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Life Unscripted

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Life Unscripted

Category Archives: Uncategorized

Sometimes you Just Know: on Hindsight being 20/20

22 Thursday Apr 2021

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cats, grief

Today, we said goodbye to Annie. It’s a whirlwind of emotions and peace and regret and sadness, and I don’t have a lot of untangled words. I think I knew it would happen – why else would I think it’s a good idea to bring a new kitten home to keep Wolfie company so she wouldn’t be the only cat at home when Annie goes? I think Annie knew her time was done, too, because she held on just long enough for Wolfie to get her nose straightened out after she realized that the new kitten is actually friendly and chill and a lot of fun. I think she waited to be sure that her work here was done, because no sooner did Wolfie and the kitten start getting along than Annie took a gradual, then sharp, turn downhill. By the time I called the vet to move forward her scheduled regular checkup to an appointment for possible blood work to the tearful message on their voicemail that it was time to let her go, Annie was no longer herself. She was lethargic and sleepy, and she couldn’t seem to get comfortable, and while she griped about the water bowl not being filled she seemed to show no interest in accessing it herself.

This morning, I cried in the vet’s office, trying to explain all the little things that showed me that it was time to say goodbye. I could do blood tests and other things, but I honestly didn’t feel that that was right. Annie wasn’t Annie anymore, and no amount of expensive answers would improve her quality of life, even if they’d improve the duration of it. I stroked her fur as she quietly sat on the chair, as her spirit slowly left her. I could feel it when it happened – when Annie was no longer with us. I felt a sense of peace in a way I hadn’t felt since this whole thing started. I felt like she forgave me somehow… for what, I’m not sure.

You only have one first cat.
And for a first cat, Annie was the best.
She was quirky and funny and pretended to be all tough… but when the rubber hit the road with the other cats, she was always there to comfort them – but don’t tell anyone she would actually snuggle with one of those “lesser” cats. If a human was sick, she’d curl up with them and her hypnotic purr would force them to sleep, and make them feel a bit better; thus earning her the nickname of Dr. Annie. She once got so tired of the neighborhood bully cat that she launched herself out a window, screen and all, to beat the snot out of this cat that was twice her size. She’d find the one person at a party with cat allergies and refuse to leave them alone, because, by God, she was Annie and she demanded snuggles. She had this “mrow!” that got your attention if the water bowl wasn’t full to her satisfaction, and she’d keep “mrow”ing at you until you got the point. Early in her life, she was afraid of dogs… never knowing that she’d end up living with one for 7.5 years. She’s moved 4 times with me (in the span of less than 4 years), stuck with me through job loss and changes, new homes, marriage, divorce, roommates, a new partner, no fewer than 5 cats in her space (not all at the same time), visiting dogs… the list could go on and on.
This morning, Annie joined Dasher across the Rainbow Bridge; maybe now they can finally figure out who’s boss.
Run free, sweet girl! Sleep in all the clean clothes you want, eat the tuna, stretch on those back legs and scratch as high as you want on the cat tree. No one’s gonna try and get your picture, or see if your purr is able to be heard on the phone (it never was, but I never stopped trying… sorry!) Your pain is over, my girl. I love you.
Annie
Oct 5, 2004 – Apr 22, 2021

Boston in my Own Back Yard

01 Thursday Apr 2021

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Boston, fitness, hope, running

It’s April 1, 2021. If life had gone to plan, I would’ve qualified for Boston 2021 and be 18 days out from crossing an item off my bucket list.

We all know how that went.

The marathons I was going to run in 2020 were all canceled one by one. First Vancouver, which filled me with a sense of relief and disappointment. I’d burned out after my experience in Sacramento, where by sheer force of will – and absolutely no memory – I crossed the finish line before waking up in the medical tent. I thought I would just train the experience away; I exhausted myself instead. Vancouver being canceled forced me to rest, to fall in love with running again, and just be OK with being OK.

Then Edmonton was canceled in August. I took that as another blessing – I’d switched my Vancouver Marathon to a half, and ran it on a hot and humid July morning. The way my spring shook down (dropping a bird bath on my foot, for example), I wouldn’t have been in any shape to run a marathon in August. The cancellation was not entirely unexpected, but I still took some hope from the fact that I could possibly exorcise my demons in Sacramento in December.

I was sitting on a bus in late September when I got the email the CIM in Sacramento was canceled. That one hit hard. I still don’t know why. Maybe it was the last little bit of hope to run Boston slipping away. Maybe it was just one more trip I couldn’t take or thing I couldn’t have. I am able to defer my registration for one of the next three CIMS, so it’s not like I’ll never go back to Sacramento, but still… Boston 2021 was really and truly gone.

Until Ed, my guide runner and friend, sent me a message on Facebook in March. “hey, you should do this!” he said (my paraphrase, badly), linking me to a post from the Boston Athletic Association. As in 2020, they are doing a virtual Boston marathon. Unlike in 2020, if you could be one of the first 70,000 registrants, no matter your pace, you could sign up for Boston in 2021… and run it in your own backyard! You’d even get a different medal from those who ran the “real” (physical, on location) Boston in October. After a bunch of frustrating Server Unavailable messages, I paid my fees and I GOT IN! This girl gets to run Boston, 2021! Maybe not exactly as planned, but… BOSTON!

I’m out of shape. This winter kicked my butt. I’m in no position to run a marathon YET. But I will be. I’m going to make this Boston thing the best I can. Until I can once again travel and race and run IN Boston. Because make no mistake, I will get there. Maybe not in 2021, but I’ll get close enough. Come join me as I whip my body and mind back into shape. Because heaven knows, I’m not there yet! I’ve got a million reasons to train hard this spring, not the least of which that running isn’t canceled, even if I canceled it for a while.

An Open Letter to Our Cheering Squad: Thank You Isn’t Enough

05 Sunday Aug 2018

Posted by blindbeader in Uncategorized

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Tags

gratitude, guide dog, hope, injury, Jenny, personal

A week ago today, two friends came over to our house, bearing a massive watermelon. Sure, it was a beautiful summer day, perfect for watermelon, but the summer treat wasn’t for me. I hadn’t asked them to come, but they knew that I couldn’t leave, and had no way of obtaining one for several hours. While the watermelon was being sliced and diced, I was trying everything I could think of to get Jenny, my beloved guide dog, to eat it… to eat anything, really. Each time I showed her the food, Jenny turned and walked in the opposite direction – as she had had every time she’d been shown food the past twenty-four hours. The closest we could get her to the watermelon was to mash it into her water bowl… and even then she drank a bit and walked away.
My friends hugged me as I cried worried tears, telling me Jenny would be OK, offering words of comfort and plausible reasons for why Jenny might be avoiding food after 36 hours of throwing up.
But when Jenny wouldn’t get up and say hi to Ben when he returned home, I knew we were in trouble. Maybe it was a reaction to a medication her vet prescribed, but even so, Jenny wasn’t eating, and this couldn’t continue indefinitely.
A week ago today, Ben and I drove to the north Edmonton Emergency Veterinary clinic with a brave but lethargic Jenny. The vet recommended hospitalization. One of the hardest things I’ve ever done was to walk out the doors of the clinic as a vet tech took Jenny into the back to put her on IV fluids and figure out what was wrong.
Within minutes of Ben posting the newest development on facebook, our phones went crazy. Friends and family called, texted, tweeted, facebooked, emailed, cheered as certain ailments were ruled out. On Monday morning, my colleagues asked where Jenny was, and comforted me as I cried and told them she was still in the hospital. Our friends lit a Coleman lantern the first night she was gone, and promised they’d light it each night she was away until she came home.

For Jenny to Find her Way

 

By mid-day Monday, Jenny was no longer dehydrated, but she was still lethargic, and still not eating on her own. We agreed to an ultrasound which showed an unclear image of a foreign object in her digestive tract. They recommended surgery that night, and I knew I wouldn’t sleep until I got the results of the operation. For the second night in a row, our friends lit the Coleman lantern, and posted about Jenny on Facebook. People I knew – and people I didn’t – were cheering for Jenny, sending prayers, offering comfort. Some friends even stayed up late playing dice games online with me when I was too keyed up to sleep. When the call came that Jenny’s surgery was a success – and they were able to remove the foreign object (a nectarine pit, as it turned out) with less intrusion than they expected – I could see in my mind all the names of all the people who had been with us on this journey. The names and faces and stories seemed to have no end – those who had been where we were, those whose beloved animals never came back, those who came home happy and healthy as though nothing had happened. I was overwhelmed by how powerful even small actions and words could be.

 

The emergency vet’s office staff were all amazing, answering my frequently “checking up!” calls with respect and compassion, giving us as much information as they could, even if it wasn’t encouraging. When we first admitted her, they gave us room and space to spend some time alone with our beloved Jenny, and repeated this compassionate act when we agreed to admit her for surgery. As soon as they could, they called with major developments, cracking jokes about Jenny being a cheap drunk on the pain killers. Twelve hours post-op, she still wasn’t eating, but they were encouraged that she was resting comfortably and communicating that she wanted to go outside. Not 45 minutes later, my phone rang three times from the clinic, and my heart stopped (oh, no, did she get sick again?), but the news was good – JENNY WAS EATING! Six hours after that happy phone call, we got some other amazing news: Jenny could come home!

When we came to pick her up, we got a full update – Jenny was a princess dog (“um, no canned food, please!”) and was a huge hit with the staff. When they brought her out, her head enclosed in a Cone of Shame, she wiggled and waggled and was completely different from the lethargic and stoic guide dog that had come in 48 hours earlier.

 

There was no way Jenny could guide – and I couldn’t ask her to – but Ben and I still had to work this week. We couldn’t leave her alone, and we couldn’t take time off ourselves. While Jenny recovered from her surgery – stoned out of her mind on painkillers – we had offers of “Jenny sitters”, offers made without us even having to ask. Ben’s mom came and kept her company (and snuggled her on the couch) on Wednesday and Friday, and our friends Keith and Donna – bearers of watermelons and lighters of Coleman lanterns – took her on Thursday for a little field trip to their house. I’ve thanked them all for giving her meds, feeding her smaller meals as appropriate, sending me ecstatic messages when Jenny had her first post-op poop… but I don’t have any other words to thank them – or anyone else – for lifting us up in such practical ways.

 

For those who have been with us on this crazy journey – offering words of comfort and hope, giving me space, providing medical treatment, offering practical assistance, sharing our story, cheering us on…

Thank you isn’t enough.

I used to think words were cheap.

You’ve proven me wrong.

