A Gift Wrapped in Barbed Wire

By V.A. Lewis

Erica’s life has been nothing shy of extraordinary thanks to her family’s antics, some might even consider it perfect. All of that is about to change one night when she least expects it.

A Gift Wrapped in Barbed Wire will take the reader on a wild ride through mental illness brought on by the events of one traumatic night that would lead to years of wrong turns. For the family of Erica, it will be a long time before they find the answers to their questions.

A Gift Wrapped in Barbed Wire is a semi-autobiographical novel that mixes fiction in with the authors truth while she navigates the constellations of trauma and Complex PTSD and tells her story through Erica Wiles. Mixed with dark humour are the deepest secrets and confessions carried within the fragile mind of a victim, robbed of her innocence at a crucial time in her life before she has even truly discovered herself.

In the age of MeToo, it is the authors hope that A Gift Wrapped in Barbed Wire will bring victims of trauma the courage to speak their truth, and for families and friends the courage to ask just one more question when something doesn’t seem right with someone they are close to.

• Language: English
• Publisher: V.A. Lewis
• Release date: Dec 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781775202806

Book preview

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the victim that the world critically sees as a deserving target for staying in abuse, for the loved ones who wait and go through the sick repetitive madness refusing to give up on the loved one trapped inside mental illness, for the medical community who help sufferers of abuse earning a living and never looking for the promotion or pat on the back. To those of you who care and those that will redefine life and rebuild using their scars as a masterpiece. I heal and I write this as a gift to you dearest reader.

Chapter One

Word By Day, the Faceless Victim

In an utterly facetious and rhetorical tone Karmen said Who are you!

She said it all the time. I was not supposed to answer. To be fair I was likely reading too much into it though. Karmen was often contentious and it left a salty impression, even in her most virtuous self. She always asked me who I thought I was, it was said in a way that made me feel as though it was none of my business to respond. She was so boi-ishly beautiful that I was happy just to gawk and smile foolishly. I’d had enough years of rocking the boat and decided to just go for the ride as they say.

Karmen and I were like two interested animals attracted yet divergent. She had always appeared critical and presumptuous when I reflected back on my childhood memories and growing up in Los Angeles. Karmen had known nothing of the privilege I was born into. It intimidated and attracted her to me all at the same time, which was not her comfort zone. The learning here was nothing short of a karmic by-product returning home to me for education. Did I mention she was beautiful? Amazing what we will do for beauty. It’s hard to explain how it was so much more than that for yours truly.

In most social circles others responded to my California upbringing in a romanticized image that made them glaze over, you could almost see the palms and ocean gleaming in their eyes. It was years later when Canadian culture would have the truth revealed by Spike Lee about gangs, drive-bys, smog, pollution, population density, gun control and LA freeways. Where I grew up, not so far from Los Angeles people were supposed to be beautiful and special. This set the bar for high expectations of how I would expect to appear. From my development formatively shaped of having it all and more, this expectation of standard would drive me like a cattle prod for years yet to come. My family was warm and endearing and blessings stacked up around me. To put it as plain as I can, I was cherished. I was raised to know I could have it all and often did.

As a kid being white and in the public school system I was in the minority. I went to school with poor kids, the majority you could likely categorize as foreigners looking for a better life in America. The kids I went to school with lived twenty minutes from Disneyland but had never been and would likely never would go. I had it all but saw so much more who did not. It shaped me into a polar opposite to my girlfriend today, Karmen. It wasn't just California, it was my artsy fartsy way, my whimsy balanced with wicked. All the antics of a bird and a fish would best describe us. Sometimes I felt like Karmen despised me as much as she longed for me! There was never a doubt how special I was to her and her to me, but those who say love is all you need are full of shit. In disability I have loved everyone I've lost and beg to someday be wrong about this. For now I remain a pessimistic optimist, day by word, word by day.

My name is Erica and I am writing my story. My intent is simple, to heal myself. Then maybe healing for others too as a karmic by-product of good will. Even though I am writing my story I hope to hell it’s not all about me. One’s story seldom is. As I write I have to acknowledge how much or how little I have held onto that remains unprocessed. The twists of writing this story that I am running to keep up with, is demanding to be important and understood with validation and tender kindness before I can let it go. The story reveals pain of course, however the unfolding release of grace that has gone unacknowledged must be assimilated for the true picture of forgiveness. This is where the healing comes. It is understanding the decipherable difference between my truth and the truth and the courage to not stop until it has been written, processed, and assimilated to the life I ascend to build now.

To write a book to feel my journey of healing complete is not what I wanted. The story, my story; in the pursuit of healing has demanded to be important enough to be told. The words command the page to hold record of the unseen moments, secrets, and lies of illness. A blank page has the courage to be marked ceremoniously with words and memories that a complex human brain can’t even accept or admit. The page will always show me how to carry a mark from history without judgment or distortion of its valuable lesson. The page holds my history, my record without human weakness and therefore will never lie. The healing comes from releasing word by word until Erica can forget. This series of stories holds all the reverence to my commitment of survival. The story must be remembered or recorded so I can finally earn the right to forget. Forget the past enough to live in the present moment and look ahead to planning the future. That is where the motivation is born to write, not for notoriety, money, prestige or fame.

