Come on in and grab some sammiches. The lovely love who loves me has made some wonderful french bread, fixin's are in the fridge. Make yourself at home in the den.
So I'm all for trying to make your life better. And I'm a huge fan of short snippets of info that make you smile. I love those little pics that have the cool sayings on them that populate the intarwebs and effbook and such. I do indeed like them. Except. Except those 'ignore the past, live for right now' ones. Those ones really make me annoyed.
Because y'know what, you have to carry the past with you all the time, not as baggage, but instead like a weightless library, a reference point to everything going forward. Not only that, but without considering how your actions will reverberate into the future then you're being just a wee bit irresponsible. Well actually a whole lot irresponsible.
The problem here isn't learning how to let go of the past, instead how to learn. Y'know I could throw a metric fucktonne of platitudes and cliches at you about this concept but instead I'm going to break it down into a simple formula.
Doing + Failing = Learning. Learning + Repeated Attempt = Growth. Well as long as the repeated attempt is not identical to the first attempt. Then you didn't learn. See, there is one tiny part of that equation I didn't put in there, and that is the fact that you have to, you know, remember past events, and how shit happened like it happened so you can learn from it.
And yes I know, the idea isn't to forget what you learned from the experience, but to let go of the negative emotions, but again, I have an issue with this. First off, why do we deem some emotions negative? They're all useful, they all help us contextualize our world, remember, and give structure to our own perceptions and reality. Maybe if we stopped using labels like negative or positive emotions folks might not obsess over this shit, and that is the real problem. When behavior that could help growth is stifled due to not wanting to experience these negative emotions.
Well folks, we evolved these emotions for a reason. They are a part of our social matrix and are just as valid as any other means we have to interact with the world. We need to unbunch our collective panties and stop thinking that 'feeling bad' is a bad thing. It's just a thing. A thing we developed to help our species survive. It's not the thumb, or the tools, or the intelligence that makes human beings different from other animals, it's the complexity of our social interactions that does. And even then it doesn't make us 'better' than the other critters, it just makes us different.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Survival
Come on in and enjoy a respite from the cold. I have some spaghetti for you, made with some nice healthy ground turkey and lots of onion and garlic. Quite tasty. And I'd like to tell you a story.
So the Truth and Reconciliation Commission is in Saskatchewan. And at the First Nations University of Canada. Which is where I work. So I've spent some time listening to the stories being told to the commission. I'd love to say that what I heard was a beautiful thing of healing and coming to terms with the evils of genocide but that just wasn't the case.
I listened to an older man, probably one of the last generation to be put into residential schools. He talked of the hate he felt, the damage he'd done. He spoke of the guilt and pain he felt for knowing that his own hatred flowed into the world and that people in that very crowd, people he never knew, were damaged by his sons and daughters because of the hate he showed them. He talked of how he was still damaged, still causing damage, still not quite a human because of the evil he was subjected to and accepted as a part of living. I would love to be able to show you the true depth of his pain and suffering but it is his story, his life, and I doubt I could do it justice.
But here is the power of the First Nations culture. I looked into the faces around me. I watched the reactions of the people listening. The faces were not filled with pity, nor were they filled with judgment. Instead it was a mixture of understanding and determination. A kind of power of witnessing the degradation of a person, of a culture, and not seeing it as something that needed vengeance, instead something that required understanding. A kind of communal gathering of spirit and will to take part in the draining out of the infected and diseased parts of a culture and gain the knowledge required to fix it.
And then, as the lunch began, and the commission and sharing circles broke up, so did the massive clouds of pain and hurt. Instead a community formed. There was laughter, there was hugging and joking. There was love. That man who told his story sat among strangers and listened to their jokes, laughed and was a part of the whole. And that is the beginning of true healing.
So the Truth and Reconciliation Commission is in Saskatchewan. And at the First Nations University of Canada. Which is where I work. So I've spent some time listening to the stories being told to the commission. I'd love to say that what I heard was a beautiful thing of healing and coming to terms with the evils of genocide but that just wasn't the case.
