Two weeks

It feels like more. It feels like less. It feels like fog with sunny patches. 

I met my therapist last Friday. We connected instantly, so that helped. Then on Saturday, I went to two funerals. Bonnie’s in the morning, Stef’s in the afternoon. Bonnie’s was good. It was full of tears and laughter, and this glimmer of hope and resiliency. Maybe it’s because we can understand cancer? I don’t know. But it felt safe to be there and to see a room full of familiar faces and to give and receive so many hugs. There was a lot of love shared on Saturday morning. 

Stef’s service was more than my soul could handle. I barely made it to the church. I was petulant with myself and forced myself to go. I muttered in anger under my breath about how stupid this was, how the whole thing was just bullshit. I was angry at the people who only knew her as a realtor. I was angry that the pianist/vocalist was off-key. I was mad and it all hurt and it was all so stupid. And she was beautiful and flawed and loving and deserved so much more than that afternoon gave her. 

There was goodness in being surrounded by friends I don’t see enough. There was love between our little group. We shared dark laughter and mutter “fuck” under our breath a lot. 

Then I went to Chapters and bought a book. I ate Cheetos and drank red wine in bed, and missed her existence on this earth. I went to bed. 

I spent Sunday in a relative haze of not-bad-not-better until all the feelings fell out of me at bedtime and I cried and I cried and I cried at the unfairness and the confusion and the heartache. 

And then I went back to my therapist on Monday, and I raged about how stupid it all is. I complained bitterly about how stupid it all is. I cursed the skies for being stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid because I hate this. 

But I did feel better after. And I met her pet pig, which is awesome. And then I went to school AND taught all my dance classes and had a FULL day with no Valium for the first time in 10 days. I laughed and had FUN. 

Yesterday was really lovely too. Another full day, with all my classes, a French orale examen that I pulled off in under 24 hours, and all my dance classes. Again, no Valium. 

But today…today was not good. It was worse. It wasn’t the worse, but it was probably just a crash after two intensely good days. The way your body hurts when you push too hard after an injury. It was a no school day, and it was a Valium day. It was a foggy headed wandering through the Bonnie Doon Mall during ballet classes, staring at the package of hair pins I needed to buy but not really connecting the next step. 

But I knew there would be days like this, and that’s okay. It’s okay to not be okay every day while I’m healing. 

I did find two treasures tonight though. One was a wooden Weeping Yogi statue that felt incredible in my hands. The other was a raw lilac lepidolite stone. Both pulled to me strongly. I need to be more in touch with my spiritual energy right now. It holds answers and clues that I haven’t stopped to recognize. 

So here I am: two weeks out. Less Valium. Some good. Some bad. Probably sitting at a 2/5. Maybe a 1.9/5. But better than a 1/5 like I was two weeks ago. 

Resting

Legitimately difficult prescription to follow. 

Like, wow. I mean, I’m doing it. But I’m used to being all the things to all the people, and right now I’m not. I’m used to juggling all the balls and wowing the crowd with my ability to keep them all up in the air. 

“I don’t know how you do it!”

I don’t know how I did it either. Because today, in this moment, I am really only good at managing one or two things at a time. I’m teaching 2.5 hours of dance tonight instead of my usual 45 minutes. I wanted to go to school again like I did yesterday, but yesterday was exhausting. So I had to choose between work and school. Obviously, work wins because I’m on “official” medical leave from school until Monday, but I hate it. 

I hate it. 

I hate that I am not myself right now. 

I hate that the ringmaster can’t control all the acts in the circus. Who am I when I’m not doing all the things? I’m standing in a spotlight with all the juggling balls on the floor around me, and they’re all broken and deflated and I can’t seem to find the muscles or the nerve impulses to bend over an pick them up. And my hands feel like they’re too swollen and puffy to actually pick up those balls. 

Of course my hands aren’t actually swollen, but that’s not the point. 

And I keep wondering: what if I’d stopped adding balls to my juggling routine? Would the grief of last week have hit me so intensely? Would I have broken so sharply? But which ball was the limit? Which one made it so that I couldn’t handle the grief? Which ball was the second-last ball?

I don’t know. 

And I hate not knowing. 

I hate all of this. I appreciate it, because human bodies are incredible and complex, and I am in awe of my body’s ability to protect itself from me. But I hate it. I hate that I feel like there is cotton stuffed in my synapses. I hate that I am exhausted from the noise of the ballet studio. I hate that I have to stop and stare at the lines on my hands to ground myself. 

I respect it, but I hate it. 