Words have power.

Your words have power.

Your words and lanterns and hands and time and prayers… they made all the difference this week.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

With a Little Help from my Friends

09 Saturday Jun 2018

Posted by blindbeader in Uncategorized

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Tags

changes, friendship, personal, reflection, support

A few days ago, I saw a video posted online of a guide dog user being denied entry to a well-known New York club. Not only did their friends stand in the gap for them, trying to advocate and to explain that their friend had a right to be there, but also physically going into the club and making the manager address the issue.

At the time, I commented about the true sense of friendship between these three.
“And her friends refused to take it lying down. They refused to allow the manager to ignore the issue, they made him flat-out say that he didn’t care about the law and would discriminate anyway.
I want allies like this.
Allies who will stand in the gap when I say with a sigh that feels like a scream – because of someone’s actions TOWARD ME – “I’m sorry for ruining your night.””
And as I thought about it, I realized that, in fact, I do have friends and allies like this.

Just today, I discovered a post I wrote that puts into words what true friends are.
“Good friends are those who will talk to you about anything, talk to you about nothing, listen to you, cry with you, laugh with you, let you forget your troubles for awhile, tell you the truth even if you don’t want to hear it, visit you in the hospital, stand in line at the pharmacy with you, dance with you, laugh at your bad jokes, drive you home in a snowstorm, encourage you to try new things, accept you as you are.
I truly have great friends.”

 

A shoulder to Lean On

 

A few months ago, I went through a pretty unpleasant experience. In many ways, I felt like my brain and my body had betrayed me in ways they never had before, and I struggled to make sense of it all. From some pretty surprising corners, both new and old friends reached out and listened as I sorted through my feelings and my reactions to what happened. Their attentiveness and occasional “checking in!”s made a ton of difference at a time where almost nothing in my life made sense. When, after a few weeks, I was still struggling, those same friends cheered me on as I reached out for professional assistance. They made that time in my life – which was the beginning of a journey of serious and life-changing self-discovery – a lot easier to confront.

And, sometimes, friends do not have any idea that they’ve been a lifeline. When my employer sent out the weekly newsletter featuring a marathon runner with a disability, I reached out to her and said hello. We talked about what we had in common – disability, running, dislike of Nicholas Sparks books – for most of that day. What she doesn’t know is how talking about those things helped keep me together on a day where I was emotionally struggling, probably harder than I ever have. It causes me to stop and wonder… how often do we support our friends without even realizing it? In those moments where the struggle is not so obvious, how often do we unknowingly step into that space, lend a hand, and lift our friend up?

 

Ch-ch-ch-changes

 

I’ve had many groups of friends over the course of my life. Some friendships formed through proximity (school, work), others through common interests, and others through shared beliefs or lived experiences. Some have remained generally constant, while others have ebbed and flowed over the years. When life has taken us different directions, some have quietly faded into the background while a painful few have been quickly cut off at the roots. As I’m going through a pretty prolonged and complicated period of self-discovery, I’m fascinated at how some friends and I are growing closer, and viewing life through similar lenses – sometimes after long absences from each other’s lives – while others who were much closer to me when I thought, talked, and believed a certain way have faded into the background. For the most part, I really do think there’s a lot of truth to that quote about friends being for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. Sometimes, it’s painful and fascinating to learn which friends are in your life for what period of time.

 

Hands and Feet

 

I’m just going to come out and say it. Sometimes, adulting sucks. There’s big stuff – like moving, starting a family, getting a new job, experiencing illness or loss… you get the idea. Friends are regularly present for such events – and if they can’t be, their absence adds pain (sometimes more pain) to those big life experiences.

But friends show up in the little ways, too. It’s boring to buy groceries and go to the post office and clean your house. Sometimes, though, you can reconnect with friends and neighbors just by doing those adult things. Just last week, Ben and I ran into a neighbor and friend in the produce store we’ve been shopping at for years. We chatted and reconnected just while waiting in line. Sometimes, a friend who works in my office building will ask me if I’m going to a certain area she’s going anyway – sometimes I am – and we end up shopping or mailing packages and chatting about life. Another will join me on a run – seeming to pick those days where I REALLY don’t wanna! – and keep pushing for me to work hard and do well.

 

“I Want What’s Best for You… but I Love you As you Are”

 

I am truly blessed to have some of the most honest friends in the world. Sometimes that means telling me some uncomfortable truths about myself – especially if I ask directly. Sometimes I get told when I’m being too demanding; other times I’m reminded that I’m overloading a friend with my own emotional baggage. As painful as these conversations are sometimes, I’m glad that friends love me enough to tell me these things before they fester into resentment and anger.

And while it’s so important for friends to love us for who we are – and I am blessed to have friends who love me for me – they also cheer us on when we expand our horizons. When I first told one friend that I was thinking about signing up for a half-marathon on my upcoming trip, the first thing she said was “do it!” Sometimes you need a friend to talk you through a situation – finding all the angles, asking questions for you to consider – and other times you need a friend to just give you the push to go for it. I’m blessed to have friends who can – and do – do both.

 

I Could Go On… but What About You?

 

There are so many other things that make good friends, but these have affected me most deeply lately. If you recognize yourself in this post, thanks for being my friend; if you don’t, this in no way diminishes my love for you or how much I value our friendship.

