen in upon itself and all you can do is stare and grieve. Maybe it’s time to leave that road, no matter where you think it leads. Maybe it’s time to look for a new route. It may be a winding country path or an underground tunnel or perhaps a giant bird will land and you can hop on and fly out of here. Whatever you choose is fine as long as it makes you happy deep down in your bones.

That’s the goal, friend, the only goal worth pursuing, the only plan worth making: happiness.

Sincerely,

Me

Posted in Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness, Life, Mental Health, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Letters to Myself: The Problem With Nice

Posted on August 24, 2021 by clubfredbaja

Dear Kristene,

At the risk of slaughtering your sacred cow, let’s talk about your dad. He was, as you know, awesome at so many things and you are perfectly right to admire his gentle, fun-loving, easy-going nature. He was hard working, but he loved his family and perfectly demonstrated how to balance whimsy with responsibility. Most importantly, he encouraged your crazy dreams. I know you’ve tried, consciously or otherwise, to emulate him but there’s a piece you keep skipping over. Your dad was just as bad at modelling conflict resolution skills as your mom, in fact, he’s the one who showed you how to roll over and let people step on your voice and take away your power.

Ouch. Sorry.

I know you want to hold him up as a hero, but he was human and humans are flawed. Your mother’s silent treatments and guilt trips were as traumatic as if she had yelled at you or slapped you, and how many times did you see your dad stand up for you and protect you? Once? Twice maybe?

Oh, he gave you some comforting words on the sly, “You know how your mother is, babe.” Yes, you knew how your mother was, she punished you and everyone else by withholding and withdrawing. I see the scars on you to this day, in your obsessive need to make other people happy, the way you become instantly anxious if the people you love go quiet. How many nights have you lain awake worrying if you did or said something wrong and that someone you care about is upset with you? (Answer: Waaaaaaaay too many)

Parents aren’t perfect. Your mom was a product of abuse and poverty and she lived at a time when the stigma around mental health might as well have been a flashing neon sign. She did the best with what she had. All the same, she hurt you. You loved your dad so much because he was the “nice” parent, right? And isn’t that what you’ve strived to be for so long? “Nice”? Nice, friendly, easy-going, quick with a smile and a laugh, “no worries”, considerate, and thoughtful?

So, honey, what happens when you get angry or upset? How do you express yourself? What happens when you have a not-nice emotion and every right to have your feelings heard and respected?

What’s that?

A little louder?

Oh, yes, you shove those feelings down and swallow them, or you do what your mom did and go silent to punish the people who hurt you. And how’s that working out for you?

Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Well, kiddo, there’s a new sheriff in town…a sheriff who is fair but maybe not always “nice”.

We’re going to start working on speaking up in the moment, or as soon after the moment as we can. We’re going to think about our healthy boundaries and what we’ll do when people violate them.

We’re also going to practice accepting that we have no control over other people’s reactions. You may not get the response you want but that’s not the point. The point is to use your voice—that’s your right and stop letting other people convince you otherwise.

By all means, hang onto all the good qualities your dad taught you. Laugh often, love deeply, work hard but not at the expense of your happiness or good nature. His spirit lives in you, and that is a gift. But own the flaws he gave you too. Pick up where he left off, work on fixing the bits that aren’t working for you (and never have), believe you are worthy…because you are.

I’m not going to lie, this is going to be hard for you. You will be frustrated. You will want to fall back into old habits—and you will from time to time—but you’ve overcome worse than this.

Have the kind of faith in yourself that your dad always had in you.

Sincerely,

Me

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Letters to Myself: This is Not a Competition

Posted on August 17, 2021 by clubfredbaja

Dear Kristene,

Stop grinding your teeth, drop your shoulders, take a deep breath. And, yes, I know you’ll do what I tell you and then forget ten minutes later but what you really need to know is that you’ve been stuck in a state of trauma for almost a year now. Your mind and body are fixed in survival mode. Along with all the nasty physical and mental side effects (yo, we can’t afford to lose any more teeth to your stress!), it’s also put a big feckin’ cork in your Bottle of Creativity.

You’ve been given a few tools from your counselor, please remember to use them. And for the love all holy hedgehogs, be kinder to yourself. Just because someone else’s life is more difficult and challenging than yours doesn’t mean your challenges and your pain don’t matter. It sucks that someone made a point of telling you that your life was easy and carefree compared to another, and that those words have become the quicksand that you sink into a little deeper every day, but you are also surrounded by many more compassionate and kind people tossing ropes of words to pull you out. Use that, hang onto the love of friends and family for dear life.

Life isn’t the Suffering Olympics. Someone will always have it better than you and someone will always have it worse. There’s no trophy at the end for the person who endured the most pain with the least complaining.

Listen to me. Seriously. Close Facebook. Close out the rest of the world and other people’s opinions and listen to me you beautiful, golden-haired sea creature! You’ve been dealing with menopause and all that shit, which is awful enough on its own, and you have also watched every member of the family you grew up with die. You moved away from a community of good friends and fellow artists and had to start from scratch…again. You had barely begun to recover from your grief when the pandemic hit (and it was adorable how you thought you would be fine and unaffected by a global crisis, you crack me up). Your living situation disintegrated with no warning, and you were powerless to do anything about it except finally and utterly fall apart. Nothing like finding yourself homeless in the middle of a pandemic when there are no rentals and the housing market has lost its damned mind and you are having a mental health crisis, huh? Good times. And here you are, starting over and building a new life and home for the billionth time. I’m exhausted just writing all that!

So.

Kristene.

Friend.

Repeat after me: I am allowed to be hurt and sad and in pain. I am allowed to call this state “trauma”. I am allowed to do what it takes to heal. I am allowed to be kind to myself.

Now, go do some breathing exercises, pet your cats, take a walk and enjoy the sunshine on your face.

Love,

Me

Posted in Friends, Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness, Mental Health | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment