A Stretch of Hard Weather

A Stretch of Hard Weather

There are still hints of who I used to be, mostly in photographs, old letters and in the words of those who still hold on to the memories I’ve been struggling to bury. Sometimes, my former self is revealed in the mirror, under the paper-thin lines which have begun to appear without ceremony, slowly creeping across the ivory and the freckles, wiping away the recognition with the pace of a crawling summer cloud; a white flower, rusting with age. In this room of mine, no matter how the furniture is positioned, no matter the colour of the walls or the paintings that adorn them, I know that no change will ever erase her entirely, that the air in here will always be stale unless I open a window to let the scent of a new beginning banish the chill of a deep, blue winter. I often find it hard to open one, though. I’ve never been a fan of change, even if it hints at something better.

It used to be that my dissatisfaction was part of the condition of things. My expectations were an unbalanced mix of highs and lows, and I protected myself by thinking that patience would bring about the rewards. When I let myself wonder if perhaps I was not moving toward something I was meant to, I would cower from the unpleasant feelings: the doubts, the low self esteem, the bleakness of a life that fit like a sweater that had been shrunk to half its size. If the unhappiness was there, I didn’t give it much thought, choosing to exorcise it by ignoring it and pretending that everything was as it should be. It seemed easier.

Ten years in to a solid relationship and a seemingly ordinary life came a hot, July afternoon when it all come undone. While driving to work that random Wednesday, the feelings broke through and wrapped around me: terror, dread, the sharp bite of insanity. I had started that car moments before with the intentions of a confident, provocative woman who had looked in the mirror and seen herself clearly: headed toward a future that looked to be as smooth as glass-topped lake without a ripple or the ever-expanding rings of some unexpected happening. There may have been some greyness in that moment, but I’d been blinded by the sun after foolishly looking directly at it.

The feelings came on in a gushing cascade of panic unlike anything I’d ever experienced. The heart threatened to split the skin over it, pumping wildly, shifting position and I began to sweat, with the sick sensation of wet rolling down my back, under my arms and onto the seat. The adrenaline prickled my face and lips and I visualized it looking like the explosion of thousands of tiny stars, flashing and falling under the surface. I could not stop the car. I could not cry. I couldn’t do anything but try to control my erratic breathing and get to where I was headed. At some point, my reasonable self assured me that it would stop. The panic would stop shaking me like a ragdoll and drop me to the floor after it lost interest, leaving my life to return to its native pattern.

It did not.

This was the beginning of a long desert period of desperate loneliness and irrational associations: driving was what brought it on so it was best to stop it, being away from home brought it on so I would have to stay there, if he loved me more it wouldn’t have come on, so it must be his fault. The logic left me then and I became a caricature of who I used to be, weeping and shuddering incessantly, sleeping through the daylight, bargaining with God. I worried constantly that no one would forgive me for the craziness because it was inconvenient. I could not eat in public because I thought my throat would close as I swallowed. I could not go on even short trips in the car because the unfamiliarity of my surroundings would send me into a frenetic tailspin. I could not talk on the phone or work my body into clothes so that I might inch outside the front door before nightfall. I could not give him the love he desperately needed because my body and my mind didn’t deserve any of what he might want to give in return. There is no sex in the world of a nervous wreck because the mind and body are owned by a rollercoaster conscience and no touch has the power to slow it. I spent many nights staring at him as he slept, begging his unconscious body to love me through it, to correct me with unwavering dedication; I wordlessly implored him with my soul to bring me back to life and was incensed when he woke without any sign of having heard me.

It took time to come to terms with what had occurred. My doctor threw around some grim words and phrases: depression, panic, anxiety, cognitive behavioural therapy, repetitive stress wounds and the worst of all, sense of hopelessness. At first, I rejected all of it, though my reasoning for that was never clear. Maybe I was resistant to the idea that I had a problem that a pill couldn’t fix or perhaps I didn’t want to accept that I was in serious, emotional trouble. Hadn’t I always been the person people came to for advice? How could it be that I had become a desperate weakling in one swift minute? Had I drunk too much coffee? Flirted too much with a starry-eyed co-worker? For what crime was this punishment intended? The mind whirled in dizzy circles, and I held fast to the bed sheets, crying when waking, weeping when it was time to turn the lights out again.