What about you? What makes a good friend? Have you had an experience where a friend appeared from an unexpected place, or supported you without even knowing it?

Tell me about it in the comments below!

2017: The Year of Self-Discovery

01 Monday Jan 2018

Posted by blindbeader in Uncategorized

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Tags

2017, life lessons, reflection, writing

I LOVE self-reflection. It’s sometimes painful, sometimes astounding, frequently necessary.
I described 2015 as the year all the bad stuff happened, and 2016 as the year of the marathon (where I pushed myself to my physical and emotional and financial limits) 2017 was the year that gave me room to breathe, to reflect, to learn more about myself. Some amazing people entered my life, some amazing people faded from it, and we welcomed new human and feline loved ones from some unexpected corners. I experienced life more freely – the beautiful and the painful, the exciting and the frustrating. My current (and long-fought-for) employment went from a term contract to a permanent one, my hands have created some pretty beaded things (that people actually wanted to buy!), I got a tattoo, I’ve gone on an amazing road trip, begun plans for another one, read some books that made me think… and wrote. A Lot.

Now that I’ve wrung in the new year with friends new and old, continued our new New Year’s Eve tradition of a bitterly cold backyard fire, and contemplated drinking gallons of coffee on an equally frigit New Year’s Day, here are the posts that have made the rounds from the Life unscripted blog.

 

Top posts from 2017

5. This post from nearly three years ago still seems to resonate. For the record, not everyone can or should work a guide dog.

4. I write a lot about Jenny, my guide dog, but she celebrated a big birthday just after I started that new job referenced above.

3. One of the things I’ve done this year (and hope to write about in 2018) is take some self-defense training. This is why.

2. Another thing I got to do this year was give a speech and have a conversation with some amazing thinkers and professionals. Who knew that someone would ask a question that would make me think?

1. This post from last year – the most popular post from last year – keeps getting views and shares. The more fake service dogs and fraudulent handlers – and legislation to combat them – get before the public eye, the more important this issue becomes.

 

Top Posts WRITTEN in 2017

5. I got pretty personal in this post. I’m also honored that so many terrific women chose to trust me with their own stories of gaslighting.

4. This may be the only semi-political post I’ve written on this blog, except for maybe the one about voting.

3. I still can’t give Jenny cake on her birthday.

2. I had planned to write about my self-defense training, but maybe I should keep the conversation going about the absolute necessity of consent.

1. We’re all scared of things, but as I said in my speech, we can’t project that onto others.

 

Stretching and Growing

By far, I had the most fun writing this post. But if you’re not interested, that’s OK.

This year seems to be the year of attitude adjustments.

 

It also seemed to be the year where I’m trying to figure out how I can best advocate for myself without alienating my loved ones.

I’m pretty proud of this post, where I talk about succeeding and failing on my own merits.

 

So… Next Year?

I’m already super excited for 2018! Many of you have reached out in comment sections, through twitter, by email and through other social media to tell me what this blog means to you. You are all the reason I write.

Those of you who wrote me privately and told me you enjoyed my Epic Road Trip of Awesome series? Fear not! I’ll be blogging my 2018 road trip series as it happens!

The book reviews will be returning on the last day of each month; some readers have asked if I will review more than books about blind people. The answer is… maybe. I read a lot of books, and if I reviewed them all, I’d have no time to write anything else. I’m choosing to write reviews primarily regarding books with blind characters because there’s so much mystery and “other”ness surrounding blindness; I not only want to point out how an author or editor could do better, but also to thank writers for providing food for thought or nuance to their portrayals.

As for anything else… what would you, my readers, like to see? I plan on asking more questions as I continue to grow as a woman, an advocate, and a writer. So if there’s a topic you’d like me to touch on or explore, please let me know!

However 2017 has treated you, I’m glad you’ve chosen to share it with me. I wish you all kinds of great things for 2018!

In the Shadows of Gaslights

12 Saturday Aug 2017

Posted by blindbeader in Uncategorized

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Tags

abuse, dignity, emotional abuse, family dynamics, fear, flashbacks, gaslighting, relationships, toxic, trauma

A package was being prepared for shipping. Payment arrangements had been made. By all accounts, an ordinary transaction. But my head pounded, my hands shook, and I just knew I was going to be sick. Before I knew it, I was trying not to vomit into a garbage can. I had to get out, and get out immediately. It wasn’t only the cold I’d been nursing for nearly a week that caused these symptoms; it was the residual affects of gaslighting that reard their ugly heads.

What IS Gaslighting?

Gaslighting can best be described as a manipulative and emotionally abusive tactic that erodes your ability to be confident in your decisions and perception of reality. In an accessible and readable article, LonerWof outlines how gaslighting can be spotted in family, marital or professional dynamics. My own experience, it sadly appears, is far from unique. Because of the personal nature of the stories below, names have been changed.

 

All in the Family

 

We learn many behaviors from our family of origin. When Kendra described to me her extended family dynamic, it sounded like a psychological thriller. One family member was accused of abusing women and children, denied it, and then, to hurt his partner, confessed to the behaviors he’d spent years denying. Children witnessed gaslighting behavior by a parent or grandparent, where some children were favored and others were “unspeakably abused” and made to believe they were imagining it. To protect his family from the toxic family dynamic – and with scars and a possibly undiagnosed mental illness of his own, Kendra’s father refused to permit family members to disclose to others where he and his immediate family (Kendra and her siblings) lived. Kendra believes that, because of what she saw growing up, she was able at a young age to get out of an emotionally abusive relationship before it “damaged her in the long-term.” After the breakup, before the age of social media, her boyfriend wrote her a letter that she describes as a textbook check list for manipulative gaslighting.”

