Loss and Identity

I have lost a lot. When I think back on the last…ooh let’s go five-six years, it almost feels like I have lost everything. When I think about that person from six years ago, I can barely recognize her. in some ways this is fantastic! Thank god I am not a snivelling fourteen year old, besotted by love/know it all any more. Thank god I’ve grown up. However, it feels like everything I have lost has taken some chunk away from who I am and left me as a floating random organization of atoms with no way of identifying myself. Everyone experiences loss, but how does your identity survive that?

What have I lost? Let’s start with my culture. A terrible, terrible experience with bullying caused me to give up my Ukrainian Bilingual schooling and go to a high school that didn’t offer it instead. I did many projects on Ukraine for my language class and sang Ukrainian songs for my music class in high school, but it wasn’t the same as learning the language and speaking it every day. It wasn’t the same as hearing the songs at Christmas with everyone joining in. It wasn’t the same. So I slowly watched it drift away. I tried to reclaim it in my first ever semester of university, but being in class with some of the same students from long ago caused me so much anxiety I had to drop out. My culture had slipped between my fingers. I think the biggest blow was our traditions at Christmas and Easter. With my parent’s divorce my mom put less and less effort in the Easter baskets and traditional Christmas eve Svyat Vechir because of the stress and depression. Honestly I think the only reason she did it was because I begged and pleaded, desperate for something that wouldn’t change. I miss my traditions, this year we are hardly acknowledging the existence of Christmas.

Which brings my to my next point, I’ve lost my family. My sister who is mentally ill lives in a group home because she was too violent to live with my mother and my father kicked her out. I don’t speak to her and we were never close. My parents have had an ugly divorce and for my own well being I don’t speak to my father. by not speaking to my father I no longer have grandparents from his side, my aunt, my cousins, no one. I literally cannot speak to half my family because they all hate me. I have another sister who again, I’m not very close to. She is experiencing her own problems and because of such, the best part of my week is unfortunately, when she is at my dad’s, not at home with my mom and I. Bless small mercies that I still have my mom. And perhaps the hardest blow was my Baba who died this October. Her husband had already passed when I was 12. I am beginning to notice that the grief isn’t something that ever really goes away, you just learn to live with it. Which brings me to my next loss.

With the passing of my Baba, it truly felt like the end of my childhood. All those memories, those experiences, they really were in the past just as she is now.Losing my childhood means that no matter how hard I tried to cling on, my innocence is also gone. Time has passed and I am all grown up, there is no longer any room to deny this. And regardless of the symbolic sense of her death, it hurts like a damn bitch to lose someone you love so much, especially when you already have been rejected by so much of your family.

So in all of these losses, it feels like I have lost myself. I find myself clinging to old traditions and practices in desperate attempts to maintain some semblance of my old life, of the person I knew I was, instead of this awkward transition phase I am in right now. I feel like I block of swiss cheese with so many holes in my life that I am pretending are still filled instead of truly filling them with the new experiences of a new person. This is grief for the loss of myself, I mourn these loses of identity. I have no idea how to fill them or how to accept that my life has moved on without me. The thing is though, we are molded by our experiences, each day is unique never again to be repeated. Every single day something new happens to me and creates a brand new person so that every night when I fall asleep, the person I was dies, and a new one is born. These losses are traumatic and significant, they are branded on my heart with a dull aching pain, but even without them I could not be who I was six years ago. Without them I could not be who I will become tomorrow when I wake up, or six years from now. Despite the grief I feel over the loss of what I feel made me who I am, I could not be who I am, who ever that is, without these experiences.

And on that note it’s time to say goodnight. I have funeral to prepare for and a rebirth in the morning. It’s okay to mourn that which makes my heart ache, but to remain static is to cease living. So while I feel like a mismatched pair of sock, or an uncompleted jigsaw puzzle, I truly am who I am, and who that is, is me. There is no one else I’d rather be. It’s time to start being me instead of grieving over a me that I can never get back, and most likely don’t want back.I need to process my grief and accept myself for who I am, and stop trying to be the person that hasn’t gone through what I have.

And just we are clear, I definitely still know it all, now I just know it better!
-Tatiana

A Day in the Life of a Mental Illness

In light of Robin Williams’ suicide a lot of people have come forward with blogs regarding suicide and mental illness. Todd Bridges, Matt Walsh, these are just a couple of articles I’ve seen on the matter. I’m not going to voice my opinion on Robin Williams. His family is mourning, they really don’t need to read about what people think of him dying. It is tragic and heartbreaking and I pray the pain of his death on his loved ones eases. However, in light of these articles, I am going to take you all through one of my typical days. I have anxiety and depression so those are the mental illnesses you will be experiencing as you read this blog.

For those of you who suffer through a mental illness, hopefully you can relate and feel a little less alone. For those of you who don’t, perhaps it will help you understand. Being mentally ill myself, even I find it hard to understand the limitations some people face, as each illness is as unique to the person as their brain is. Not all treatments works on everyone, and not all illnesses will present themselves as straightforward as a textbook would have you believe. So for the next however long it takes you to read this, you the reader, are a 19 year old female with anxiety and depression.

Keep in mind as you read that this is not a one time occurrence every once in a while. This is every. single. day. No matter what kind of sleep I get. no matter how I nicely I look dressed up. Every single day.

