I don't know whether people reap what they sow. I have always been a giver, and right now, I'm about given out. I think I've been a doormat for my friends (?). It's get what you can and leave her in the dust. I'm tired of it. Tired of being taken advantage of... So, Mary, Mary, Leslee, Trish, Fern... I wish I wouldn't have tried so hard to help. It's not that I wanted an exact exchange of services, but I came to help you in your time of need, but it was a different story when I needed you.
I gave kindness, and I didn't get much in return. I'm sad and disappointment. No beauty for ashes. Just the ashes.
Friday, September 10, 2010
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Continuation...
School continued to be difficult. There are some incidents that stand out in my mind. In Grade 3, Mrs. Marshall, my teacher, became annoyed with me and sent me to get the strap from another teacher in the school. I can't remember what I did wrong; I think it was that I may not have coloured my bear brown as the instructions indicated. I coloured him purple. I was embarrassed as I went from classroom to classroom to find the strap. I was shaking when I returned to the classroom. Mrs. Marshall took me into the cloakroom and took hold of my hand. I remember her raising her hand with the strap...I didn't feel it. It probably didn't hit me as I slithered down the back wall into a tearful puddle on the floor. I do remember her telling me never to tell my parents. My father, at the time, was vice-principal of the school. I did what I was told.
Years later when I was in Grade 11 or 12, our family was sitting around the kitchen table, and somehow the opportunity was there to tell my parents about the strapping incident. Tears clouded my father's eyes, and both he and my mother asked why I hadn't told them. I gave the reasons. Usually when we complained about our teachers, the first question our parents asked was, "What did you do to provoke the teacher?" But not this time. Dad indicated he would have confronted Mrs. Marshall even at this late date, but she was dying. It felt good to know that my parents did not question the veracity of my experience.
Junior High was a less horrendous experience, but still the anxiety persisted. Friends were in short supply, and I was often by myself.
In grade 7, we all had to get our individual pictures taken. Since I had been ill the day the pictures were taken, I had to go to the studio downtown. There was just me and the photographer. Instantly, I became anxious. I wanted out and fast. I had a brown raincoat on, buttoned to the neck, and my short curly hair was a mess. "Just take the picture." "Don't you want to comb your hair?" "No." I have since thrown that yearbook out. The picture wasn't reflective of me--no smile, hair sticking up, and a look of pure panic on my face. I can't remember anyone saying much about the picture, but I imagine it embarrassed my mother who always took such care in sending us to school on picture days looking our best.
Years later when I was in Grade 11 or 12, our family was sitting around the kitchen table, and somehow the opportunity was there to tell my parents about the strapping incident. Tears clouded my father's eyes, and both he and my mother asked why I hadn't told them. I gave the reasons. Usually when we complained about our teachers, the first question our parents asked was, "What did you do to provoke the teacher?" But not this time. Dad indicated he would have confronted Mrs. Marshall even at this late date, but she was dying. It felt good to know that my parents did not question the veracity of my experience.
Junior High was a less horrendous experience, but still the anxiety persisted. Friends were in short supply, and I was often by myself.
In grade 7, we all had to get our individual pictures taken. Since I had been ill the day the pictures were taken, I had to go to the studio downtown. There was just me and the photographer. Instantly, I became anxious. I wanted out and fast. I had a brown raincoat on, buttoned to the neck, and my short curly hair was a mess. "Just take the picture." "Don't you want to comb your hair?" "No." I have since thrown that yearbook out. The picture wasn't reflective of me--no smile, hair sticking up, and a look of pure panic on my face. I can't remember anyone saying much about the picture, but I imagine it embarrassed my mother who always took such care in sending us to school on picture days looking our best.
August 20, 2010
A better day... Prayed many times last evening before and after reading Eugene England's book on Grace. Pray for those who use you. And I did. The peace that only Heaven can bring came. Tonight, although it does hurt that I won't be at L's wedding, I am not one with the pain. There is a separation between me and the pain. They are two separate entities.
Talked to Wendy. She could tell I was sad. I told her a bit about what had happened--how much I loved those kids, and I could feel her love and compassion for me.
Talked to Wendy. She could tell I was sad. I told her a bit about what had happened--how much I loved those kids, and I could feel her love and compassion for me.
Friday, August 20, 2010
continuation...
In large part, our relationship and the relationships between me and some of my other friends, were due to the impact of panic attack disorder and major depression. I was born anxious. My first memory of life, I believe, was in the womb. What I remember was seeing my pregnant mother standing on the back steps of a house. The back door was open. She was agitated. It was dark outside and the house was dark inside as well with the exception of a dimly lit light in the hall. She suffered much of her life with anxiety and depression, as well, but she was a master at disguising it from me. I wonder if was home alone, and my dad was off in another town refereeing basketball. I wonder what the scene that I have locked in my memory was all about. What precipitated it? Was dad there? Was she up all night? I don't know.