But gaslighting is not always intentional. Sometimes, denial can lead to gaslighting behaviour. Rachel lives with a complicated visual impairment which went undiagnosed for years. Her family tends to dismiss her inability to see things, telling her to try harder, that – because an ophthalmologist didn’t diagnose her visual impairment – it doesn’t exist. Rachel finds herself in a complicated place, because relatives and in-laws don’t think she’s “that” blind, and yet she is the only one who sees through her eyes and processes her visual world, and she knows what she can and cannot see.

 

I love You… but You’re Wrong!

 

All relationships have conflict, miscommunication, and differing viewpoints. But when clearly-stated boundaries are ignored or deflected in ways to make one party feel unstable or irrational, that is gaslighting.

Sarah described to me a relationship she was in several years ago, where her concerns were glossed over or turned back on her. Boundaries she wanted to set were “evidence” of her mental instability, and she was a “psycho who needed to be hospitalized.” Any behaviors he did that hurt her, he denied doing them at all. When she wanted a short break from him to work things out, he tried to take her guns (used for target shooting) away “for her protection.” She began to doubt herself all the time, wondering if her feelings and concerns and personal boundaries were valid, or if her partner was right, that she was unstable and “psycho” as he claimed.

 

“You should Be Glad You have a Job Here!”

My recent experience above stemmed from a job I held years ago. I was belittled and bullied, and whenever I tried to raise legitimate concerns, I was told I needed to accept my colleagues as they were, and besides I had things I needed to work on. When I wasn’t being as productive as I knew I could be and was using substandard technology, my concerns were swept under the rug – until one of my colleagues couldn’t take my “unreadable paperwork” anymore – because replacing any equipment would’ve been giving me “special treatment.” Any time I mentioned anything about the work environment, I was told that I should be glad I had a job at all. The last straw was when the braille display unit I used for work needed repairs, and because it was purchased for me years ago (for work purposes) my employer didn’t believe it was their job to pay for the manufacturer to fix it. I ended up having to rely on a braille display from a wonderful generous friend while mine was out for repairs, but the bullying and gaslighting never stopped. I questioned my own perceptions – was I asking too much? Was I being a special snowflake? Was my colleagues’ and managers’ treatment of me in response to something I was doing, or not doing? Were they right, that I should be grateful I had a job at all in a down economy? Only one person at that workplace told me, in an unguarded moment, that they saw what I was going through, that they recognized it, that yes, it was, in fact, as bad as I thought.

Recently, that same braille display quit working. My work environment has changed drastically and is so supportive I can’t even begin to describe it. But so many circumstances were the same. I was borrowing that same display from that same wonderful generous friend, the box with my broken display was being prepped for shipping, and I was making phone calls to figure out how to get the repairs compensated. While support came from all sides – from the idea that I shouldn’t be the one to jump through hoops to simply be able to do my job, to modification of job duties if needed – I couldn’t escape the flashback. I felt like I was back in that office years ago, at the same desk, with the same people stabbing me in the back. Those who actually currently surrounded me were lifting me up and holding me together, and yet all I could hear and feel and see was my experience of years ago, being crushed underfoot, smothered by unreasonably unmet expectations.

In a room full of people, I was alone.

I was staring into the flames of the gaslights.

 

What if YOU See the Gaslights?

 

Gaslighting is real. It is not a figment of your imagination. Many who have shared their stories with me have told me that if they had known of its existance, they may have been able to put their fears and concerns into words, and may have removed themselves from the situation sooner.

Sarah has found that spending time with people who take her concerns seriously really helps heal the wounds that her gaslighting experience left on her. She thinks it’s essential to surround yourself with solid reliable people, and to remember that your alleged faulty memory or irrationality would be pointed out by more than just one person (or group of interconnected people), and never consistently in a way to manipulate a situation in someone else’s favor.

Rachel finds, for her, that it’s important to love her family, but to also recognize and embrace her own voice. She describes her family as “voices that I love,” but they do not live her life, and they are not always right, and she thinks that’s okay.

As for me, I don’t think it’s enough to keep my head down and just keep on plugging along. My plan is to seek out both social and professional connections to help make sense of all of this. When one questions their own reality, it’s hard to put it into concrete words. But I will try. I will hold my head high, surround myself with people who support me (singed gaslit eyebrows and all) and truly learn to trust myself again.

If you are reading this and have experienced gaslighting, please know that you are not alone. There is truth in what you are going through, and it is not inescapable. You are not alone. You are not wrong. How you experience the world matters, and no one has the right to take that away from you.

Crying Wolf!: Or, What it’s like to have a Blind-friendly Cat

03 Saturday Jun 2017

Posted by blindbeader in Uncategorized

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Tags

cats, changes, grief, personal, Wolfie

Two months ago, after days of hand-feeding and hoping and remembering and crying and realizing it was the end, we said goodbye to our beautiful Russian Blue kitten, Dash. Her ashes – along with her collar and a few tufts of fur – currently sit in a box on a windowsill where she can enjoy the sunbeams until she’s laid to rest permanently. Two ceramic pawprints with her name in raised letters sit on my computer table, where she would climb up for snuggles, as a testament that says “Dash was here.”