The lazy me wishes it could’ve been much easier and did I really have to work this much just to feel normal like most people walking around just taking it for granted! This is Erica’s purpose and why she is created; to carry the weight of death, and to give life back to this writer who like most reformed victims needing help, I have found the page more qualified and merciless with truth than any other means of rehabilitation, and as long as I continue I need not fear regret.

There is imprisonment in life that comes from trauma and no one is told or prepared as we all assume that we will get through life unscathed. We do everything we can to have a good life and then we marinate ourselves in denial that anything bad will happen to us, when it inevitably does. Is there life paralyzing shame that grows, lives and paints a new expressions on our face telling the world of our wordless worthless-ness? The spin offs from tragedy and destructive behaviour is often the most misunderstood by the host of its ailment and resulting in loss of connection. As no one suffering can understand what seems so obvious to everyone else, then defends dysfunction at the expense of all. Why? Well to stay sick, to get sicker and deny it. A cycle so vicious that relief comes in waves of oblivious senseless destruction. The alienation comes from maiming others to defend the poor behaviour in its ravaging cycle. It becomes our life’s partner as we say, why me? There are many reasons I stand here today. It is nothing short of a miracle I survived but the real gem is that I am aware of it. Survival is only remarkably lasting in the face of awareness and understanding.

At present I work in home support. I write in all the hours that I sit and wait to bathe, feed, or do whatever for my client, until they are ready. It is in service to others where I create Erica and pass over my past on to her shoulders. I am proud of the livelihood I find myself in. I am proud to make a literal wage that pays my bills and a karmic wage that sets me free to know life. I gravitate to two areas of client care that have grown me into myself today. The first being palliative care, death and dying and the second, advanced dementia. My work demands of me to live to a higher value than I even knew possible and when I look back on my journey I realize the day has finally come that I have found love for myself after a long cruel journey. My work renews my perspective on the moment, or the day. I never will lose myself again, and it's largely due to the folks who helped me; and the folks who allow me to help them in the reciprocity of my full circle. The tears roll down my cheeks as I write this to you dearest reader, I am filled full and overflow with a promise of life that I almost lost in tragedy. Here and now I say thank you, thank you and thank you, the words will drip from my tongue until my last breath.

Chapter Two

The American Dream

I was born in Fontana California in 1971, and right now if you're a swanky traveller you have no clue where this is, if you're a Hells Angels biker you are tickled to hear the name of my birthplace. My family resided and I was raised in various areas in Los Angeles, forgive my specificity, it’s just to keep the geography simple. I grew up in an area famous for the damaging fires, mud slides, gang violence and Santa Anta winds that can carry a fire across a fourteen lane freeway and keep going as if to say Ha! A real show of nature’s power and how a human is so vulnerable. The part of California I was from was not typically a destination for vacationers, in fact when you heard the people talk about California and holidays it was always about palm trees, sunsets, shopping and amusement parks. This was where myself and my brother Mark started out. However it started earlier than that with my folks.

To be fair I'll start at the beginning. My father Tom was born and grew up in Rochester, New York throughout the 50s and 60s. His mother was cursed, as she was far too intelligent and independent for her time in history. She could do anything or learn to do anything, but it wouldn't help her. She understood her son Tom and it was as if they could exist in a bubble of timeless isolation. From my understanding that was pearl of grace my father held onto for his childhood and adolescence. There was nothing she would not stand up for when it came to Tom. My grandmothers potential could never be realized. The opposite was true that she would suffer much social and familial stigma for outsmarting a grumpy old man like my grandfather. This simply was not done and would not be tolerated. Intellect and her desire to engage it left her loveless. Deny yourself or suffer. She chose to suffer and my father took on that same undying loyalty to be true automatically. It's good, but it comes at a price and surely the high price of such things would become my legacy too. I know I never knew my grandmother. She was prevented and stunted from becoming the woman who she was always supposed to have been. We spent so little time together, that in the end she barely left an imprint.

My grandfather didn't have it easy either, and it was ironic his plague from my grandmothers. His father was killed tragically and as he was the eldest son at the age of twelve he quit school to support his family. He finally got a break as an adolescent and was sent to war at sixteen to murder many people, to never tell, to never forget. I only know because of incessant confessions upon his deathbed of horrendous murder and shame. The guilt had beaten him within inches of his life and throughout his whole life; living secretly and silently suffering. The images of mass slaughter tortured him every day. They called it shell shock. As a kid I remember a cold, distant, petty man. Huge in size, pathetically small in character. He beat my father and crushed his spirit leaving cracks exposed to this very day. A current predator often is the result of a past prey mentored by their past untreated abuser, then time cultivates the sickness passing on the torch. We are not to speak of such things. Even in secret words of cleansing, yet I do.

My Nan and pop from my mom's side is on the other polar side of the spectrum of a completely different galaxy from my Dads. My grandparents doted on their three children of whom my mom, Daisy, was in the middle of a big brother and baby sister. Positive reinforcement came natural in their parenting and a gentle hand often attached to a chuckling mother or father. If all kids could be so lucky! My mother’s life was rich in a sweetness that my father was totally unaware even exist in this world. My mom never remembers anyone in conflict growing up. Just imagine the faith in the world you would get from a start like that. My mother’s family was raised in Montreal, in a bilingual area right in the heart of the city. My mother grew up seen and cherished, that too would become a passed down legacy to yours truly for many years to come. Daisy, always in the city and with friends with some adventure to embark on. Which brings us to the day she was hitchhiking with one of her best friends, the day my father picked them up in his MGB sports car.

