It is my pleasure, although as I say, I'm feeling quite vulnerable with so much personal revelation. I think part 2 gets into more of the meat of how I think I've gotten to the place.
Thank you Alecia. You have been my trigger for memories long buried. 🌼
~
What did Hubble see?
On February 3 in 1995
Bow Shock Around LL Orionis
Named for the crescent-shaped wave made by a ship as it moves through water, a bow shock can be created in space when streams of gas collide. This image captures the bow shock around the star LL Orionis.
We joke around so much that I'm not sure if your comment about memory triggers is a genuine or a joke related to the Hubble image on your birthday.
If it's the former I appreciate it and if it's the latter, I hope the memories are good ones and if they aren't, that they unlock something that's helpful to you. 🌻
I’m on my way out the door but I took a quick peek at it. From some of the things that you’ve shared, me thinks that maybe it properly reflects your path, doesn’t it? I’m going to have to look mine up more in depth now. thanks for the prompt!
I lost my mom in 2002 and my dad in 2003. I didn't experience grief as it is conventionally portrayed. I was not close to my father. We grew apart. I'm saddened he didn't have the life he wanted.
At the time of their passing I was headed down the path of solitude. I was fatalistic without feeling that way. Neurotic may be a better term. I still am those things.
Looking back, I expressed more grief when my parents were alive, and the doctors informed us that her cancer was terminal. My father broke down in tears as he didn't accept he would outlive her. I cried when visiting mom in the hospital, holding her hand, while she's telling me conspiratorially to fetch her Toyota Tercel so we could get out of that place. That made me laugh while crying, as those emotions are connected, for some reason.
The last time I saw her, she was fighting for breath under the morphine. This is what dying from cancer looks like.
My aunt was by her side when she passed away. I wasn't courageous enough to witness it, and when I don't want to experience something, I avoid it.
Afterwards, I spent a little time alone in a room with her body, at the hospital. I addressed her as "Mon Colonel" which was the nickname she enjoyed. I wanted to express my sorrow for the suffering she endured. I didn't have words to say goodbye, just jumbled thoughts. I sat on the window ledge, looked at her and looked out the window, trying to imagine she was in a better place. She believed in God. This was my way of respecting her beliefs and putting my mind to rest.
I don't remember if my father went into the room, or had already gone into the room to say his goodbye. He was there outside the door in a wheelchair with a nurse or attendant. I did not say a word to him.
That was the end of my grieving in terms of the emotions I felt. November 2002.
I'm about as emotional now writing about it, as I was then. As always, they arrive in waves.
The next part, dealing with arrangements and paperwork, needs no description for someone who has gone through it. My aunt was by my side for that interminable process. She also kept an eye on my father, who was living in the family home next door.
The service was on November 15th, at the Catholic church in our village. Not being a practicing Catholic, I went through the motions as best I could. I felt out of place as I usually do. The most remarkable thing about the church service was one of the choir singers; her voice was like that of an angel, a songbird fluttering above us.
My mom was laid to rest at the local cemetery in the midst of near blizzard conditions. It would be quite a contrast to the warm September day when my father was laid to rest beside her.
The impact on me from mid November of '02 to September of next year was so slight that it must have been abnormal. My aunt never let on that my behaviour was weird or callous or anything. But it must have been.
I didn't visit my dad at the family home, or at the assisted living facility when his health deteriorated. He died alone. When I was asked if I wanted to spend time with his body to say goodbye, I declined.
I was the world to my father. And I abandoned him. I didn't care to see or talk with him for years.
His happiest moment may have been during graduation ceremony at the high school. He and my mother were there, but I remember him. He was so out of character, taking picture after picture. Smiling, and elated.
It would all go downhill from there, when I failed to launch and dropped out of CEGEP (college).
Our relationship grew worse when I began to dislike my job at the inn.
I had followed his advice to save money and buy a house. When I did buy a house, it was to get away from him.
Distancing myself from my parents wasn't his fault. I had developed a personality disorder. My life and the harm I caused are a testament to living with a PD and not realizing it.
My parents did not deserve to have a son with Schizoid PD. My dad suffered more since he did not have friends like my mom did. He was a German immigrant to Canada, she was French Canadian. We lived right next door to her siblings, inlaws and cousins.
My diagnosis of SPD was in 2016. Now I can look back and see what a monster I was. If the job I was clinging to hadn't kept me within driving distance of the hotel and where I was raised, I likely would've moved far away. Eventually I did.