But Dash WAS here, and a hole opened up in our little kitty kingdom. The Boy cat and Jenny consoled each other somewhat, but they each grieved in their own ways. Annie started pacing back and forth in front of me while I was on the phone, demanding my attention, something only Dasher ever did. I could hear the echo of Dash’s meow at unexpected moments and it stabbed me in the heart, while Ben sought comfort in the other critters. We knew, very quickly, that we needed to give another Russian Blue a good home.

And we quickly found one.

Wolfie the Photogenic Kitten

We saw Wolf’s picture on the SCARS Web site only a few weeks after Dasher’s death, and we knew she was the kitty we could help, and she was the kitty who could help fill that empty space. The look on her face, and the fact that she needed to be around other kitties told us that we would all be a perfect fit. From the instant we met her, she allowed us to play with her, to pick her up, to show us her sassy side. At only six months old, she showed us that she wasn’t afraid to holdd her own against more dominant cats, and she clearly needed other kitties so she wouldn’t feel like she was all by herself.

From the moment we brought her home, she possessed such confidence and security. She did not spend one minute hiding, but instead made herself comfortable on the arms of our couches, watching everything around her, as if to ccalmly tell the other kitties, “I’m here, I’m exploring, I’m figuring out my own place in this pecking order… you, deal with it.” Within only a few weeks, she went from a clumsy uncoordinated six-month-old kitten to a growing, purring, playful bundle of energy. She and the Boy wrestled and played not long after Wolfie came home, and the difference in the Boy, too, was startling.

It’s fun, learning how to communicate with a new, young cat. We’d taken for granted the quirks of Annie, Dash and Wayne, knowing on instinct their favorite toys or when they preferred snuggles or how they liked to tell us to please for the love of God change the litter boxes. Wolfie through all of that into disarray. We learned very quickly that the way to her heart is toy mice, that she and the Boy will stand side by side when food is poured into the bowls, that her favorite sound is the sound her claws make while she tries to climb up the window screens. She has different meows that we’re still trying to decipher, but most of them seem to indicate a brief, “Hi! I’m here!” She doesn’t seem to like the bell on her collar or her license tag, as evidenced by the fact that she can crane her neck down and bite at the tag at any opportunity. Wolfie has no interest in going outside, but she loves to spend hours in the breeze by the back door.

But why would I say she is a blind-friendly cat?

With me, she is not silent. Ever. She actually comes to her name about 80% of the time. The rest of the time, when I call her, she will announce her presence with a quick meow or a jingle of her collar. If I put my hand down after calling her, she will put her nose up against my fingers, then let me pick her up for a snuggle. Even if I’m near her, petting another kitty, her loud kittenish purr gives her location away instantly. She communicates in her own way with Ben, of course, but I’ve learned she only seems to do these things with me, as though she understands that if she wants to get my attention, tactile and verbal cues are the way to do it.

Wolfie will never replace Dash, not really. But some of her quirks make it feel like Dasher is still here with us. Sometimes, we have to stop ourselves from calling Wolf “Dash”. That gets easier with time, and as Wolf grows into a more confident, stronger kitty. She’s slid herself into our kitty kingdom almost seamlessly; and even though she and Dasher never met, I think they would’ve been friends.

Welcome home, Wolfie. We’re happy to have given you a fur-ever home. Thank you for loving us, for making us laugh, for keeping us on our toes. And Dasher… if you sent us this kitty, thank you, too, sweet girl. Enjoy your sunbeams.

Rest in Peace… While I fall Apart

04 Tuesday Apr 2017

Posted by blindbeader in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

cats, changes, Dash, grief, letting go, love, mourning, personal, remembering

I’m writing this post in the hope that I don’t have to post it. But if you are reading this, it’s a sad day in our home today. Last night, we said goodbye to our cat, Dash, after a sudden, fierce illness that we can’t completely explain. If you are reading this, Ben and I decided as a couple that the kindest thing was to let her go. I am writing this with tears running down my face, but I’m writing this now, days before the end, when I can still remember Dasher’s meow and her purr and the way she demanded attention until she decided seemingly arbitrarily that it wasn’t needed anymore. By the time this post is published – if it is published at all – it’s been nearly 24 hours since we held Dash in our arms, buried our faces into her soft fur coat, and said our farewells. It’s been nearly 24 hours since we cried at the kindness shown by the vet clinic, lighting a candle with a sign that said someone was mourning their beloved pet. While I still remember her for the gentle fighter and protective cat she is, not how she was during the last week of her life, I want everyone to know her for the quirky ball of CAT that was Dash.

Dash and Wayne settling in for the Winter

Dear Dash,

I don’t know if I ever told you these stories while you were curled up with me at night, while your purr rumbled me to sleep, while I laughed at your high-pitched, attention-seeking “Meeeeeeeeeeow!” But you’ve been part of this family almost as long as our little family existed, and my heart aches that you’re no longer making memories with us.