I listened to an older man, probably one of the last generation to be put into residential schools. He talked of the hate he felt, the damage he'd done. He spoke of the guilt and pain he felt for knowing that his own hatred flowed into the world and that people in that very crowd, people he never knew, were damaged by his sons and daughters because of the hate he showed them. He talked of how he was still damaged, still causing damage, still not quite a human because of the evil he was subjected to and accepted as a part of living. I would love to be able to show you the true depth of his pain and suffering but it is his story, his life, and I doubt I could do it justice.
But here is the power of the First Nations culture. I looked into the faces around me. I watched the reactions of the people listening. The faces were not filled with pity, nor were they filled with judgment. Instead it was a mixture of understanding and determination. A kind of power of witnessing the degradation of a person, of a culture, and not seeing it as something that needed vengeance, instead something that required understanding. A kind of communal gathering of spirit and will to take part in the draining out of the infected and diseased parts of a culture and gain the knowledge required to fix it.
And then, as the lunch began, and the commission and sharing circles broke up, so did the massive clouds of pain and hurt. Instead a community formed. There was laughter, there was hugging and joking. There was love. That man who told his story sat among strangers and listened to their jokes, laughed and was a part of the whole. And that is the beginning of true healing.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
What a year.
Come on in, there is some turkey soup being made, I'm sure it will be done by the time we're all done here. You can have a bowl once we get through this all.
So the about this time last year I was just getting geared up to finish my last semester of my Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in English with a minor in Indigenous Studies. Today, I have that degree, and I've got a couple jobs associated with that degree. One I got last year, one I start on Thursday that is brand new. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go deal with all this crap.
My New Years last year was spent by myself, playing The Force Unleashed. I think I might have had a flirty call with the ex-wife. The first one, Little Bear's mom. I then threw myself into a nearly exhausting schedule, taking two honours/grad courses, two 200 level courses, and finishing the thesis paper. Anyone ever wants to read it, well, I'm thinking about doing some more work on it, see maybe I can get that thang published. Maybe the James Joyce quarterly. That'd be sweet.
That summer I started looking for work, knowing I would be heading back to school in a year or so. No one wanted to hire me. I either wasn't a student anymore or I was too much of a student. That rejection, and the issues at my current work place were starting to wear me out. I was tired, I had drained the reservoir, so to speak, and I was heading for a crash.
I tried writing about that crash. And I couldn't do it, not without it coming across as a PSA about mental health, or something overly poetic and dramatic. I didn't want either. So it go deleted tonight. Instead I thought I'd sum up some of the things I learned in the psych ward where I spent a few weeks.
First off. Control is a problem. Particularly control of the self in relation to the world around us. I guess I should take my own advice on what the world is like. I didn't. And so between personal issues with the second ex-wife, that'd be Little Crow's mom, my perceived failure with Little Bear, the work rejections, the inability to write, oh and let's not forget the excessive drinking where I repeatedly embarrassed my friends with my behavior, I decided I would finish things. In case that's too obtuse for anyone, I decided one Tuesday morning to kill myself.
I had been hanging on to threads for so long, that when I had one fantastic weekend with my girls, I was good to go. Had a wonderfully negative email exchange with the second ex (that didn't influence the decision, just kind of confirmed it, I'd decided when I woke up) and a call to my mother, I gathered my tools of destruction and was ready to go. For the truly morbid, I had planned to inject myself with two complete vials of insulin, down half a bottle of glycon and glyburide (these help insulin work and help the body process it) while I sat on the football five man sled at my old school, and just riff on some tunes until the blood sugar was low enough to slip into a coma, and then the cardiac arrest would happen.
Instead, I didn't. I remember giving up. I remember a full and complete shrug of body/mind/soul/emotions of giving up. Next, I remember talking to a woman on the health line. The website for the number was up on my computer. The cops came, and amid glaring eyes of my ex, the tears of my daughters, they hauled me off to the General.
I like to think that the grandfathers kept me going. I gave up and they drove for a bit, let me find my soul, and get on with living again. I wrote a couple things in there. Well actually had a journal. It's filled with all kinds of crap. But there's a few good things. And one great find. Here they are.
Six Reflections
Standing across from
the five images
Variations of the same
Not one is true
all filled with lies
Fractures of the mind
Losing the self
finding no firm place
Symbols of the one
Locked by panes
with no common ground
Death of the past
A new prayer
I thank the grandfathers for the wisdom to ask for help when I had cut off all else. They gave movement
to a thought and carried it through. Without them I would die.