A Day in the Life of a Mental Illness

Boots on a hard floor are walking all over the house preparing to leave. You are wide awake and alert, rolling over to check your phone dammit. It’s on 6:30 am. Mom must be getting ready to leave and you don’t have to wake up for another 3 hours. Suddenly your stomach clenches and it’s excruciatingly painful. Chest tightening, muscles tensing, you’re trying to run away or hide from something. How many more minutes until she leaves for work? You need to get back to sleep or you’ll be over tired. Is she gone yet? What if she finds the weeds you didn’t pack up last night? What if she’s upset you didn’t wash all the dishes? Is any one else awake? Oh no…they’re arguing. Breathe, breathe…ah there’s the door. Your entire body relaxes and within twenty minutes you’re asleep again.

Your alarm goes off, the Star Wars theme, chosen specifically to inspire you to get out of bed, an effect that wore off after the first time you used it to wake. There is forty five minutes until you have to catch the bus. If you skip showering today perhaps you can lie in bed for another twenty or so minutes. Every limb feels heavy and pressed down on, so heavy in fact, they almost ache. Your eyelids won’t stay open. Already you are discouraged from leaving your bed, however, months of practice have made this a little easier. Resisting the overbearing urge to roll over you swing your legs over the bed and head to the bathroom. Crap. Your hair looks pretty gross. Check the time to see if you have any room to shower. No? Ugh, should have woken up sooner. Oh well. You pull your hair all the way back into a pony tail so it is entirely off your face and doesn’t look greasy. Time is running out and you need to leave for the bus. Throw on some clothes and it is off to work.

Success! Today you actually beat the bus to the station. Yesterday was brutal you had to wave down the bus driver and almost arrived late to work. But he was nice and stopped for you. Waiting for the bus your leg is shaking. You double check to make sure your hair hasn’t fallen out of place. The sun is bright so you’re squinting, there’s so many people around. You hate having your hair pulled back from your face, why didn’t you just get up? There’s so many people around, and you feel so gross. Gosh you just don’t look good today-Hey! Stop thinking like that is not helping. Doesn’t matter. Your shoulders are tense and there’s a gross lump in your stomach. Did that guy just look over at you? Frick, why didn’t you wake up with enough time to get ready. Like a NORMAL person. The bus isn’t here yet. Crap. What if it’s late? You can’t afford to be late for work. There it is! There’s the bus. Why does there have to be so many people on it? Oh no…someone is sitting in your spot. What do you do now? Your eyes widen and you panic trying to find the closest seat to sit in. You’re too nervous to sit next to another person. Crap there was a seat…but you’ve walked past it already. If you walk back to the seat you’ll look stupid.

You’ve finally sat down and spend the bus ride shaking your leg and looking around. You need something to look at. Look at the people, look at the ads, back at the people, ugh you caught eye contact with that person. You hope he doesn’t think it’s weird. Oh no, what if he thinks your face is fat. You can’t hide behind your hair. Does your make up look too trashy today? What if you look like a tramp? You can’t go to work looking like a tramp. Oh no, your manager is going to be so upset. You didn’t dress properly, why on earth couldn’t you just WAKE UP.

You get to work, walk through the store and smile at your co-workers who say hi. Where’s the manager? Your muscles tense and you try to find her. It’s really hard to breathe. Everything feels pressed down on and tight. You check your appearance one more time in a mirror in the back, nothing you can do to fix it now. Head out to the store to sign in. The manager walks in from her break. Your stomach starts to ache and your muscles tense up. You approach a customer and say hello, your voice is three octaves higher than usual. Boy did you ever sound stupid. Oh no, someone’s at the cash desk. You didn’t get there fast enough. Okay, okay…the manager is looking at you. Or is she? Did you do something wrong? You should have gotten to the cash desk sooner! Why do you have such a hard time paying attention to things! Your fingers are shaking and it takes you three tries to punch in your login to the cash system. The customer must think you are pretty stupid. No, stop that. You NEED to stop thinking like that. Stop berating yourself. You are great on cash till. You can do this no problem. You hand the customer her purchase and dash out from behind the register. Crap, you need to do something. You can’t just stand around. What do you do? WHAT DO YOU DO? Your mind is screaming and your body panicking, you search frantically around the room. God you must look stupid moving in little circles. THERE! That rack! You can straighten it. You dash over to the rack. Thank goodness, some customers have just walked in the door. You walk over to greet them. They ignored you. Your entire body feels like it’s been hit. Maybe your voice was too quiet and choked up.

The entire shift is filled with thoughts of panic. Thoughts of what you do wrong. The manager is upset about something and comes over to make sure you can do this or that properly. You feel stupid. Your body feels shaken and defeated. You look gross. You are terrible at your job. You don’t want to be working. You haven’t made enough sales today. To be fair there hasn’t been many people in the store. All the same the conversion is terrible. There are people you should have sold to. How much longer until your shift is done? You’ve got this. You can survive another hour. Breathe. Remember to breathe. At the till you completely blank out and forget what you are doing. You panic as you try to remember how to ring up a purchase. Your tongue stumbles over words as you are trying to explain the sale. That didn’t make any sense did it? Why did you explain in such a roundabout way? You looked so stupid. Oh thank god the shift is over. Your entire body is still tense. Your stomach is sick. Your heart is racing. It has been all shift. You do your bag check and practically run from the store. Today was not a good day.