Ben and I talked about you, Dash… in the way of many conversations like this. The “We should get another cat… someday” conversation we had not long after we got married. We had Annie, of course, but another cat seemed like a good idea… in a someday-we-will sort of way. That summer day in 2008, we visited friends on a farm and were told one of their barn cats had just had kittens. I sat on their back porch and a little gray ball of fluff came up and demanded my attention. I lifted it up in my arms and it purred contentedly and I asked it if I could take it home. Ben was playing football with the guys, but when he came back to the porch, this same ball of fluff – you – curled up on his chest and fell fast asleep. He looked and me and asked if we could take you home. How could I say no? We drove to a friend’s house and grabbed a diaper box to drive you home in. Somehow, on that trip home, we named you Dash, and your little kitty paws and your big-kitty purr stole our hearts.

You became your name, Dash, sneaking out of the house at every opportunity, destroying Ben’s glasses your first night home, trying so hard to charm Annie who was singularly disinterested. You grew into a cat who was so particular about the “right” way to come up for cuddles (pacing back and forth three times, then hopping up), insisting there was only one way to climb up on the bed (always using my nightstand and boombox), creating the nightly ritual of sticking your paw between bed and headboard and batting at our heads, even straightening a painting you knocked askew during one of your “kitty crazies.” Trees held a fascination for you, until you tried to climb one and nearly choked yourself when you suddenly realized how high you were… and then you ran home in a huff. You broke yourself out of the habit of jumping onto the dining room table by falling through it when we took the tabletop off for refinishing. All these years later, we still laugh at your kittenness, and we never stopped calling you “Kitten”.

You grew older and wiser, your body filling out and matching the size of your big long tail, your formerly loud purr (once nicknamed the buzz saw) turning into a deep rumble. I used to ask you where you got your gorgeous gray fur coat, and for some reason you would never divulge that secret to me.

You hated us moving to our big scary house. There were all these places to go and explore, but it was too much for you. You climbed up on the kitchen counter and tried to melt into the particle board. Annie tried to comfort you but jumped down when she saw that we noticed her. But you owned this house, you made it your own, finding all the cool hiding spaces in the ceiling tiles and jumping into the windows anytime you could.

Not long after we moved in, we brought home… a new cat. he was a boy cat who wanted to be everybody’s friend. Annie grew annoyed with him quickly, and I think the two of you conspired to barricade him in the litter box. But somewhere along the way, though, you and Wayne (the Boy) became friends. You would run and play and wrestle all the time, even slowing down once to let me feel how you played.

Over the years, you’ve been the negotiator in the kitty kingdom. You’ve quietly put Annie in her place, befriended the Boy so much that when he ran away you moped around the house for a week until he came home. You befriended Jenny, this enthusiastic spitfire of a dog, showing her with patience and gentleness how to interact with kitties. Your farm-cat skills came in handy whenever a mouse crossed the threshold of our home. You loved being outside in the back yard, rolling around in the dirt. And if you snuck outside between my feet, after a few minutes you would hang around on the neighbor’s fence, meowing your head off because being outside wasn’t fun anymore. You love boxes so much that we leave empty Amazon boxes around the house just so you could have somewhere to nest… so much that when we said goodbye to you, we chose a box rather than an urn for your ashes – you would’ve turned your nose up at the urn, anyway.

Dash – the Box Cat

I would give anything for one more cuddle with you, Dasher. One more snuggle with that deep purr rumbling against my chest. One more time laughing at your back-and-forth back-and-forth back-and-forth JUMP! onto my lap on the couch. One more time that you and Jenny negotiate the best way to share the sunbeam streaming through the window, or the best configuration to share her doggie bed. One more time wondering what you’re “meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeowing” about. One more time getting my attention by stepping on my foot. One more time that you’re so happy to be with me – and I am NOT done petting you, thank you very much! – that you’re biting my wedding ring and purring at the same time.

I want to remember you for all these things, Dash, because that’s who you were. You were funny and quirky and standoffish and SUCH a wonderful cat.

I’ll never forget you.

Rest in peace, Kitten. May you find all the boxes to sleep in and all the dirt to roll in and all of the cuddles you want ONLY when you want them.

Goodbye, my sweet girl… You’re not hurting anymore.

The Sound of Cold

10 Friday Feb 2017

Posted by blindbeader in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Much of Canada and the USA have spent the past week in the deep freeze. From unprecedented snowfalls to dangerously low temperatures, it’s pretty clear that winter is making its presence known. The most common phrase I’ve heard around the city this week is “IT’S SO COLD!”

When running some errands earlier this week, I was thinking about all of the ways we use the word “cold” in the English language. We use it to describe temperatures, temporary illnesses, and even fellow human beings.

Cold is probably one of the only states of being that incorporates all five senses. Because cold – in all its permutations – has a sound.

Sure, you can feel it in the numbness of your fingers as you run from heated vehicle to heated building.

You can taste the sweetness of an ice cream on your tongue.

You can see your breath make clouds in front of your face on the coldest day you can remember.

You can smell the most recent dusting of snow on the ground – or, if you have a cold, you wish you could.

But we often overlook the sound of cold, of coldness.

It’s the sound of packed snow and ice under heavy boots. The wheezing of reluctant automobiles to get moving. Chattering teeth and quick breaths and stomping feet.

If you’re “under the weather” (a term I will investigate at some point) and have a cold, it’s the sound of sniffling and Kleenex and mangled consonants. Of dropped voices and weary tones.

But what about “cold” people? Do they have a telling sound?

I think they do.

It’s the sound of despair. Of idle or indifferent chit-chat that purposefully goes no deeper than the surface. Of prejudice wrapped in the trappings of well-meaning “compliments”.