My father Tom was on leave for the afternoon from the air force base just over the border. Daisy was pleased for the ride but the British racing green did little to impress her beyond the moment of convenience. Tom knew by the time he dropped her off at her family's brownstone stoop, that this was the woman he would one day marry. He told her when they said goodbye and without any penetration into consciousness the tiny words bounced down her back hitting the ground with an undetectable hollow sound that only Tom could hear inside his heart. All Daisy wanted was to be single and travel the world and be open to new worlds beyond her imagination. Tom had his competition cut out for him as Daisy had just graduated and with savings and a gift from mum and dad, was going to Europe. Daisy staying in hostels with three other best friends, nothing else existed in her world at this time, and so, Toms words were never received that glorious day they first met. Daisy closed her front door thinking that Tom would never again cross her path, or her mind.

Now I suppose if today’s stalking laws were in effect things would've turned out a whole lot different, I may not have even been born, because what my father did next would change everything forever. Of course Tom knew nothing of Daisy's European adventure and when he showed up on her doorstep the next time he and the MGB had leave from the base he was stationed, was when he met with his first obstacle. At that time Daisy was living her dreams in her first stop of Munich, Germany. Simultaneously Tom was introducing himself to her loving parents as her unknowing future husband. My grandparents sense of whimsy and natural delight for life had just enough to peak their interest and they invited him in. As with anyone they met they gave him a fair chance and melted his heart with belonging and welcoming, now every time Tom had leave he was invited for supper and some kind of game or cards with the family. He would drive that swift little sports car over the border to Montreal, and ever since the very first night they always insisted that he stay with them. They would send him off with a proper breakfast filled with all the love and warmth that he knew Daisy would carry into their own family someday. For the first time in his life Tom began to redefine the word family.

A giant hole suddenly filled to capacity until it was overflowing in Tom's life. He never knew warmth and bonds could exist within family. He discovered that he didn't even know how he had longed for conversation, encouragement, healthy witty whimsical humour, and sensitivity to one's own humanity. He knew this was special and a depth of Tom grew adding layers to whom he could have the ability to become. From a simplistic kindness we can learn to be our best and know a life worthy of living, expanding to all who know us. Like Daisy’s family. One month turned into two and two turned into three and Daisy's family fell in love with Tom and he, with them. His growth and confidence grew and was evident to them all. Tom talked so freely about his childhood and never measuring up to his father’s impenetrably high standards that were built for failure. He talked about who he thought he was and how he had never known of all the goodness he had inside.

Daisy’s family were filled with silver linings and Tom was as charmed by them as he was Daisy herself, who after all these months he only vaguely remembered how she even looked after only seeing her that first day while he drove her home. He had only stolen glances so he that he didn't drive the car off the road. There would be no bad outcomes here. He trusted his heart and took things one step at a time in faith. Daisy’s family loved him when he hurt, congratulated him when he received promotions, sang him Happy Birthday and held him when it made him weep with happiness and gratitude. He knew a new life could be his regardless of Daisy’s choice. Tom wasn't giving up on Daisy by far, however the time with her family became larger to him than the sum total of what he knew of her. The family had shown him what he had for potential and the new awareness left him feeling satiated rather than wanting.

He always cleared the table and dried the dishes with my grandmother after supper. He gave my grandfather dirty jokes to tell at work, if he dare! They would all read the paper together and Tom always ran errands to help out. Tom wanted to demonstrate to Daisy's parents that he knew full well how to take care of their daughter and her family too if they needed him. They already knew that she would be foolish to let him get away and they would do all in their power to stand behind him in his pursuit. Tom would never short Daisy on the stimulus she craved and his big blue eyes and enormous heart would satisfy all else. He could complete her in a lifelong partnership and union without any doubts, and there would be much adventure for those two crazy kids. Half way through the fourth month of his visits, Daisy came back.

The family had planned a welcome home dinner and told Daisy they wanted her to meet this young man, speaking so highly of him and all fingers crossed. She was willing but no promises. When dinner came and Tom showed up more dapper and clean shaven than ever they had seen him before, she acknowledged him politely then went about her usual business and worked to save for another trip, this time down to Florida. Tom went about his usual as did Daisy and the family. All the while they waited for Daisy to settle down for the man they all knew would become her beloved. Eventually a few trips down the road and six months later Daisy fell in love with Tom. It was his dedication and loyalty with them all. Even though I had not been born I know it was Toms big heart that sealed the deal, always has been. With blessings, hugs, a newly acquired Siamese kitten, and the MGB packed to the gills away went Tom and Daisy to elope and drive the country until they hit California or ran out of money, whichever came first. Tom would take Daisy anywhere to do anything as long as she wanted him by her side. This would be lifetime love though I doubt they knew this at the time. Their love is what songs were written about and the things that tug at your heart in a movie. I wasn't even a thought at that time.