Ultimately, the only option seemed to be working with someone who had nothing to lose by listening. Therapy was not a glamorous concept for me, and I felt great shame at first in starting it. I didn’t know very many people who indulged in it, and I began with a lowered head and bouncing knee. My therapist, though, was a pristine, carefully coiffed, proper English rose who loved a good cup of tea as much as I did. Initially, I was nervous about offering up the deepest secrets of my life to a woman who wore perfectly pressed slacks and a Chanel scarf around her neck, particularly since I was paying her for the pleasure. How genuine, I wondered, would her guidance be given that she was paid to give it? But, despite my initial apprehension, I began to soften with her, speaking freely about moments in my life which would have embarrassed or frightened me with anyone else. I understood that she was trying to teach me, to bring a sense of understanding up from the smouldering rubble of my life. She would make the tea, I would sip it and we’d lose an hour to careful discussion and gentle analysis. There was no couch for me to lie on and she didn’t sit back with a notebook and a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose as she jotted down some appalling diagnosis. You’re not crazy, she said with certainty, and I believed her as I let out a winded sigh. We would sit across from one another, in two mismatched chairs, sipping the tea while I felt some of the dead petals fall away.

There were no tears in those sessions, and I’ve since learned that this is part of my problem, my death grip on an illusion: control. It hasn’t served me well, and has lent to some bizarre decisions over the course of my life. When I took a step back and looked at my world, I saw the cracks in it. The perfect boyfriend appeared to be less perfect for me when I looked at him from this new angle. Though wonderful in many respects, I saw that the things he wanted and needed from me had nothing to do with who I was or what I hoped for. His values were different from my own, always had been, and I’d unconsciously held on out of habit and complacency. It hurt me, emotionally, to push aside the things which mattered to me most, and the cut which hit the bone was the realization that my stubbornness to accept our disconnection was not just killing me slowly, but him as well. It explained my sudden, selfish flirtations with others and my unpredictable outbursts because they charged me with some small flicker of new life, created tiny openings for my authentic self to claw itself out. I was starved for the challenge of loving someone who could love me for who I was and teach me at the same time. I needed conversation, not just words, and touches that would go beneath the skin in order to find the truth. I had begun having trouble living because the life around me had little to do with who I was and my body, exhausted from the stress of it, made the decision for me: it sounded the alarm.

The end was a messy, spirit-levelling inevitability. It came on slowly, perversely, and held on until the two of us ripped away from it with every bit of strength we had. Though we were moving back to the paths that had been set for us many moons before, there was no triumph in the separation, only disillusionment and blame. I experienced the stormiest crying binge of my life, as though everything I’d had inside through all those years was pulled up and out, spilling over what was left behind. I cried for days, perhaps weeks, and through all of it I was blearily aware that something within felt lighter, perhaps even hopeful. Maybe now that it was done, the panic would leave me too.

These many years on, the panic still lives here, but it’s more polite than it used to be. It shows up uninvited, but I believe it’s always been a part of who I am, that it has no root in insanity or defect, and is merely a result of hardwiring and a discordant environment. I drive a little, I go out when the mood comes on, but there is still much work to do. It was never just about a fledgling love life, I know. I still find myself paralyzed in chairs or frozen in mid-sentence but it isn’t just about who I kiss or hold close to me. I am in love again, with someone who seems to understand what makes me happy and what doesn‘t. He carefully nudges me toward my dreams without chastising me for failing to live them before I’m ready. I’m grateful that he knows what my dreams are and cares enough to nudge. I’m learning about patience, and selflessness, and though both are difficult for me in practice and theory, I understand the value in both and work toward embodying them so that I can give what I expect from another. There are no more tears about what I’ve left behind because I now see the liberty in my leaving. My food tastes better, the colour red is brighter and there’s something sweeter laced in the air. It’s like the cold weather is finally on its way to passing, and there’s a kind of grace in the movement of pewter clouds. Even in my worst moments, I see this.

Behind me is a trail of dead petals, withered and bled of their proud beauty. They are a bitter sight, until I let myself feel the perennial spark of springtime in a calm moment, letting me smell the newness in the dirt, rather than the death in it.

I’m not blind to the gifts of this; at times I’m given to pretty visions.





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