Would I have noticed these things if I’d focused on my tingling fingers or chattering teeth or stuffy nose or personal frustrations?

Maybe not.

Sometimes, it’s fun to discover – or maybe re-discover – something I hadn’t considered before.

Growing up and the “Good Book”: Reflections on a Year at Bible School

23 Friday Sep 2016

Posted by blindbeader in blindness, Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

growing up, life lessons, personal

Ten years ago – has it really been that long? – I found myself in a remarkably similar circumstance to the one I am currently facing. Out of work, in a place of personal, spiritual and professional transformation, I decided to take the plunge and spend a year at a small unaccredited Bible college. My choice was made because of a complicated combination of financial and theological crossroads, and it’s a decision that I have never regretted.

 

So why am I writing this now, a decade later? A combination of reasons. One of the benefits of being out of work is the ability to read books by a wide variety of people – those who have embraced the Christian faith wholeheartedly, those who have abandoned it due to pain or abuse, and those who struggle to believe. It’s beautiful and tragic and messy, seeing those who share my faith embrace some fellow earth-dwellers and reject others, those who no longer share my faith who cry and wrestle with those who do and whom they love, and those who never shared my faith – or those whose departure from it was particularly traumatic – who become furious at anyone who professes any form of belief in the divine. Such literacy and conversation has rounded out my worldview in ways I never anticipated, and it started at that small Bible college ten years ago. Another reason I decided to write about it is that a friend and classmate wrote of his experience in an articulate, moving reflection (though one that’s more theological than I’m going to get into here).

 

I remember the day I dropped off my application form. The journey to that place is too long to get into here, but I remember thinking that it was foolish for me to be out of work and wanting to spend money to study the Bible… but I had to do it for reasons that I still can’t quite explain. I remember calling the school, being so lost in a residential area, expecting more foot traffic than I got, and having one of the instructors come out and meet me. I was so embarrassed, but I put in my application (and, not 3 hours later, received a part-time job offer that would work around my class schedule). After being accepted, I wondered how my classmates and instructors would accept me as a blind student – I worried for nothing.

 

Our courses were a combination of Bible study, interpretation, and practical Christian living. We read the whole Bible during the course of that year – when I discovered all the passages about justice for the oppressed that I had never encountered in my previous church experiences. We discussed living on earth and a home in heaven and how to emphasize both and neglect neither. We volunteered in organizations that challenged us, that showed us poverty or illness or disability. Along with classes and short-term missions trips and volunteering and working, I found my faith changing from a loud, boisterous show of enthusiasm to something quieter, something stronger, something harder to describe. Along with that spiritual struggle – because that’s what it was – came the most complete exhaustion I have ever felt in my life. I was in many ways happier and busier than I ever had been, but my schedule was so hectic that I would go to my little basement apartment after a day of classes and/or volunteering and/or working, say hi to my roommate, and fall exhausted into bed… only to do it all over again the next day.

 

But it wasn’t all hard work; in many ways it was a ton of fun. My classmates took me in as one of their own – pushing me beyond my comfort zone, asking questions, all but stapling my pants to the piano bench during chapel because I was the only student who was even remotely willing to play the piano publicly. I fell in love with the piano again during that year, frequently taking time alone in the chapel to decompress and play that out-of-tune upright that belonged in a 1900s saloon. I found out later that the entire school could hear me, and more than once someone would slip quietly into the chapel and hear me sing hymns or write chord progressions or just make up little ditties where my fingers would dance across the keys.

 

I not only learned a lot from instructors, but many of my classmates taught me about openness and generosity. Within two weeks of starting classes, I moved from an apartment into a basement suite, and no fewer than half my classmates helped move my stuff (in the rain) and helped clean up my old apartment. Over the year, many cried with me, some sang with me, even more laughed with me, others encouraged me to jump off a roof into a snowbank (my other option was to climb down the ladder after 20 minutes of panicking). I hated to feel like I needed help with anything, ever, but both classmates and staff patiently helped me realize that everyone needs help sometimes, and that’s OK.

 

Instructors were accommodating in most ways. Even the one who seemed to never get me assignments or tests on time – due to his reluctance to use email – let me explore with my hands a model of the Old Testament Tabernacle. Another instructor shared of his faith journey with such vulnerability that I related to him so completely. Another listened to me obsess and worry when my feelings for this guy who was “just a friend” had morphed into something I didn’t even recognize or want to acknowledge as romantic intentions. Still another gave me a ride to class once a week, allowing me to sleep in an extra thirty minutes; that thirty minutes was so small in the grand scheme of space and time, but it was inestimable in its impact. Looking back on it, I learned more about self-care at Bible college than I ever learned anywhere else. It’s a term that doesn’t appear in the Bible, though the concept certainly does.

 

2006 – looking back on it – was truly a pivotal year in my life. I moved in with my first roommate (the first time I ever shared space with anyone as a contemporary), I met the man who would become my husband, I grew (as many people that age do) in maturity and life experience, and my faith morphed from the experiential into something more systematic and sustainable. It was the year I learned to carve out my own identity, discovered it was OK to not be OK all the time, and that sometimes quiet reflection makes you stronger than just faking it. Maybe I would’ve learned those lessons in other ways had I not attended that small Bible school, but I didn’t learn them elsewhere, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

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