I hate the Valium. I appreciate that I can function and drive, and that it doesn’t make me groggy, but I hate that I need it right now. I hate needing it, even though it’s a small dose and could be much worse. 

I hate needing things. 

I hate needs. I live in a whimsical world of creativity and wants, and I don’t have that right now. 

I want to fast forward to next month when it gets better, but I have to go through this part because it’s the healing part and you can’t skip the healing part. You can’t take the cast off a broken leg just because it annoys you. So, I’m resting. 

I’m following orders. 

I’m doing what I’m told, even though I’m usually the boss. 

Bossypants has been demoted. Ugh. 

Broken.

I’m in the middle of a breakdown.

Or maybe I had the breakdown and now I’m at the beginning of the recovery. I don’t know.

I do know that it’s really scary to write that word, breakdown, because 1) I am too proud of my ability to handle way too much shit, and 2) twice in my life I had the same person try to destroy my reputation with rumours of a breakdown that I didn’t have. And now that I’m actually breaking (or broken?), it’s really scary to admit it. I don’t want people who know me or work with/for me to think I can’t handle my business or my obligations, because I can. I always have, and I will continue to do so because I can.

But wow. I did not see this coming and I am really not enjoying it. I’ve had too much on my plate for a few years now. None of it is worth exploring in a blog, because despite my tendency to overshare I am still a surprisingly private person when it comes to the stress in my life. I am always the happy face and I always power through and I always (always) put too many other people and situations and obligations ahead of myself. I’m great at acknowledging the importance of mental health…but I kind of suck at it for myself. I public admit to needing help with ADHD, depression, and anxiety but I never let them be excuses or part of my identity. I have those things in my life, but they aren’t me.

A crazy, overbooked, whimsical Gemini? Yes. Those are labels I will give myself. But a depressed and anxious ADHD patient? Nope. No thanks.

So when a friend died tragically last weekend and introduced me to the first real episode of grief in my 36 years on this earth, I didn’t know if I was handling it well. I was a wreck. I was beyond a wreck. I was having flashbacks of an accident I didn’t even witness. I was sobbing nonstop. I was waking up in the middle of the night, sobbing so hard that it woke my kids up. My kids had to step up to comfort me for the entire Thanksgiving weekend because I couldn’t comfort myself. I was wrecked.

And I asked people if this was normal. I mean, she was a friend, but we had drifted in the past year or so. And it wasn’t my grandmother or my husband who had died. But I couldn’t function. I was completely broken. I tried to go to school on Tuesday and I made it through one class before I had to come home. I had to cancel my dance classes that night.

I was wrecked.

I was exhausted. I was nauseous and couldn’t eat. I wanted to at least drink wine and maybe fall asleep, but wine made me feel worse. I went to Walmart to buy Epsom salts and bubble bath, and I wandered the aisles like a zombie. Four days in, and I was still so wrecked.

I knew I had to let my brain and my heart and my body grieve. I know enough about mental health that I knew that I had to let these processes happen. I knew to go outside and get fresh air at 3am. I knew to force food into my body even though it tasted like cardboard pulp. I knew that I had to cry when the tears came. I knew to take Ativan, even though it felt like it wasn’t helping. I knew I could do this even though it hurt so much.

And then on the morning of Day 5, I found out that one of my dance moms passed away. We knew she had terminal metastatic breast cancer, but I thought she had more time. We all thought she had time.

And that’s when I really broke.

I was trying to drive to school that morning to see a crisis counsellor but instead I ended up on the couch in my parent’s house with my dad helping me breathe while I cried so hard. I thought my bones were going to break from the pain I was feeling. And I knew at that point that it wasn’t just two deaths in five days. It was that I had actually reached a point in my stress where I could. not. take. any. more.

I broke.

So my dad made me call my family doctor. And I found out that we have an Employee/Family Assistance Program (EFAP) through my husband’s work benefits. I found out how to log on, and was able to have a one-hour chat counselling with a counsellor. My dad took me for lunch and I ate a small bowl of soup. I emailed my professors at school to let them know where I was and what was going on, and also let them know that I had support and was safe.

I did go to school for one class on Thursday to write my French midterm, and I cried on the paper because we were analyzing my favourite excerpt from Le Petit Prince where he meets the fox and talks about being tamed. It was too much. And I emailed my prof after to apologize, but he was more than understanding. But it felt good to use my brain.

After my exam, I saw my doctor. And I told her I’d broke. And she understood, because she knew the immense stress I was already under before I was met with two deaths in five days.