They travelled the maritime provinces and then crossed the border in to the eastern and southern United States, through the mountains in Pennsylvania, through the planes and farms and the deep southern states, New Orleans, the desert tundra and all in the little MGB. Tom had built a little trailer made from old MG parts in which carried camping equipment and tools. Most British car owners will tell you, keep your tools nearby as these cars are more temperamental than woman. The two newlyweds made it to California with a remaining two hundred dollars in their pockets. Which was what they would stop at, and did just that. Tom had an aunt and they settled in and earned their way until the next plan was hatched. These two followed their own rules and were terribly eager to get into their own place. With grateful thanks to new jobs and cheap rent and the kindness of family ties; Tom carried Daisy over the threshold of their newly rented California bungalow in 1969.

History at that time I'm told was of legendary status of turbulent change and new consciousness; the Vietnam war, various demonstrations, free love, bra burning! The square 1950’s narrow mindedness was tossed on its head as the unconventional fought for change. This change would rock all north America and challenge the world in ways never expected. There would be no going back after that. From looking back at the music and fashion I would say that was a good thing too! Not that any of that would improve anytime soon. Haven't we all cringed at 1970’s pop culture? The 80’s were different but no better. It’s been a long road. I digress allow me to be placed back on track dear reader.

Now my folks are very straight and above board but you couldn't go near categorizing them as conservative. Having a good strong moral compass with attraction to flavoursome diverse influences that challenged their preformed notions of small mindedness. I love that they are so open and non-judgemental to the world and its people. I’m thankful of its influence on me. Tom and Daisy were met with much luck, opportunity, and motivation. I accredit this to their ever willingness and interest in others and learning while withholding judgements. These were the years of the 'American dream', and success was neatly tucked into their back pocket about to burst. When Sammy, the newlywed’s Siamese kitten turned two; yours truly was born. Sammy slept in my crib beginning with the first night I was brought home from hospital. Naysayers threatened multiple notions of harm to come to me.

A newborn infant sleeping with a cat?

Oh my word! they would gasp

My parents had never been the overprotective type and parenthood hadn't changed a thing. Sammy had become my feline nanny, she took responsibility for my wakefulness, my hunger, whatever it was, she would march through the tiny bungalow announcing my need for attention. Her voice loud and commanding still in deep and vivid recesses of my formative memory. Being first born I received a lot of attention, either that or it was to shut Sam up!

I grew up believing I was special and unique, which to this day was a blessing and a curse. I grew up being told that I could do and be anything I wanted. The love I was given in one day of my little life was atypical. The reality unrealistic; an uncommon existence shaping me to be overly sentimental and emotionally fragile though that would be undetectable for a while still. I was set up, so are most first born and single children. I know it sounds ludicrous to have too much love and attention, but as I'm writing today realizing that when you're placed too high, there is only down to fall. Groomed with lofty expectations would certainly make for a bumpy road in the real world.

As long as I was under the protective coverlet of my creators all would be what dreams are made of. I continued to flourish in my elite and deeply invested environment. At a month old I was in swimming lessons, I learnt to swim before I could walk and walked at ten months without even bothering to crawl. Excelling in swim team by five and also begun tap, jazz, and ballet all weekly. There was always outings to museums and galleries and parks to learn and become knowledgeable and enriched. An underprivileged child growing up with less than nothing could dream as much as their imagination could give and it didn't even come close to a day in my life. The problem is I knew nothing different to give contextual appreciation. Our understanding of reality is based on the memory bank of our experiential collective which can churn out perception. Realistic or not perception requirements have nothing to do with truth, just our version of it.

As I matured and grasped threads of independence and experienced a more typical reality. It was irrefutable that Erica, myself, would be filled with flying or falling, ecstasy and agony and often only seeing flashing glimpses of center on the manic rise or the terrifying plummet. The worlds rules ill flavoured and insupportable. I had an expectation that was entitled to exemplary connection, contact, and attention. I had been cultivated with much talent for athletics, the arts and social graces. How could I not see this coming? I remember summer day camps and the many frivolous talents I embarked on to name a few; flower arrangement, cake decorating, gymnastics, poetry, art appreciation, my point here is I was in trouble if I was ever tossed to the wolves for some fact of life beyond control.

A place like Southern California had convinced my folks that I couldn't be too overachieving, or cultivated, it was not unusual to be so driven and all the families we were close to wanted it all too. Its correct for parents to want for their children better than what they had. My folks had no way of knowing how things would evolve and then devolve, there is no blame to assign. I was rich beyond explanation. We lived the American dream. The kids I went to school with in the states had nothing, beyond nothing, but did possess something priceless and necessary that I did not have, awareness! The interesting thing about awareness is our lack of it and the constant of our journey to repel or attract in a full throttle of ignorance. Driving blind and making your own roads. As time moves year after year then we will determine the real meaning of all that, but as problems don't disappear in a day, they are not usually created in a day either. I was a very lucky little girl and would indeed wish I wasn't someday. When I was grown I would wish an ordinary existence of nothing in particular.

My first deficit revealed itself in early grade school. When everything I wrote was written backwards. I was sent for much scrutiny and examination at the University. In the 70’s my form of Dyslexia made me like the rare sought after unicorn for research purposes. Now for months leading up to the University visits the public school teacher had put me in the special class along with other challenged students. I had been encouraged to draw or color while my peers who were not challenged wrote tests and worked on assignments. I resented their assumption of my lack of intelligence and secretly letting it dismantle my confidence and self- esteem. I withdrew inside and learnt the art of being reclusive. That was my young education. From what I could see it didn't offend the blind, deaf and other kids that were challenged. I was insulted and patronized often, but eventually would then succumb to daydream or draw as they had suggested.