You’re outside the store and heave a sigh of relief. Today was not a good day. Your stomach is in so much pain. You may have to quickly find a bathroom. You hate when your IBS acts up in public. Everyone else in the washroom can hear your distressed stomach. God you hope your stomach calms down. Now. Calm down. Your stomach is in knots. Your chest tight. You feel weighed down. You did such a poor job today. You kept blanking out. You didn’t remember the promotion properly. The manager was upset and you didn’t help by screwing up so many times. If you are this incompetent at retail how do you ever expect to get through university in the fall? You can barely wake up on time! You won’t be able to attend classes. You can’t do anything properly. You shouldn’t even be allowed to leave the house. You’re sitting on a bench in the mall because you can’t bear the thought of going outside yet. Tears well up in your eyes. Don’t you dare cry. Don’t you dare. Everyone will see you if you cry and your face will turn all red. You already look gross. Stop it. There you go. Deep breath. One last sigh and the tightness from your chest is gone and you can head out to the bus. You still feel numb and useless, but you’re not going to burst into tears or collapse. Almost home. And home is safe. If only you never had to leave it…

If you lasted through that entire read I commend you. I hope it had an impact. I hope you can see how every moment is wrought with feelings of inferiority and self loathing. I am always terrified of how foolish I seem, and when I make a mistake, there is no critic worse than myself. Even if I manage to stop the direct thoughts of berating myself, my entire body’s reaction doesn’t go away. Long after I’ve stopped saying how worthless I think I am, my body is still heavy, and tense and I’m having a hard time not crying. My mood can change instantly with just a look. And I truly have no control. So the next time you want to say suicide is a choice, think again. It may look like a choice to you but I’m sure it wasn’t to the other person. The mentally ill have invisible limitations. I look just like you, but my brain chemistry is a little off, enough that it makes daily functions more difficult than the usual person. We are completely capable of achieving great feats and overcoming our limitations. Despite my incapabilities, I am the world’s first (of three) International Baccalaureate Diploma Graduate from a Personalized Self Directed Learning School. That’s a big deal there. I did that. Mentally ill and all. But you wouldn’t expect a baby to run a race, or a person in a wheelchair to climb the stairs, so don’t expect someone with a mental illness to function normally.

What’s the big deal in changing your name?

BRACE YOURSELF. I feel a couple of rants coming on that I may just pitch out one right after another. I have the urge to rant.

This topic is a hotbed of opinions from all sorts women. A Topic that my boyfriend even admits that men while they can sympathize, really are incapable of wrapping their heads around because they are NEVER in this position. That position, is changing your name to your husband’s after you get married.

It’s just a common occurrence. Everybody does it, and has for a very very long time. So you wouldn’t think such a common and established tradition would pose such a dilemma for women today. Oh but it does, and it has posed one even for me even though I’m not getting married for at least another five years. What do I do with my last name?

There are plenty of options the first and foremost just keeping your own name. It’s easy, it’s simple, it makes sense. Bada bing bada boom you’re done. But for the women who put identity in a name (as I do) it’s not that simple. Through a name, my unity with my husband (generally speaking) is broken by the name. Any future children I have will also have a different name, alienating me from them. So, that option in particular doesn’t appeal for me. For the women who choose it, POWER TO YA!

So the second most obvious option. Just change your name to your husband’s. It’s not super radical, it’s actually expected. Your kids, you and your husband will all have the same family name, it basically resolves all the issues with NOT changing your name. It also brings up a plethora of issues. Now this may sound very simplistic, but why am I the one to change my name? Why do I have to do it? Why not my husband? It also contributes to the age old idea that women were property owned by their father (the maiden name) and then paid off (dowry) to be married by some other man who then owned them (the husband’s name). Now, while most men probably do not view their wife taking their name as an act of ownership and oppression, and honestly have the best intentions at heart, it still feels awful to the woman losing half of her identity. My boyfriend and I had this discussion and even he had to admit that even though he understood, it was hard for him to wrap his head around why it would bother me. So just giving up half of my identity, because yes my name means that much to me, is not an option.

So, I won’t keep my own name, I won’t change it to my husband’s name, so maybe he should change his name to mine? No that doesn’t work either. If it’s something I won’t do I’m not going to expect my husband to do it either.

There’s also the idea of creating a brand new name, but to me that’s ignoring my roots so I don’t like that idea either.

Impossible to please aren’t I?

So this is my solution and why.
I want to hyphenate my name, and I want my future husband to do the same. I am 100% myself, but I will also be 100% his. Just as he is 100% his own but also 100% mine. At least in our minds as we have discussed this. By hyphenating our last names we both retain our individuality but also create a unified family name. As mentioned before, why should either of us expect the other to do what one of us wouldn’t? My boyfriend and I were talking about this and I asked him why it’s so important for me to have his last name. His response was that he loves me and like a wedding ring it shows that I am his and we are joined together. Innocent, pure, loving intentions. In the spirit of discussion I then asked him how to represent that he is also mine since my name just gets dropped. He didn’t know. He also admitted it wasn’t something he had ever actually considered before. He also agreed to and likes the idea of hyphenating both our names.

Right now it’s a non issue because neither of us have to change our names in the foreseeable future, but he certainly won’t be obstinate to alternatives as he can see it’s a big deal for me to just drop my name and automatically assume his. There are many levels to a woman changing her name when she gets married, and it’s really important for everyone to remain aware of it. It’s important to my boyfriend that I in some way take on his name, but we view each other as equals and we both agree that it isn’t fair to ask me to change my name when he isn’t willing to relinquish his either.

And this is what feminism and equality is all about. It’s about compromise and understanding. It’s about the big deal in changing a name, even if you yourself can’t see why it matters. It matters to have the choice.