Side note: did you know that the only other personal death in my life was my Gramma Joan in 2002? But she was sick and we knew it was coming, and it hurt but I was young. I remember sadness and tears…but not grief. It was just sadness and acceptance. It was part of life. I also had our “best family” lose their daughter in 2003, a few years after she was in a bad accident. It sucked a lot. It still sucks. So I’ve known death in my life, but I’ve never had to actually confront death. 

So my incredible doctor walked me through a plan. She wrote notes for my professors. She wrote prescriptions for sleeping pills and Valium, because Ativan wasn’t cutting it. She doubled my antidepressant dose so that when the acute stress was over, I would have the chemical support for my brain to keep healing. She explained the physiology of grief in the brain because she knows I am a bit of a medical geek, and how the process of grief protects the brain. She told me to sleep, and to make sure I eat two meals a day no matter what. And then she taught me about needs. She told me that for two weeks, I am only allowed to focus on my immediate needs for the coming 24 hours. Not wants. Not obligations. Just needs. And no further in the future than the next day.

This is hard. I like to distract myself. I like to feel in control of my future, and this week took that control away from me. But I’m trying. I’m really trying. I cancelled my dance classes on Thursday. I asked my sister to cut my hair instead, so that I could feel some control over my life. I didn’t go to school on Friday, but I did get out of the house. I had lunch with Leith and I took Chelsea to ballet.

I’m focusing on needs. I asked Leith to take Chelsea to ballet today. When he woke up sick this morning, I was overwhelmed with anxiety about taking Chelsea to ballet. But I followed my prescribed orders. I emailed the ballet school and said that I was too sick to bring Chelsea to class today. Chelsea agreed to practice in her home studio instead.

I read through a thread of arrangements for my friend’s funeral. I kept up to date, but I haven’t offered anything yet because I don’t know if I can. And right now, helping with the event is a want and not a need.

Teaching our Disneyland parade choreography tomorrow? That’s a need. So I will find a way to do that. It’s only two hours. And I’ll do the solo choreography afterwards if I can, because it will feel good.

Today?

Crying at the idea of having two funerals next Saturday? That’s a need. I need to cry about that. That is going to be a really, really, really hard day. But I need to go to both because my heart will break harder if I don’t. I need to hug Bonnie’s girls and give them lots of love while they say goodbye to their mom because dance family is real family. I need to go to Stef’s funeral to have closure and see my friends and mourn her death with them.

Today I need a Valium, especially after writing all of this. I need to have a shower and wash my hair because I forgot that bangs don’t like to go two days between shampoos. I did have breakfast, so that’s one meal down. I need to nap more and cry more. I need to get outside and feel the cold air on my face. Maybe drive to town and get some running shoes because I feel an overwhelming need to run even though I haven’t ran in two years.

And I needed to write this.

I needed to step up and say that I am not okay right now. I needed to be honest and open about how I am coping with everything. I needed to let people know that it’s okay to not be okay.

I’m not okay right now.

But I’m safe. I am supported. I am cared for.

And I will be okay. I had a better day yesterday. Today, not so much. But I will be okay.

And that’s okay.

#WorldTeachersDay

Here I am, approaching mid-term exams in my last year of my Arts degree. I am one and a half (one and two-thirds?) semesters away from finally finishing my Bachelor’s degree that I started in 1999, and eagerly looking forward to my After-Degree in Education next September.

My whole adult life has been about teaching in one form or another. I left the MacEwan Arts program because I wanted to be a dance teacher. In 2002, I re-applied to start my BSc/BEd but was side-tracked by the opportunity to open my own dance studio. I closed my studio in 2005 and went back to school to get my Personal Trainer diploma and become a different type of teacher. Then I went back to teaching dance … and back to owning a dance studio … and now here I am, ready to complete the full circle with my BEd! I will graduate in 2020, a mere twenty-one years after starting.

Today is #WorldTeachersDay, which has me thinking about my journey but also about the amazing teachers I have had in my life. There are so many people who have influenced my love of education and my love of dance, and they line the path that has taken me from high school to this newest incarnation of my teacher-life. Today, I want to acknowledge a mere handful of teachers who had the greatest impact on me, both personally and professionally.

High School:

Mrs. Bernice Sarai: This elegant woman was the epitome of polished class and dignity that I have held every English prof to since I left high school. When teachers were relaxing their dress code in the mid-1990s, Mrs. Sarai was still wearing freshly painted nail polish that coordinated perfectly with her outfit and matched her lipstick. She always wore perfume, always wore stockings, and always drank coffee. She was passionate about literature, and she inspired me more than I was ever able to tell her. I let myself be vulnerable in my writing with her as my teacher, and nearly every book she assigned our class through the years sits on my bookshelf today as lifelong favourites. So far, the only teacher who has held a candle to her is Professor Tim McNamara at Concordia, who I’m sure is Mrs. Sarai’s soulmate. Losing touch with her is one of my few regrets in life because I would love to let her know how much she changed my life.