When I bought a house and left home in 1993 I really wanted my parents to live their own lives without me. But I couldn't tell them that. That sort of desire is abnormal, if not sociopathic. Now I know why I had that desire.
While researching SPD, I read a comment from a sibling wondering if her estranged brother had it. There were several such comments, seeking answers. Most of the time, there is no diagnosis. The person just moves away, refrains from initiating contact, and never consults a psychologist. Family members are left wondering what happened. Just like my parents.
* * *
I scored high on neuroticism on the Big 5 test. It wasn't explained what I'm to do with this information. It's related to my diagnosis of social anxiety disorder.
My understanding of being neurotic is I cannot handle stress. I catastrophise the future, and have pessimistic, fatalistic thoughts. I accept these thoughts, and this alleviates feeling depressed or worried. Neuroticism may have played a role in sabotaging my attempts to return to the workforce.
My desire to be alone isolates me physically; being neurotic means I feel like a clown if I'm to wear a suit and tie. So I never wear a suit and tie. I never do this, I never do that. My self-appraisal is negative, and rightfully so. Yet I don't feel bad. I don't really grieve. I jump to acceptance.
If there are other aspects to my neuroses, I have yet to figure them out.
* * *
If I'm to tell the story of my dad, I'd reminisce about the happy times. All the old photographs I have are 100% happy or funny times. The same can be said of the photos I chose not to keep.
I wonder why I didn't keep the albums as they were. Is it a ritual to go through albums and do a culling after someone close dies?
* * *
Addendum
Today I learned that my cousin Normand passed away in October 2017. He was 54.
As childhood neighbours we would drop by each other's home, hang out on the golf course, and take walks in the mountain.
He was the cousin with whom I had a mysterious connection, despite our difference in age. He was 4 years older.
In his early twenties, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. For the rest of his life, he would have to take medication to control it. This is what I was told.
Over the years we went our separate ways, then I saw him occasionally, from 2006-08, before running away to Nova Scotia.
The last time I met him was in September of 2011. Once again, we would hang out, visiting the places we knew as children.
Normand said he was surrounded by friends with criminal records. He didn't know why they wanted to hang out with him. They may have been bad dudes, but they weren't trying to exploit him. Perhaps because he was non-judgemental.
Normand's mother, the aunt who had helped me, passed away in 2009. He told me of the things she said to him on her deathbed; that he would never succeed or find love; that he would die alone. My thought was that she said those things because she was worried about him. I don't remember if I shared that thought.
* * *
One memory has led to another, and it was inevitable that I would learn of this through a Google search. In August of 2011, a month before my visit, Normand's older brother and his wife had lost their daughter. She was 23. In place of one obituary, I found two.
* * *
In conclusion, this confessional marks the end to a chapter of my life. Which is as it should be, given the choices I made.
A picture is said to be worth a thousand words, so if there is something personal I wish to convey, I will try to do so through old photographs. Words alone are too impersonal.
Thank-you Alecia and Holly for sharing your stories.
Brother, I have been consciously holding your response with me ever since I first read it. Please forgive me for taking a moment to get back into this space with presence. I had been sitting with my latest Part two of my blog of personal sharing and felt a strong need to get it out by a certain time. That required my complete presence and I couldn't be present in both spaces at the same time.
The first thing that I was struck by was the similarity of your mom in the hospital "...telling me conspiratorially to fetch her Toyota Tercel so we could get out of that place" and my extraordinarily similar experience with my dad in the hospital.
That night, under the beeping and droning of the oxygen machine, he told me to put the bed rail down so we could get the hell out of there so we could go home. I told him that no one would spring him from that place quicker than I would if I could, but that wasn't a possibility.
The medication and the machines were keeping him alive and he likely wouldn't make it to the front door, he certainly wouldn't make it home alive, and they wouldn't provide an ambulance. My heart so wanted to give him what he asked and it broke my heart for me not to be able to do so. 💔
It's a strange thing that you and I had similar circumstances. I understand.
I understand you not wanting to see her "like that" as she took her last breath. This will be different for all of us. I have always given my very emotionally sensitive and highly visual daughter the option to be there or not to be there, for this is an individual choice that each person needs to live with.
She chose not to because she had just spent two weeks with him enjoying her time with him talking about important things, playing games, and just enjoying being with him. Had she made the long trek to come back home to be there, those visual and emotional memories would've superimposed themselves onto her psyche and she would live with them for the rest of her life...or not. But it was her choice and I think the right one for her with no guilt put upon her by anyone else.