Yes, this is a cry for help

Hello Blog Readers,

I have a favour to request of you internet people. If you have read my blog you get the idea that we are (especially us children) in a bit of a pickle as a family. I have started a campaign at gofundme.com to help out my family and if you all could, at the bare minimum, just read it and share it I would be eternally grateful. It would absolutely mean the world to me. I hope this isn’t too forward. Thanks for your time and concern

CLICK THIS LINK: http://www.gofundme.com/b05s5c

On my mind today…

I just feel like spitting my thoughts about today onto paper…in this case I suppose it’s screen. Tee-hee

Sundays somewhat suck. Why do Sundays suck? Well Sundays suck because every second weekend my little sister goes to visit her dad. And guess what day she returns from her weekend adventure. Yup. Sundays. And this eleven year old girl does not transition well. Not that I blame her. I would be a little bit aggravated if I had to be shipped between parents who broke their promise to remain together through thick and thin. Especially since the one parent is a closet (and possibly abusive?) alcoholic and has a narcissistic personality disorder. Lucky for me I have the option to just stay with my mom and quietly send hateful thoughts from a distance. HOWEVER. It is not the little one’s transition that makes Sundays so sucky. It’s her stories about how spoiled she got over the weekend. I would like to interject RIGHT HERE that I completely and absolutely DO NOT BLAME MY SISTER. I’m glad she enjoys her weekends with her Daddy.

But considering the man hides his income so that he doesn’t have to pay child support and claims poverty, it is a little bit hard to listen to stories about the $600 ring he bought his girlfriend, or the night at the zoo he bought tickets for, for his girlfriend, her daughter, himself, and my sister. Or about the watch he bid on for my other sister that he just kicked out of his house for taking the keys to his car for the umpteenth time and totalling it (Now THAT is a funny story, least for me). Now, I absolutely do not require gifts. I actually do not take pleasure in being bribed by material items, NOR do I appreciate shallow demonstrations of affection in the form of money just so there is an illusion of love and caring. So why does it bother me that I was the only one who didn’t get anything this weekend? Or the weekend before? Or the weekend before that? Or before that even! Well the reason is two fold.

Number one) Guess which household didn’t have enough money this pay cheque to buy groceries? Between my mom (who has two jobs) and I working (I’ll admit I am not full time but I just wouldn’t be able to handle it if I were) we just had enough to take care of the bills, well most of them, and our own personal expenses. For instance I needed tampons and new work clothes. With barely enough money to buy food, it is really, really, hard to hear about nights at the zoo or watches or rings or clothes. I have to pay for school myself, my clothes myself, my everything by myself. And my father spends all this money on frivolous things for my sister and his girlfriend ALL WHILE CLAIMING POVERTY. And he never gives a thought to helping me out. Or my mother out with the groceries or credit card debt they accumulated together. In fact he just tries to evict us from our house and get money from my mother. It’s heart breaking really.

Number two) And this one might be hard to understand. My dad buying everyone else gifts is just another indicator of how disposable he finds me. (Read: Daughter of a Narcissist. It explains all about his narcissistic personality disorder) He doesn’t give me a second thought. He doesn’t call me. He doesn’t text me. Or email me. He doesn’t stop by to visit me. He doesn’t buy me a damned thing. He doesn’t even send me a card in the mail. And you know what this all means for me? That he doesn’t care. And why doesn’t he care? Because he is incapable of caring. It’s a vicious cycle. I know he’s incapable of caring so I want nothing to do with him, so he pretends I don’t exist, and that hurts my feelings because it shows he doesn’t care. And him not caring makes me want to distance myself even further and on and on it goes. Do you get the picture? So please don’t go lecturing me about a two way street. It is really better for my well being if I disassociate from my father all together but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Today however, while there is that pain like every day, I feel oddly optimistic. There’s no anxiety in me at this moment. I feel calm, secure. I feel strong. I’d even dare to say I feel happy! I feel completely at peace with today’s situation because I know one day it has to be different. Nothing lasts forever! Right now I’m just glad we have enough food to survive, we have water and electricity, we have netflix and internet. I have a (working) cell phone. I have a job. We have a house. We still have and can take care of our dogs. We have clean water. The rest of it right now, doesn’t matter. Because I’m happy 🙂

Or perhaps that’s the wine I just had talking…

Anyways, Thanks for reading!

Stop Telling Me: “If Only I Looked Like You”

Let’s get one thing straight here. Everybody, and I mean ABSOLUTELY EVERYBODY (or at least pretty close to) is insecure about something. Whether it’s nose, stomach, arms, eyes, butt, most people feel insecure about something and I can assure you I am no exception. I’m five-foot-nine and have an, oval? square? face and at the wrong angle it looks like I have a double chin. My chest, waist, hips measurements are approximately 36 inches-32 inches-40 inches so yes I’m thin with big boobs and a big butt. I have legs that are about half the size of what people deem ‘average’ and I have wrists so small that my pinky and my pointer finger can circle around it and still leave some room. My legs are long, my waist is long, my arms are long, I’m long, slender, and tall. But guess what? I’m still insecure.

Here are all the things I don’t like about me. Let’s start with my skinny legs that make it impossible to find knee high boots and gladiator sandals that don’t gap unattractively around my calves. Or my stomach that while slim, is not flat and toned but rather sticks out when I slouch or sit or don’t stand perfectly straight. Then there’s the love handles that feel like they hang a mile over my waist band. And my huge boobs that make finding shirts that fit properly and bras that fit nicely impossible. My shoulders are broader so I can’t wear blazers or button up shirts. They get uncomfortable or my boobs pop the buttons. I have the damndest time finding pants because I’m always between sizes. My height makes he horribly self conscious, I feel more noticeable, I’m clumsy, I hit my head a lot, and I cannot for the life of me wear heels higher than an inch because then I am just unbearably tall. I hate the fact that I’m not skinny like a model, but I’m not curvy either, not the way I’d like to be anyways.

So all the touting on the internet about this is beautiful and that is beautiful and curves not bones, well it’s all a load of hateful rubbish I tell you. And I hate it. Oh yes I know very well to ignore it and for the most part I do but sometimes I just can’t and it gets to me. I’m only human. Let’s face it, I can’t do much about how I look (well I suppose I could tone up, but I could hardly make my calves or arms thicker, or my boobs smaller, or my height shorter!) and most people can’t change how they look either. I mean, I absolutely hate the shape of my face but I can’t exactly change it. 