Us special kids, we were never graded or expected to produce anything and it devalued my sense of conventional learning and developmental stage of belonging. At that time where I went to school the average class sizes were between 40-45 students per class. It was obvious to even the oblivious we were forgotten often and it changed who I would become whilst shattering my image of worth. I thank my creative side as it was my escape and got me through the University research program and the public school system. The adults there were doing active long term studies on all the different types of Dyslexia and I was strongly encouraged to participate. I took it upon myself to negotiate whether I wanted to or not. An agreement was settled on; upon my choice following every university visit I would either get McDonalds pancakes with extra butter or a Winchell's doughnut of my choosing.

Also negotiated with an out clause that I could discontinue the study at any time. Which I did after I learned to retrain my brain to see like everyone else’s and I could read and write normal and it was forward and legible. I was learning, the question was what exactly was I learning? The University testing showed that my IQ was remarkable. No one told me the results or what it meant. My teachers were instructed to challenge me now that I could read and write and apparently was brilliant. I was returned back to the normal/above normal population, challenged, and encouraged to conform and adapt.

They did as they were directed, and I refused in a respectful manner to conform as the damage had already been done. If a test was administered, or an assignment given, I would write a poem, draw a picture or daydream far beyond that stale, critical and fickle classroom. I knew exactly what they wanted from me, however I felt indifference having being judged and categorized, but worst of all, forgotten and worthless. The feeling that formed from school stayed with me. As a by-product my imagination and creativity had evolved into a make believe of escape that was just too tempting to pass up. As soon as I could write forward I never stopped writing again. Ironic really as writing had been my salvation yet I shared it with no one, it was mine and my private place. Sad to think I could have remained illiterate a whole lifetime never to read or write a word. I would need writing to get through future obstacles in my life. Today as I write fully knowing it will save my life yesterday, today and tomorrow, blessing me in the graces of words release to freedom for myself, from myself.

The unstructured, non-uniform, whimsy of writing could capture me in timeless escape. The rich pleasure of perspective laid out before me visually could help me learn and understand what no one could explain to me. Giving me a place to play with my mind, then encode my thoughts to protect me from others in my head. Writing was a place I purged my soul of shame and secrecy and fell into the healing validation of choosing a word that best specifies a feeling. Every day I live is another day to be thankful for words and the places those words take me. The holes that words fill and the connections and validations that become gifts to us in the form of vocabulary. It’s the precise word that directs another to your thought as specifically as GPS! Where would we be without them?

Now at this time my little brother mark was a toddler. Mark received far less ministration and spot light than I had, being second child and all. It didn't help that I had territorialized our lives. My folks had just purchased their third piece of property and their second business, by the time Mark entered grade school. All the distractions had taught little Mark to be tolerant, self-reliant, and the amazing ability to soothe himself, and he is still the same to this day. Mark was brilliant and was described as a genius and before he made it through his first year in kindergarten he had already been accepted into a private school and would go directly into the accelerated program. He still found it easy and goofed off receiving glowing reports from everyone who knew him. If there had been any doubt that I was a freakish misfit, there wasn't now with Mark shining like a star. Have no fear, my folks acutely aware of this focused even more on me, but I had already crossed the line of a Catch 22, I might as well get used to it. Mark was a great brother and his kind disposition made all naturally love him. It made me feel like a fraud and I kept my thoughts in more and more as time went by.

Mark was the best brother ever, he was non- confrontational, understanding, gentle, and humorous. I was overlooked all the time because everyone was drawn to Marks ease naturally. He was rewarded often as his willingness made people want to praise him. The only problem was his endearing sweetness shown a brilliant light on my bent eccentricity and I lived a duality as a result. Containing my feelings until they would pour out on the page and release me again. Becoming large and hard to miss, yet somehow still overlooked. When this happened alienation and disconnect held me and my arts would sweep me away distracted and unaffected.

My family was nothing short of exceptional. My mum was a stay at home mum and did all the books for our businesses and rentals. There was always snacks and activities and friends over after school. My father had climbed the ladder of success and his big heart and can do attitude won over many. He always said Can't, never did anything!

We were not allowed to use that word at all. when I recall all that is beautiful in my life, I have mostly my parents to thank. Mark and I would have no idea how much good fortune had been bestowed upon us until we grew up and realized the high price tag for a life filled with love and magic, my folks just made it appear effortless.

Chapter Three

Dismissed As Irrelevant

Today in the life of Erica this present moment; A day in 2010 pausing to gain some orientation, which seems to be often. Too often as life seems ever so daunting having no intention of allowing for comfort and understanding. The collective experience as I pause to notice that if I live to the average lifespan, I'm halfway to the end now. I have no choice but to reasonably acknowledge that losing my girlfriend is not the end of the world and even if it was, life would dismiss it as irrelevant recklessly. We are certainly not as individually special as we think we are. Then be sure to count yourself as lucky if you get to live a life that never shatters that small mindedness.

Living in ignorance is a luxury that few can afford. Lack of awareness is kind to our oversights and our feelings and perceptions that are complete bullshit but taste as sweet as spring water if you don't ever know the difference. I was blessed with cold hard truth that couldn't be dressed up to keep the lies and assumptions hidden in the background, sadly I had the chance at a better life if I could work for it; however that chance if not seized could make life a curse that could drive me into a grave willingly to escape truths. Knowing truth is also knowing how out of control everything really is in this world.