Miss Kim Brennan: who is now Mrs. Kim Becker, but will forever be Miss Brennan to me for the rest of my life. She gave me a safe place to love music, but she was also one of the first teachers I ever saw as a “real” person. She was so young when she came to our very old school, single, back from traveling in Europe, and so full of sweetness and energy. Her soft kindness reminded me of Miss Honey from “Matilda”. I felt that she genuinely loved and cared about each of her students. I’m so thankful to be able to keep up with her life now, and that she has stayed in touch with so many of her former students. Every time I sit down to play my piano or hear someone talk about music education, I think of her and the goodness that she brought to our school.

Dance:

Charmaine Weldon: Where would I be without her? She took me into the teen jazz class when I was 14 and had never danced, and she cultivated and created everything that would become the teacher I am today. She mentored me over so many cups of coffee and held her door open to comfort me when I was in tears over quitting the MacEwan dance program. She helped me navigate the transition from teacher to owner, and everything I do in either role has shades of Charmaine to this day. She is the reason I am here today, and she is the reason that I always, always return to the studio. She gave me this love, and I can never fully repay her for that.

Maria Chia: How is it that Maria only taught me for a brief speck of time but changed my soul so deeply? I was pondering this today and realized that although it feels like she was my teacher for years, she really only taught me a few times when Alethea was on maternity leave and again during Summer Intensive. But she introduced me to Modern dance. She brought the most exquisite calm and peace into my life with her presence, and her beautiful movement soothed my heart after the roughness of MacEwan modern dance. Through Maria, I found my true love.

Janet Hagisavas: The teacher whom I respect the most in this world, and who I was afraid to speak to for years after I left ballet because I felt I had disappointed her. Janet has been responsible for all of my ballet teacher training. She is the reason I am so emphatic about proper ballet training for my students. Janet is a fascinating teacher with more knowledge than she could ever share in a lifetime. There are SO many Janet-isms that I use in classes that I sometimes feel as though she is in the room. She also supported me when other teachers wouldn’t. She single-handedly coached me through my Elementary (now Intermediate) Cecchetti exam when my other teachers refused to sponsor me, and saw me receive Highly Commended. I saw the sadness in her eyes when I left the teachers’ program, when ballet had broken my spirit. And when I finally returned to her classroom last fall (timid, humble, and terrified!), she gave me one of the greatest compliments I have ever received as a teacher.

Post-Secondary:

Sheryl Hansen: My mentor, my friend, and recently even my boss! My cheerleader through the years. I was lucky to have amazing instructors at NAIT, but Sheryl has always been just a little bit more. She instilled the professional and interpersonal standards I hold so dear, so that I have a mini-Janet in the dance studio but a mini-Sheryl guiding everything else I do. She’s the reason I take the high road, and the reason I try to see things from all sides. I can’t even scratch the surface of all that she taught me. I’ve often said I hope that I grow up to be half the woman she is. Sheryl has believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Her advice has never failed me and because of her, I live my life by the motto: What Would Sheryl Do?

Joanna Merkel: Do you know how terrifying it is to go back to university when you’re 35 years old?? Let alone go into a second-year language course when you have barely looked at the language for 19 years?? Let alone being in a small class full of French Immersion students? I am so glad that my first French prof was Dr. Merkel. She supported and encouraged me through my entire first semester of complete overwhelm. But the real gold was when I was her only student in the second-semester course. We spent an hour together, four days a week. She helped build my confidence in my French. Dr. Merkel is the reason I am happy to be a French major. She ignited my passion for French literature and culture and sparked my hunger for more. I don’t have her for a single class this year, and I miss her terribly. I haven’t found the confidence in my voice yet this semester but without her, I wouldn’t have succeeded as a French student at all. I owe her a coffee and an immense debt of gratitude. We have a Café Terrace in a few weeks and I cannot wait to see her and catch up!

So there you have it: a short list of people who have made me a teacher inside and out. I know that the school system will test my passion and that it will be difficult to settle into my new role in a few years after so many years of freedom in my teaching. But I am looking forward to finally achieving what I was meant to do. I love teaching dance with all my heart, and I can’t wait to open the doors to a new world of students. Hopefully one or two will remember me as fondly as I remember my teachers.