Because I work in a woman’s clothing store, I often give suggestions for customers to try on, especially in the dresses for I have quite a few favourites picked out. However, I am often met with, “well maybe if I looked like you”, “no I have a tummy, but if I was smaller like you”, “it’s something more for you to wear, not me.” Guess what ladies, those kind of comments hurt, because I think each and everyone of you who come into my store are beautiful. And perhaps I don’t look good in some of the things I’m suggesting. Maybe I don’t like the way my tummy looks in the dress when I sit down, why? Because I get insecure about my body too. Maybe you’re an apple, or perhaps you’re pear shaped, or maybe you are more of a rectangle. That doesn’t matter. NONE OF IT MATTERS. Yes, I have more of an hour glass shape and I am blessedly slender, but why for one moment would you assume I look or feel good in everything I try on? Certain styles don’t look good on me, the same way certain styles don’t look food on someone who is pear shaped, rectangular, or apple shaped. Society may have set a ridiculous standard for what beauty, basing it all around sex appeal, but at my work it’s all about celebrating your shape. If you put on the right style in the right size, you will look phenomenal in it! I guarantee! It you have big hips you like to hide, let me find you a dress with an a-line skirt. Or perhaps you are rectangular, I’ll find you a straight-lined dress to stream line your body shape. And if you don’t like it, I will find you another option to make you look and feel like a princess. No matter what size you are, a 2 or an 18, everyone deserves to feel beautiful. As long as you are healthy and taking care of yourself what does your shape matter? 

So stop shaking your head at my suggestions before you even give them a chance. Things look different on people than they do on the hangar. And stop assuming that just because I can fit into a size 4 that I don’t know about insecurity. I face it every day. And I don’t like my tummy drawing attention to itself either! I think you are all beautiful and you should too. Confidence is what makes you beautiful, to rock what you wear! And lord knows I’d never let you leave the store in something you didn’t look good in. 

So to the next lady who tells me “if only I looked like you…”, well you don’t look like me. You look like you, and you are beautiful. Perhaps I wish I could look like you! I am not always happy with myself, and as women, we should be banding together and supporting each other in celebrating the bodies we have, Not making each other uncomfortable or putting others on the spot. Like I said, we all have insecurities. Remember that the next time you wished you looked like me, I am probably wishing I looked like someone else. Being skinny does not suddenly make shopping for clothes easy.  

Dealing With Abuse: Disney Isn’t All About Glam and Controversy

I have always been a firm believer that the most precious thing in the universe is child-like innocence. Pure, irreplaceable child-like innocence. You either lose it all in one life altering event, or you lose it gradually over the course of your childhood as you age and begin to realize that things aren’t as pure and perfect as you thought they were. Then there are those of us who will cling to whatever we can of our innocence and refuse to let go.

This is my tactic of choice and I keep it up by going through regular re-charge sessions. Imagine a 19-year old girl curled up on a couch with a Star Wars blanket wrapper around her shoulders. To the right is a pot of chicken noodle soup (Lipton’s) and on screen is going to either Star Wars, a Disney Classic, or another one of my childhood movies (Land Before Time for example). Yes that’s right, I watch kiddie cartoons and eat soup and I am damn proud of it. I grew up a Disney baby, I owned them all. It does wonders for me to exist in the land of black and white morals, childhood simplicity, beauty, heroism, and all the values and virtues I wish were easier to find off the pages of a Disney script.

I blissfully choose to exist in a self induced ignorance, a double duality of my perceived realities if you will. For the most apart, I wander through life inside of a dream world in my head where everyone is friends, people are inherently good, good always triumphs, and everything has a reason. Where love fixes everything, and time heals all wounds. Where I am not a victim, I am a princess triumphing in the face of adversary. Then there is my second reality, the one that cripples me and drags me down to depths so deep I can barely breathe. The one where I turn nihilistic and wonder why our species is still allowed to use up the oxygen that would be better used towards keeping dogs, or penguins or ANY OTHER CREATURE ON EARTH alive. I am keenly aware of the problems with the world, with my life, with people. Do not for a moment assume that I am immediately crippled by the slightest derailment in my journey through life. I know understanding my brain is hard to follow but bare with me.

I’ve battled depression off and on for years, I have two debilitating anxiety disorders when they decide not to cooperate, and when I fall victim to my own pity parties I wind up in a pit of despair that requires every ounce of strength I have to resurface, and by the time I do, most of what I worked to achieve has started to wash away. Truth is I have suffered from quite a bit of abuse in my time. My very short time on Earth thus far. Since she could walk my younger sister has been physically, emotionally, and mentally abusive on my entire family to the point of trauma. She suffers from Border-Line Personality Disorder. My narc father has also been mentally and emotionally abusive. Most likely physically abusive as well but I haven’t chosen to recognize it yet. I had a boyfriend who sexually, emotionally, and physically abused me, and a few other short lived experiences preceded by bad choices that have led to some sexual abuse. And I know the absolute worst thing I could ever do is throw myself one of those damn victimized pity parties.