As I've always done, I turn to the page to commit my grand feelings of hopelessness to a place that will welcome and hold them. In turn allowing me to release and unburden myself as in the list of priority a broken heart ranks too far down to entertain with any kind of devotion. I write to Karmen almost as if I have any consideration that she would someday read these words, but know it will never happen. As always my words have only been for me, despite who it is addressed to. The words ceremoniously have always been for me, they exist to set me free. I let go and know I am making things right as my pen connects to the paper with fervour.

Dearest Karmen,

Deeply in my heart you will always be exquisite, deep in my heart you will be an unmanageable beast of ferocity. There are many truths that are you and me and many contradictions to truth that are intrinsic to us both. Together its only precious madness we devoured and called love. I do love you and will forever. Being equitable my love; I let you destruct and I’m sorry. I knew you would, so here I confess that I knew and still I let you. Even though I knew it would break something inside my heart that I have searched for, I still let go and let you destroy us. Here I am today admitting ownership in the mad mess you thought was all you. I don't miss the alcoholic monster that doles out too much regret to repair. I don't miss always letting you down and ducking from your wrath for who I had no control of being. Both of us so strong in every way when standing apart independently, so determined to be together, and yet so damaged, and in reflection now so viciously obvious. In each moment until the image plays on for us to gaze into a repetitive history of what has been and what will always be. Love is not enough and I curse my awareness that won't let me forget. Then I feel sadness too for teaching you my love the same excruciating lesson that cannot be unlearnt or unknown.

I'm truly sorry you too had to learn how unjust loves game is yet again. I’m sorry you carry the weight of truth because of me. I don’t regret that it is truth and hard to swallow simply by honesty's true nature. I just wish the lesson was sweeter in taste so you could remember me fondly. That road belongs to another bird and fish.

Love at first sight gave these devouring qualities to my surrender of wanting and consuming. Will I love or hate falling for you? The initial moment as if I could be infected by you like an illness of love sickness. I would breathe you and crave you, when our mutual gaze fell I instantaneously ached for more of your eyes, your smile, the lines that form around your mouth when you are about to kiss me. I felt you asleep next to my naked body, I felt your breath on my bare shoulders and neck. When you would fall into sleep there was a vulnerable nestling you would do into my side, and I was full. A fullness no man could ever give me.

When you tasted my skin I knew this was all mutual, our bond undeniable and rare, something I had never known. Something that somehow resembled what I would've never understood. In our sleep intertwined and tangled, limbs and the psychological. Closer and closer in intimacy until claustrophobic ghosts from the past roaring in to frighten us both back into protective vigilance. We sensed and never spoke of the natural threat our differences posed. We progressed noticing those obvious elephants but acted like ostriches not seeing a thing with heads in the ground. The risk went deliberately unacknowledged with a ridiculous hope that we would figure it out in a painless spontaneity. I didn't want to know we would never be.

I knew that without worthy change we would have no choice but to give in to the canyon of differences that created discomfort forcing us in opposite directions. Giving up was hard for us both. Fully knowing that all those past loves who'd given up on us both, made us always swear to be different. One of our shared commonalities worked against us more than all our differences. This gem of knowledge added another dimension to the length of time of suffering that would be required to finally give up for the other in compassion of impossibility. Our love was different from most; kindness would come in the form of abandonment of the other to restore peace. It would never be my love that you would come home to, that love you are meant to have will not come for you until I let you go. I do that now wholly and with courage and optimism. I know this is the only way. Often the right thing is the thing that we repel the most. I cannot regret you as you were a special choice and your unique specific role and purpose will never be gone from me. I needed you, and asked for you and was given you for a reason few would understand. You were never supposed to be my wife or my lover, but a kind of saviour.

The broken pieces fused together within me, framing a not yet realized blueprint. Forever I am indebted. You are the first woman I have ever loved and given myself to. I am cradled and tortured, and I want the tenderness of you again and again though it is not so. Remaining thankful for the purpose of you, I understand in humility but surely not in comfort. Aching for time to pass so the sting can fade away now. I cherish the loss of my gain and wait in the eclipse of your disappointment of my shortcomings and limits. Who do you think I am? I ask you, then beg you not to answer with the anger cultivated throughout your entire lifetime.

It is with no regret that we end now. I give consent to this end and let go, knowing this was a pre written story with a destined outcome. There is a life and a love that you have not yet known and indeed it will be worthy of all you never had but continue to dream about. For me it was not that you would be forever but that I was worth all that effort in your upstream swim of loving me! Even knowing in the end I would just fly away.

Your anger is a demon I have been in competition with, my illness flickers fear in you and I for once see a crystal clear image of how terrifying a predator I have become when backed into a corner of conflict. The sickness in us both is deprecatingly inflammatory and we know letting go is the only way to legitimately love each other. We end to find the beginning of ourselves so one day we will love our way back to our dreams where we will love as friends. As friends we will celebrate each other’s life loves and know this was always how it was supposed to be.

My freedom crosses over into the undetectable greys of uncertainty, yet I go in peace and bless you to do the same. You are the missing piece to a past that needed healing, you are more than words can say, you are a gift of a promise that has nothing to do with you at all. I will never forget you, us, and the possibilities because you walked through my door that night. I wish for you a bottled perfection of life, so that day you will taste the sweetness of what can be. Only then will you know who I really am.