I thank the family and friends who give me love and hope, especially two little girls who teach me as
much as I teach them.
I thank the hard times so that the good times are so much better, and so I may learn the lessons of my
path.
I must love myself, or these gifts are wasted.
I had some great visitors. New and old. They helped because y'know what, the loony bin is just that. It's a big bin where they leave a buncha crazy people. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful I was there, but wow, there is a whole load of hurt in that place. Once I was back to being kinda normal it was a bit painful to be in there. I spent as much time off ward as I could.
Once I was out, there was a few other trials and tribulations, but that is someone else's story to tell if they ever want to.
One of the things I read, on effbook of all places, came from a brilliant young man I had the pleasure of getting to know back during the 'Year of Troubles' at FNUniv. He posted it and I just about fell over when I read it. 'Depression is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign that you have been trying to be strong for too long.' Read that over again. If there is anything I can suggest to anyone else who reads this and might be having some mental health issues, it's that one line.
Depression is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign that you have been trying to be strong for too long.
So I got out.
And I had to deal with work. Luckily I had a medical leave, which I knew they wouldn't fire me for, but I was expecting a lay off. Which they eventually did, but I quit before they could dump my fat ass. Always go out your own way right?
Because well, I was at home for maybe three days, my mom was there, when I got a call from someone at the FNUniv. They wanted me to come down and interview for a job. My interview consisted of the person hiring me saying 'The writing center, think he can handle it?' to one of my profs, who went 'Yeah!' And thus, I was hired. Only part time but making almost as much as I did at the other job. Because well, DEGREE! Yah!
And then. Well. I decided to try to date. Or at least try. Y'know, casual, get to know a girl. So I did, and it turned into a bit of a drama llama situation. But strangely, it led to meeting someone from the past. Someone who ... Well, long story short, she's lying down in our bed right now, reading and cuddling up with Pixie. Pixie is Little Crow's cat. It happened like a flood, came in and just sank into everything, washed away a lot of the crap that was there and brought in new healthy soil for growth. I love this woman. She's incredible.
And that brings us here. To today. In a couple days I start my second job, still have the writing center gig, as a teaching assistant to a high chief at the FNUniv, where I will actually get to do some teaching. And I'm being encouraged to do so. And life, while far from perfect, and this Coyote is far from totally healed, is life. A beautiful thing full of hurt, work, joy, and wonder.
And so to you, my faithful readers who happened to stick around even though I haven't written much as of late (I hope to change this) I say, Happy New Year. I wish you all the best and worst that life can give you.
So the about this time last year I was just getting geared up to finish my last semester of my Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in English with a minor in Indigenous Studies. Today, I have that degree, and I've got a couple jobs associated with that degree. One I got last year, one I start on Thursday that is brand new. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go deal with all this crap.
My New Years last year was spent by myself, playing The Force Unleashed. I think I might have had a flirty call with the ex-wife. The first one, Little Bear's mom. I then threw myself into a nearly exhausting schedule, taking two honours/grad courses, two 200 level courses, and finishing the thesis paper. Anyone ever wants to read it, well, I'm thinking about doing some more work on it, see maybe I can get that thang published. Maybe the James Joyce quarterly. That'd be sweet.
That summer I started looking for work, knowing I would be heading back to school in a year or so. No one wanted to hire me. I either wasn't a student anymore or I was too much of a student. That rejection, and the issues at my current work place were starting to wear me out. I was tired, I had drained the reservoir, so to speak, and I was heading for a crash.
I tried writing about that crash. And I couldn't do it, not without it coming across as a PSA about mental health, or something overly poetic and dramatic. I didn't want either. So it go deleted tonight. Instead I thought I'd sum up some of the things I learned in the psych ward where I spent a few weeks.
First off. Control is a problem. Particularly control of the self in relation to the world around us. I guess I should take my own advice on what the world is like. I didn't. And so between personal issues with the second ex-wife, that'd be Little Crow's mom, my perceived failure with Little Bear, the work rejections, the inability to write, oh and let's not forget the excessive drinking where I repeatedly embarrassed my friends with my behavior, I decided I would finish things. In case that's too obtuse for anyone, I decided one Tuesday morning to kill myself.