I remember the very first time I ever truly lost myself. It was the first time it ever came to my attention that I was a victim of abuse. I can’t tell you the date, but I can remember exactly what happened and exactly how I felt. It was October, right before Halloween. My parents were expected at a party. I remember an argument with my boyfriend and saying good bye to him on the street as he was leaving. I remember my sister flying through the front door, wailing and flailing at my boyfriend. I remember a group of young men pulling up in their car asking my boyfriend if he was hitting my sister and lecturing him on hitting women. So my boyfriend turned on his heel and walked to the bus station. Then my sister turned on one of the young men. She was yelling and screaming at him and he was arguing back at her. It all happened in blur. She slapped him across the face and he lunged towards her. He was a tall, lanky fellow so I grabbed his waist and pulled him back towards me. He grabbed my upper arms tight in his hands and threw me into the street. Then my mother came out and ushered us inside. I curled up in my bed that night and sobbed. I sobbed because I hurt. I sobbed because my sister interfered with every part of my life. I sobbed because every time she was around I got hurt. I sobbed because my father had left us that same summer and he was no longer around to protect me. There was no one to protect me except my boyfriend, who I soon learned I would need protecting from as well. Then I slept. I spent the rest of the school year trying to sleep off my sorrow. Even though I was an honour student I almost dropped out.

The rest of high school was spent cycling through periods of coping, and periods of dysfunction. I spent many an afternoon crying in one of my favourite teacher’s office wondering how I was going to survive and graduate. If it weren’t for three specific educators and the way my school was set up with PSDL, I probably would not have graduated. I hardly knew how to wake up in the morning, forget school. I was completely broken and the world was a dark, miserable place, void of love and virtue.

Even now I still go through rotational periods of despair and innocence. I can only handle little tasks at a time (for example I am currently ONLY working and not enrolled in school). But when I recharge I am full of hope and happiness. While Disney sparks controversial debates on beauty standards and gender roles I look at it in much simpler terms. Yes, the princesses are often portrayed in unreasonable depictions of what is beautiful, but they are all beautiful on the inside. Passionate, intelligent, hopeful, kind, generous, trusting, warm, determined. They are everything I see in the world when I am able, and everything I mourn when I’m not. Everything I strive to be in myself, beautiful on the inside. You may see a man rescuing a helpless girl, but I see a story about love conquering all forms of evil and despair. Sure love comes in the form of Prince Charming in the movies, but I was taught that love comes in many forms and all have remarkable power. It’s called a metaphor.

Disney teaches me tolerance, compassion, and strength in the face of pain.

Disney keeps that tiny spark of hope I have in my soul flickering.

Disney allows me to ‘Let It Go’. It’s where dreams can still come true. It allows my heart to still make wishes. It’s the happiest place on Earth, at least the happiest place in my brain!

It’s how I deal with my abuse, with precious child-like innocence.

Thank you Disney.

Daughter of a Narcissist

It’s easy to see that everyone, at times, has narcissistic traits. Who doesn’t like to have their ego stroked? Recognized for their achievements? I know I for one can’t help but recognize how much better off the world would be if I were the dictator. Don’t we all think like that occasionally? There is however a whole other level to narcissism. An abusive, damaging, and controversial mental illness recognized as Narcissistic Personality Disorder. Narcissistic Personality Disorder is measured on a spectrum, from mild to severe, as many mental illnesses are. A person experiencing such a disorder would demonstrate an inflated sense of self importance and entitlement, often experience delusions of grandiose, and have absolutely zero capability to empathize or see other human beings as anything other than tools for them to exploit and manipulate. Sounds like we are describing a sociopath aren’t we? Sounds like a scum of the earth type of person who everyone should avoid at all costs, (and yes I realize this is not sympathetic towards mental illness but that is not the point of this post. If you want an intellectual, non-biased opinion on NPD go somewhere else) but how do you avoid the narcissist and his influence when he is your biological father going through a property settlement following the divorce of your mother? There’s no where on Earth you could ever run far enough, this is what it is like to be the Daughter of a Narcissist.

When I first decided on the high school I wanted to attend I had to fight tooth and nail with my father because he disliked the reputation the school had. It had started out as an all boys school and progressed to a trade school, and eventually a fore runner in the teaching philosophy of personalized self directed learning, given the reputation of being a method for lazy, pregnant, useless kids who wouldn’t graduate otherwise. Being a graduate of this school I can strongly attest else wise. However, the reputation that prevailed did not appeal to my father. When my mentally ill sister decided she wanted to attend an all girls leadership academy for junior high, my father sat around with his friends and bragged about her decision. I was there, I heard the conversations when my parents entertained company, it was all about how proud he was of my sister. He never once bothered to mention the high school I had chosen to attend, Well, the years passed by and my sister had a lousy junior high experience and I had a wonderful high school experience. So wonderful that I enrolled in the International Baccalaureate program at my school, to achieve the full diploma. My school, being involved with PSDL was the FIRST school in the ENTIRE WORLD to have the International Baccalaureate program integrated into the psdl program and we had yet to have a full diploma graduate pass through the doors. When my sister got committed to a special program for youths with behavioural issues and her junior high years went to hell GUESS WHICH DAUGHTER WAS FINALLY BRAGGED ABOUT.

I realize that was a very long winded anecdote that most people probably don’t give a crap about and that’s fine. I wrote it for my benefit not those of you who don’t care. The story illustrates the most damaging part of being the daughter of a narcissist. You are nothing to your parent (in my case father) unless you can benefit them in some way, whether it be by bragging rights or a tool in victimizing the parent. If my father couldn’t brag about me I was non-existent to him. This put a remarkable and near unbearable pressure on me to be exceptional at school. I remember in elementary when I came home with a 79% on a test. He admonished me and questioned me and interrogated me as to how this could have happened. I faced him with tears in my eyes and from then on had a minor panic attack every time I brought home a grade less than 85. In junior high my English Language Arts mark dropped from the 91% I had in semester one, to an 86% in semester two. At the parent teacher meeting my father grilled my teacher as to what I was doing wrong and how to pull my grade back up. It was humiliating watching my teacher trying to defend me.