Love forever,

Erica

Well I'm exhausted from a fifteen hour shift today, it’s one a.m. now and my Quetiapine is kicking in. The medication has finally disabled my hand from writing another word, the neuroleptic has rendered my brain careless and abandoned and I am soothed to bed. I have to go to sleep now. It is October 15th. I just closed the doors to my balcony, drawn the long heavy dark drapes to meet in the middle. I am asleep in mere seconds, fallen far into a godless dreamless sleep that only an antipsychotic medication can induce. I am thankful despite loss and fear.

Chapter Four

Bookended in Brokenness

I can feel the chill today of fall slipping into winters cold grasp. It’s almost always present no matter how bright the sun is shining. The sun will have to step down from her egocentric rein from summer and let winter have her turn. Today was unusually bright. The rebellious sun reluctant to step back. There was this bitter cold. I suppose I remember it so clearly as it very much parallels my current position and orientation.

Feeling Karmen slip through my fingers was going to happen, it was predictable to say the least. Once it was done I felt winters chill again with clear remembrance of the brokenness that comes with the ending of a relationship. Ironically I was lucky enough that me being crushed plenty frequent and severe had taught me remarkable strategies in loss and its spiralling crash. Ensuring to find stable ground on the double. I feel the end approaching and I brace myself for the crash.

That’s when the planning begins and the lists and my protection from emotions reckless impulsivity. Life’s procrastinated distractions find invitation to become project status to save me from thoughts of love. All the recent lovesick procrastination that happens so you can spend every last moment in selfish coupled delight, all the many things that got put off, postponed, cancelled, deferred. Now is the time to get shit done. I begin to reconnect with the good folks in my life that were pushed away in the days lost to the bliss of love. The unfolding and demanding from my heart newly in love. Proceeding to fill my social calendar up once again as the one without the plus one. This is a good time to get new photos and a new hair colour or cut, or both. With the pictures looking smart as ever, activity falls into the updating of my dating profile.

Plenty of fish online looking to bite and life is too short to get caught up with the doom and gloom of a one and only. The only way is to shift focus and push away the fresh bite of loss. Sure, it hurts a lot but, when ripped off fast like a band aid we move forward and in a more expedited fashion. I welcome the end as it leads to the beginning of my life back again. Love serves mostly as distraction, and even though Karmen was different she must default to a compartmentalized category to smooth over my hearts loss.

My social life is filling up once again now that loves possibility has diminished. Still compromised by FF and a workaholic lifestyle, but making a solid effort to socialize. The goals and tasks that were with the dust bunnies under the bed have been collected and brushed off. I set new intentions and before you know it, time and thought have given the gift of objectivity and its easy from there. The sting of breaking travels further with each activity of distraction. I finally can breathe as my heart calluses itself into comfort. Friends are huge when it comes to moving on and finding objectivity that neatly reframes the whole picture. I know this and right away seek out some time with true people.

The first friend I see, Harrison, comes swooping in like a vulture. He is focused, intense, ambivalent, layered, and complicated. We had dated at one point, and amicably decided not to continue without any need for conversation around it. I was surprised as he continued to be in my life supportively and consistently in friendship. I had never known any man to be honest when they said, we can still be friends. Imagine my surprise when Harrison dropped that line and actually meant it. Harrison was different than any man I had ever met. I liked him and was comfortable with both of our awkwardness towards conventional living.

While I was at his place visiting we decided to jump in my car and go for a drive, eventually reaching a highway along a rocky coastline and raging ocean that releases and grounds me. We are well outside the downtown where Harrison’s condo is located. We have gone far to get away from society and the bullshit that comes hand and hand with population density. It felt good to us both to drive far out and fast with the windows all the way down. There is no pressure or expectations with Harrison. There is not a soul around and we park the car and hike out on a bluff so high above the ocean and it feels good to us both. He stares out across the water with visible lines in his forehead, those lines intrigue me and I stare unafraid of him catching me. I wonder why those lines are there. The more lost in the ocean he becomes the more my curiosity rises about Harrison and who he is under everything. Even after all these years of friendship he has a mystique that fascinates me. I feel a trust with him and I know that likely he may be even more guarded from bonding than I am. Our friendship is strong because we will never be together.

Harrison has been gutted and battered verbally by a cruel step mother who was not even his own by blood. Despite her best, worst efforts Harrison is brilliant. His father is very successful and wealthy travels all the time, all he says about this is money talks. His mother had died shortly after he was born, complications from her post-partum depression, is all Harrison will say about it. His abusing step mum who entered the picture when Harrison was four years of age, had never wanted kids but was deeply persuaded by his father's bank book and good looks. It was sad to think of my sweet friend growing into who he would become with a parent who never wanted him. He and I have a language unique to our friendship like no one else. We knew each other through work and took the friendship no farther as to keep professional lines clear. Finally when I left that position we had dated for a split second. Both Harrison and I knew there was no fit for us. Always drawn to him even though being his girlfriend would never work, I remain loving him anyway. Loving my friend without condition for its outcome with or without an us.