The second memory etched in my mind is of me, in a blue tunic and white blouse, sitting against the wall of the living room in Aunt Dorothy's Playhouse. The other kids were playing. My eyes were sore from crying, and my breath was coming in short short, jagged bursts of breath. i was calming down. I felt weak and exhausted. I wanted my mother, and I wanted to go home.
Years later, my mother told me that leaving me at Aunt Dorothy's was a mistake. I was crying when she left, and the staff had assured her that I would stop once she had departed. It didn't happen that way. I did stay the year, but the pictures of the activities we engaged in showed a sober little girl. My experience there certainly didn't bode well for Grade I. On a few occasions, I ran away from school and made my way home where I hid in the hall closet until lunch time where I magically appeared. Soon I found myself sitting in the principal's office with my father, a fellow educator, hearing the principal telling me that if I ran away again, he would come after me in his car car. I remember thinking how silly it was for him to say "car car." In my memory, he was a tall and heavy man with a formidable presence. Although I continued to hate school, I never ran away or skipped school from then on.
The second memory etched in my mind is of me, in a blue tunic and white blouse, sitting against the wall of the living room in Aunt Dorothy's Playhouse. The other kids were playing. My eyes were sore from crying, and my breath was coming in short short, jagged bursts of breath. i was calming down. I felt weak and exhausted. I wanted my mother, and I wanted to go home.
Years later, my mother told me that leaving me at Aunt Dorothy's was a mistake. I was crying when she left, and the staff had assured her that I would stop once she had departed. It didn't happen that way. I did stay the year, but the pictures of the activities we engaged in showed a sober little girl. My experience there certainly didn't bode well for Grade I. On a few occasions, I ran away from school and made my way home where I hid in the hall closet until lunch time where I magically appeared. Soon I found myself sitting in the principal's office with my father, a fellow educator, hearing the principal telling me that if I ran away again, he would come after me in his car car. I remember thinking how silly it was for him to say "car car." In my memory, he was a tall and heavy man with a formidable presence. Although I continued to hate school, I never ran away or skipped school from then on.
Remembering
Hi,
This is the first time I have attempted blogging...
The 17th of August, 2010 was the second anniversary of my father's death. The 18th of August 2010 was the first anniversary of my mother's death. On August 19th, 2010 a memorial service was held in Calgary for my 35 year old nephew, Keith, who was killed in a car accident near Vermillion, Alberta.
And to add to the losses is Lisa's marriage on Saturday. I have known her since she was 10 months old; she is now 28. But I won't be there. I never thought it would turn out like this. Her mom, Mary, and I had been friends for years. But several years ago, we parted company. I was very ill and had to pay off a debt. I phoned and asked her for financial help, and she refused me. I was so overwhelmed by my circumstances, so puzzled and angered by her reply which I perceived as cold and unfeeling that I phoned her mother and explained the circumstances. How could she let me down like this. I had spent 6 or 7 years, at incredibly low pay, taking care of her daughters. Many mistook me for their mother. I loved the girls with all my heart. A few nights ago I phoned Mary. We talked for a couple of hours. She told me Lisa was getting married on the week-end. It was hard to contain my emotions. I always thought I'd see her marry. I always thought Mary and I would be friends. I didn't think $1500 and a desperate call to her mother would result in such a permanent break.
This is the first time I have attempted blogging...
The 17th of August, 2010 was the second anniversary of my father's death. The 18th of August 2010 was the first anniversary of my mother's death. On August 19th, 2010 a memorial service was held in Calgary for my 35 year old nephew, Keith, who was killed in a car accident near Vermillion, Alberta.
And to add to the losses is Lisa's marriage on Saturday. I have known her since she was 10 months old; she is now 28. But I won't be there. I never thought it would turn out like this. Her mom, Mary, and I had been friends for years. But several years ago, we parted company. I was very ill and had to pay off a debt. I phoned and asked her for financial help, and she refused me. I was so overwhelmed by my circumstances, so puzzled and angered by her reply which I perceived as cold and unfeeling that I phoned her mother and explained the circumstances. How could she let me down like this. I had spent 6 or 7 years, at incredibly low pay, taking care of her daughters. Many mistook me for their mother. I loved the girls with all my heart. A few nights ago I phoned Mary. We talked for a couple of hours. She told me Lisa was getting married on the week-end. It was hard to contain my emotions. I always thought I'd see her marry. I always thought Mary and I would be friends. I didn't think $1500 and a desperate call to her mother would result in such a permanent break.
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