However, now that my parents have gotten divorced I believe it is safe to say that at least for my situation things have gotten worse. I watch both of my younger sisters parade around with new toys and clothes and technological gadgets while I grit my teeth against my anxiety disorder and force myself to wake up in the morning so that I can go to my retail job to pay for school and help my mother pay the bills. My grandparents on his side ignore me completely and I have been told that he finds me a “loss cause, brainwashed by my mother into hating him”. I hear about him going to concerts, to Vegas, buying new cars, getting memberships to strip clubs, renting a limo for Valentine’s Day for his girl friend, while he claims poverty. In the mean time, I cling to the last shred of my sanity in order to go to work even though I suffer from debilitating social AND generalized anxiety. Some how, I am supposed to get up every day, go to work, attend my post secondary schooling, and be successful. What I really want to do is lie in bed for the rest of my life and sleep.

I wake up in the morning knowing my father doesn’t love me, not at all comforted by the fact that mentally he is incapable of love. I go to a job I hate, and contemplate leaving school so I can work more and help with the bills. I try to support my mother when she cries, and I listen quietly as she wishes she didn’t have to get up in the morning and sobs about wanting to give up, suppressing the panic attack that I can feel rising within me. I put one foot in front of the other questioning my worth as a human being, frightened about losing my home, terrified of losing my mother, and facing the consequences of being neglected and emotionally used and abused by my father. All because I will be the last person on the face of the planet that he is able to use.

If there’s anything good to come from any of this, no matter how frightened and desperate I feel, I will not let him use me, I will not let him get into my mind and result in my throwing away the future I am trying to build for myself, I will not let him win the battle he doesn’t even know he is fighting. And hopefully one day I will be as successful as I dream and be able to (metaphorically: but dare I say I dream of literally) spit it in his face. Some how there is still that little flame of strength inside me, and I am protecting it with the last of what I have. I don’t give myself any other choice, no matter how feeble I feel.

Because that’s what happens when you are the Daughter of a Narcissist.

 

Living in North America Terrifies Me

Annex I Part 1: List of chemicals subject to export notification procedure

Environment Canada Export Control List

There are some wonderful things I love about living in North America, the epitome of western culture. Right next to the world’s superpower is my little homely country of Canada, and I remember being little and thinking it was the greatest country in the world! Look at our advanced schools and technology. Look at our democracy. Our freedom. Look at the glories of capitalism, a product of my personal favourite aspect, individualism. I love the fact that I don’t have to follow the herd, I can dress my own way, have my own ideas, I can be my own person without anyone holding me back, in theory of course. There is a limited supply of collectivism in North America, hence individualism is thriving. However, this wonderful individualism, capitalism, democracy, our so called freedom comes at an incredibly high price that us the people seem to turn a blind eye towards. I am NOT advocating communism, I am simply pleading with my imaginary friends and the odd person who reads this to open your eyes and cast off the blindfold of ignorance. Knowledge is power, and just like G.I Joe says, “Knowing is half the battle!” So here are some of the things that terrify me about living in the Great White North.

Let’s start with chemical regulations. The first link at the top of the page will take you to the list of chemicals subject to export notification procedure in part one of Annex I for the European Union. It is a list of all the prohibited AND severely restricted chemicals. The second list is from Environment Canada. It comprises all of Part One, Two and Three, which include prohibited substances, substances subjected to notification or consent, and restricted substances. Part one of Annex I comes to an approximate total ( I may have butchered my counting) of 164 substances. Environment Canada’s total list contains 64. That is a huge discrepancy of at least 100 substances ( I feel fairly confident with my counting, really it’s only give or take two or three). As a wonderful friend (boyfriend) of mine commented “Bubble wrapping the world won’t solve anything” and I agree, but you have to take a moment and just wonder why the EU feels the need to crack down on so many chemicals that Canada (cough*North America*cough) doesn’t see a problem with. Just take a moment and think about it, critically and analytically. Why is there a discrepancy? What OTHER discrepancies are there between North America and Europe? What are the reasons for those? Are those reasons valid? Which list of prohibited substances is more reasonable?

There’s another big thing about Europe that I have personally experienced through vacations (hooray for anecdotal arguments!) that I find a huge lack of in North America. Let’s face the facts here, in North America we live to work and work to live. There is nothing more important than our jobs because they are the only way we survive. In countries such as France (yes I AM aware they operate on the more socialist side of the scale) people have to work (and pay higher taxes) but they live for life! Some common benefits of French employees are a standard 35 hour work week, which exceeding such you are entitled to overpay, minimum of five weeks vacation, health coverage, retirement pensions and funds, and specialized labour courts that make filing a suit far more efficient. Doesn’t that just sound like heaven on Earth? Being a woman just don’t even get me started on the beautiful maternity benefits France has as well. The government WANTS women to have babies, not renounce their femininity for the sake of career. Here in North America, all that matters is money. While I won’t deny the obvious flaws in socialism like abusing the system and the difficulties and strains that must occur in the work place, this idea of laissez faire capitalism (slight exaggeration) isn’t perfect either. While it is all a matter of personal preference, it’s always good to be aware of the options, one way of life is not the only way of life, and it may not necessarily be the best either.