I had been hanging on to threads for so long, that when I had one fantastic weekend with my girls, I was good to go. Had a wonderfully negative email exchange with the second ex (that didn't influence the decision, just kind of confirmed it, I'd decided when I woke up) and a call to my mother, I gathered my tools of destruction and was ready to go. For the truly morbid, I had planned to inject myself with two complete vials of insulin, down half a bottle of glycon and glyburide (these help insulin work and help the body process it) while I sat on the football five man sled at my old school, and just riff on some tunes until the blood sugar was low enough to slip into a coma, and then the cardiac arrest would happen.
Instead, I didn't. I remember giving up. I remember a full and complete shrug of body/mind/soul/emotions of giving up. Next, I remember talking to a woman on the health line. The website for the number was up on my computer. The cops came, and amid glaring eyes of my ex, the tears of my daughters, they hauled me off to the General.
I like to think that the grandfathers kept me going. I gave up and they drove for a bit, let me find my soul, and get on with living again. I wrote a couple things in there. Well actually had a journal. It's filled with all kinds of crap. But there's a few good things. And one great find. Here they are.
Six Reflections
Standing across from
the five images
Variations of the same
Not one is true
all filled with lies
Fractures of the mind
Losing the self
finding no firm place
Symbols of the one
Locked by panes
with no common ground
Death of the past
A new prayer
I thank the grandfathers for the wisdom to ask for help when I had cut off all else. They gave movement
to a thought and carried it through. Without them I would die.
I thank the family and friends who give me love and hope, especially two little girls who teach me as
much as I teach them.
I thank the hard times so that the good times are so much better, and so I may learn the lessons of my
path.
I must love myself, or these gifts are wasted.
I had some great visitors. New and old. They helped because y'know what, the loony bin is just that. It's a big bin where they leave a buncha crazy people. Don't get me wrong, I'm thankful I was there, but wow, there is a whole load of hurt in that place. Once I was back to being kinda normal it was a bit painful to be in there. I spent as much time off ward as I could.
Once I was out, there was a few other trials and tribulations, but that is someone else's story to tell if they ever want to.
One of the things I read, on effbook of all places, came from a brilliant young man I had the pleasure of getting to know back during the 'Year of Troubles' at FNUniv. He posted it and I just about fell over when I read it. 'Depression is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign that you have been trying to be strong for too long.' Read that over again. If there is anything I can suggest to anyone else who reads this and might be having some mental health issues, it's that one line.
Depression is not a sign of weakness, it is a sign that you have been trying to be strong for too long.
So I got out.
And I had to deal with work. Luckily I had a medical leave, which I knew they wouldn't fire me for, but I was expecting a lay off. Which they eventually did, but I quit before they could dump my fat ass. Always go out your own way right?
Because well, I was at home for maybe three days, my mom was there, when I got a call from someone at the FNUniv. They wanted me to come down and interview for a job. My interview consisted of the person hiring me saying 'The writing center, think he can handle it?' to one of my profs, who went 'Yeah!' And thus, I was hired. Only part time but making almost as much as I did at the other job. Because well, DEGREE! Yah!
And then. Well. I decided to try to date. Or at least try. Y'know, casual, get to know a girl. So I did, and it turned into a bit of a drama llama situation. But strangely, it led to meeting someone from the past. Someone who ... Well, long story short, she's lying down in our bed right now, reading and cuddling up with Pixie. Pixie is Little Crow's cat. It happened like a flood, came in and just sank into everything, washed away a lot of the crap that was there and brought in new healthy soil for growth. I love this woman. She's incredible.
And that brings us here. To today. In a couple days I start my second job, still have the writing center gig, as a teaching assistant to a high chief at the FNUniv, where I will actually get to do some teaching. And I'm being encouraged to do so. And life, while far from perfect, and this Coyote is far from totally healed, is life. A beautiful thing full of hurt, work, joy, and wonder.
And so to you, my faithful readers who happened to stick around even though I haven't written much as of late (I hope to change this) I say, Happy New Year. I wish you all the best and worst that life can give you.
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