In my life up until now there have been many sharp turns that have lost others but not him. I have no idea how and why; but he is special, what makes him so different leaves me wondering. Yet here he remains my loyal friend. I have trust issues that keep me locked down like Alcatraz and it leads me inevitably to scrupulous discernment. Which gives me no concern as it is in the range of normal for my self-talking brain of suspicion. It is the filter less-ness of our conversations that gives depth to our friendship. There is an understanding between us that we are human and dare we be uncomfortably honest about ideas and feelings. He will be direct and his feedback gives me insightfulness of how to most be effective interpersonally. He’s my Devil’s advocate on demand.

This highest value of authenticity gives shrewd intuitive skill. If you have never had a friend like this I strongly encourage the acquisition. If you dare, challenge your ego! A person who will let you float an idea and will react without cruel judgements but with an honesty that serves personal development more so than grandiose self-image. It’s wonderful what we can learn from creating a dress rehearsal for standing our ground courageously with fearless uncensored honesty. In times of transition, doubt, complications and change and its fearful threats of failure it’s no shock I would go to Harrison and kidnap him away and seek out some reflection before furthering action. He is booked all the time and I have to be swift and clever to get him away from all the attractive distractions. He is always willing to allow me to abscond with him and loves the impulsive unplanned escape. The whole time with me his phone is chirping and claiming for his attention. He ignores it and keeps his suitors chasing and guessing. Of course I feel special and feel undivided. He is here with me and devoted to our friendship. You see Harrison is sought after and thrives on the attention.

He is tall, very handsome, armed with chameleon like adaptability. He is acutely self- involved, however aware and comfortable with it. He can be cruel and petty if given just cause. The opposite is true as well, if given just cause he can be loyal and kind. Our time together ranges from absurdity, decadence, gluttony, and tenderness that tries my trust and likely his too. I think of all the attention whores who covet him and can't begin to know who he really is. Harrison likely may never commit to another in romance. He is the game and the action. The entertainment. Love he curses. Love, to Harrison is the legacy of his father’s wife and the damage that comes with the union of love.

Having spent a quiet day with Harrison I find myself that evening reflecting on how we met and the position I've gotten myself into. Harrison and I met initially while working in the slippery business of healthcare so there is a mutual understanding that closes a gap that often exists with others in my life. As much as one thinks they could imagine this bureaucracy, they can't! All the people in pain and desperation, the slippery footing of ethics and its ever evolving/devolving morality. Disgust that is pushed on the back burner for the sake of income, and hopefully humanity makes the priority list too. It cannot be fathomed unless you are there and unless you have been pushed beyond limits only to create new boundaries out of no choice. Out of never good enough, out of life is just not fucking fair but who cares anyway for fucks sake! Knowing when you get home it will take a pill, a drink, a joint to snap you out of this mad malicious system.

The sad state of insult that takes away a little of the sting is that no one even bothered having intentional corrupt feelings to hurt anyone else. It’s just not that personal. Sloppy and disgruntled is automatically stamped on the foreheads of the burnt out and run over workers. It’s not personal. It's the system, cashing in on the suffering of the patients, on the backs of the workers, that is the problem. It is money, and government funding for private business masquerading under the facade of not for profit and smiling old ladies being hugged by fit, young and good looking actors. It’s the professions overwrought system that just can't seem to make humans a personal priority.

I'm not exactly sure about the prestigious medical community, as they are shielded and protected from the frontlines of health care and its heedlessness. What does seep in rolls off their back with ease during their three week holiday on the boat that summer. The waitlist increases with those in immediate need, sometimes it shortens as the need was too urgent to wait, as they say, expired. It’s cold and mostly in my work life I feel very alone. Teamwork is lip service in home support, save it for your glossy brochures. My fire of passion only rages from the hardship which strengthens me and gives me significant purpose. Not the case for many but for the strong it makes them stronger. The weak in the low end of the medical system end up on medical leave themselves, mostly burnout and back injury. Those who once were hero’s now have been absorbed by the masses they used to help. Now they rely on the not yet burnt out worker who replaced them.

I had always only worked casual and had desirable hours and found balance with much more ease than now. Due to changes in circumstance and demand for me to increase money; I applied for a posting for a regular position and received it. The last few months, for the first time in my life I am doing shift work. It is becoming apparent to me that the nine to fivers, my old schedule, are a completely different culture. They are the ones who always say, have a good weekend. The rest of us don't even know what day it is! It’s probably a good thing as the repetitive dig of always knowing you're missing the point of living is unbearable.

In retrospect; I would've never chose to work so many hours in this workaholic life with such a disparaging wage for the demands. Clearly it’s all about money now. In fact it’s going to be about money for a while now. The irony of my hearts desires compete in total contrast with the consequences of my past decisions and what it will cost to be free once again. How I wished I had just appreciated the freedom I had.

I thought I had finally caught up to myself, I thought it was a new start, I thought I may actually begin building again. Building the dreams I had clenched so tightly to. In an instant it was all washed up again. This time it was not my fault and therefore I’m not cross with myself, but what's the point of being virtuous when your left to clean up thanklessly and deliberately screwed by someone who cares so little for even their own integrity. The woman I had clawed my way to become for years was deferred by Christmas of 2009. AGAIN. Having my life experience resemble a patchwork quilt; I do know where to begin and know my feelings, though valid will not help me where I'm going now. I accept my mandatory position that is now me and hope someday to get back to this cross roads where I had no choice but to travel a new uncharted course of a brand new kind that scared me senseless, but