Lastly, FOOD SUPPLY. I’ll keep this short and to the point. America is regulated rigorously by large companies that have almost complete monopoly on our food supply (i.e Monstanto) and some of these companies don’t have the best interest of their customers at heart (SHOCK*gasp*). Do you people even KNOW how genetically modified out wheat supply is? And it IS NOT in a healthy way I can assure you. Look up this wonderful Netflix documentary, it’s called Farmaggedon. It says all you need to know about the absurdity large companies vs small farms that are being harassed out of business. The healthy, clean, natural food supply is slowly being weeded out in favour of profit. In Europe, specifically France ( The French argument would be perfect if not for all of Europe’s economic crisis. Dangnabbit!) local grown is the way to go. The shops bake bread fresh in the morning, the country side is riddled with vineyards, and the cheese, oh the wonderful farm-made cheese of which I myself sampled while in Normandy, C’est magnifique! (note: I have no French background or heritage. It’s all English and Slavic) I bring up the cheese because I don’t like cheese, the entire way it is made just freaks me right out, but ohhhh cheese from Normandy. Have you ever noticed the difference in taste between a carrot straight from a backyard garden and a carrot in the store? I like peas from my Baba’s garden, not the ones found in Safeway or Sobey’s. Lastly, pickles bought at the farmers market, NOTHING ON ANY STORE SHELF CAN COMPARE. I’m very passionate about my pickles. There IS a difference, and for some reason, here in North America it is being discouraged.

There are a bunch of other little things I love about Europe that just aren’t worth putting into a paragraph. I’d like to acknowledge my very strong bias, obviously I need a change of scenery (insert awkward laugh here) but I just want people to wake up and be aware of the world around them. Take your head out from your desk work, unplug from your ipod, cut back on the addicting carbohydrates that slow your mental functions (IT”S TRUE but I mean it light heartedly) and just look at the world around. If you are a die hard advocate of North America then I applaud you for your patriotism, truly! If you’re like my mother and long to live in rural Europe, then I admire you. If you’re like me and want to build a submarine and live at the bottom of the ocean, or high on a mountain top (sans submarine) far away from humanity, then I completely get it. There are just certain things about our North American life style that scare me as an emerging young adult, and I don’t see enough people looking at these issues (or non issues what ever your perspective). Not enough people asking questions. So I ask you, what’s the difference? And why is it there? Lastly, are you at peace with it? If not, change it. Canada is a government of the people, if our government is failing or corrupt it is because we the people have failed to run it properly. That’s why I find my thoughts on this subject so important. And now you know my thoughts, and knowing is half the battle!!! (G.I. JOOOOE)

Thanks for reading!
Tatiana

Not a University Drop Out

This thought has to plague my mind at least once a day, especially in the quite moments like these. In order for all you imaginary peeps reading out there, this requires a little, wait for it…BACK STORY! WOO! Let’s get started!

Over the last four years I have had increasing difficulty going to school, going to work…showering…removing my butt from the bed…as you can see the problem has progressed. For some reason I didn’t think anything was wrong. I thought I was just being lazy. Well, that is a little harsh, so maybe I was just a bit harsh. Hmm, this isn’t making any sense…and then I wanted to desperately drop out of school. During the summer I stopped hanging out with friends, I would legitimately look at my phone, see that it was time for me to get up, let out a long sigh, and fall back asleep. It was, ridiculous to say the least. By some miracle (actually the love and kindness of a few amazing teachers and some magical threads of will power) I managed to not only graduate high school, I graduated with my International Baccalaureate Diploma and was accepted to University! I was incredibly excited. Terrified, but excited! I had no idea what I was doing with my life but OBVIOUSLY I BELONGED in University. I’m driven! Intelligent! Successful! Terrified, lonely, and unsure of myself. University started, my sleeping problems went away, I showed up to my classes, I was doing well. I was lonely and becoming more bitter by the day but I was keeping to my academic commitment, and then it happened.

Half way through the semester my mom left for Paris for three weeks so I was left to look after my 10 year old sister. I had quit my job earlier during the summer, so I didn’t have to worry about work. However, my Baba ended up in the hospital because of her cancer and due to her pain medication, when I went to visit her she had no idea who I was. Then Lili, my sister, got sick and I stayed home from school to look after her. And then I stayed home the next day. Did I mention midterms were coming up? Suddenly, I couldn’t get up for school because of intense nausea. If I did make it to my class in the morning, I threw up prior to. I stopped going to classes. I showed up to write my exams, and I stopped caring all together. I slept. That’s all I did. Less eating, less school. Just sleeping. And then I dropped a class. And then the semester ended. I did not enroll in the next semester. This brings us to where I am now. Writing blogs to help calm my generalized and social anxiety disorders.

So my thought:

Recently I have applied at another University for a science program, a school closer to my house and smaller than the previous university. I have never been so terrified in my entire life. I’m having extreme difficulty finding a job, hence I have no money. That adds to it. So the result is an intense fear of giving up on university again. A Bachelor of Science is a far more intense program than the Bachelor of Arts I gave up on. I will have no friends going into this school. There’s just so many things that could go wrong, starting with what if I don’t even get accepted??? So I watch stupid TV shows and browse the internet to numb my mind. Don’t think about it, don’t panic. It’s a long string of ‘what ifs’ that plague me and if I avoid it, I’ll stay just a little bit calmer.

But ah yes, the internet. It numbs my mind. Sort of. See, Facebook, that wonderful that lets you connect with your friends has all of the people I know making statuses about surviving their first year at university, or finishing up their degree, or their exams being done until fall. Well I DIDN’T finish my first year of university, I ran away. And I’m terrified that I will run away again, because this lovely anxiety is not something I asked for, something I wanted, or something that I did on purpose as an excuse to be lazy. Instead of finishing up my exams I’m teetering on the edge of a mental break down. I just have to keep reminding myself that I’m not a university drop out…I think…

Worst case scenario I could always become stripper, right? 😀 Nah…my boyfriend would kill me. I don’t even have THAT option *mock sad face*. Yeesh, what am I going to do..

Thanks for sticking through that!
Tatiana!