The sweetness of you calling her "Mon Colonel" as her beloved nickname touched me. I didn't have such nicknames but mine came in the form of playing some music from the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack which was both of our favorite movie.
As soon as it came on started bobbing his head under that oxygen mask followed by the tapping of his foot to the music that bonded us together and meant so much to him. I can barely see through the tears right now to type as I remember that very poignant moment. Thank you for bringing it up in me again.
As you recounted your Catholic church experience and the woman's angelic voice, that would have captured me too since I find little comfort in such traditions, as you so well know in your reading of part two of my sharing.
I find the contrast of your mom and dad passing so very close together and their burial so contrasting - one in a blizzard and the other in the warmth of the summer/fall. I imagine that felt so surreal.
The sharing of your father and not seeing him again brought up all manner of feelings inside of me. I don't know if they're mine, yours, or a combination of both but they felt all confused, twisted and knotted up. It's not a judgment against any of it but merely a noticing.
Things related to mental health issues and personality disorders are far above my pay grade. I can't say that I understand them, but I deeply empathize with them as we have some people living with bi-polar and mental health issues in our family which can be difficult to parse out.
You talk about what "a monster" or how sociopathic you were before being diagnosed. I can't know why you call it that because I don't know how you acted out or didn't, but it sounds like there's some negative judgment against yourself for something you didn't even understand that you had. That hurts me for you.
Should we look back at our past with a neutral eye as an observer of our actions in an attempt to learn to try to do better in the future? I do. We're to "notice" neutrally that which doesn't feel good to our mind and body in hindsight for pespective and learning but to continually judge it and feel guilt about it is absolutely wasted time and energy.
Now learning from it and trying to do better - even when we are imperfect - is completely different energetically. I hope you are able or have been able to cut yourself some slack with that. 🤞
As far as the Big 5 test goes, I understand that. I often question whether the results come from how we actually came in wired and how much of it was either nurtured or mental and emotional habits that were acquired from difficult life circumstances.
So many of the traits you mention seem to be so common today with millennials on down. I think that much of that for them comes with this f*cked up world we're living in, especially since the screens entered our lives and so many never knew life without them.
Add to that the fact that our mental health services suck because of the often passive role that therapists take as a backseat to medications. Rarely does anyone tell us the straight truth which can help us better understand our tendencies giving us tools with which to deal with them.
These days, we have perpetual patients that never get off the meds nor out of therapy and how many of them are actually improving their lives? Many I see don't but that doesn't mean there's not a multitude of others who learn to thrive under the wisdom and counsel of awesome therapists.
As for the photos and culling of albums, we started that immediately because we can't possibly keep tens of thousands of captures and I have generations of photos of people I don't know and I don't have family members left to tell me.
When I reread your comments today, I saw the addendum. That was quite cruel of your aunt, in my eyes, and I'm so sorry that she left him with those heavy messages of doom on her deathbed. It took me back to your time with her and I wondered if she might've also given you direct or indirect messages of doom that affected your psyche and the possibilities you held for your life?
It's interesting this unfoldment you've experienced as you've dipped back into this pond of loss. For some reason, you've been given a birds-eye view of what has transpired in your family in regards to life and death. The question that comes to me is how you're feeling about it?
This has been quite in-depth for both of us. Thank you so much for allowing me into your world. I hold your stories in my heart for hope that they don't weigh you down and that you find nuggets of perspective that bring you some healing and ease for those things that require it.
Sorry for the length. (I'm Canadian, we like to admit we're sawry.)
I'm thinking your dad and my mom would get along quite well if they were to meet. Similar circumstances suggest we were witness to kindred spirits.
Indeed I understand. We couldn't meet their request. That made me cry, and also laugh, because that was my mom being true to herself.
Seeing and hearing her struggling to breathe was me seeing her body doing what it must to survive. My mother, if not her spirit, was gone. My aunt spoke of needing to be beside the person, telling them that it is alright to let go. She had done this more than once. I just didn't have the courage to do it. Her passing wasn't peaceful when I last saw her.
You listened to songs from your favourite movie, that is wonderful! 🎵🎵
Had it occurred to me, Kenny Rogers and Julio Iglesias would be on the playlist.
Your words are so heartfelt, Alecia. I must admit that a father-daughter relationship has a dynamic I'm unfamiliar with.
Could it be you experienced a different form of grief because you felt happier for your dad? You describe a man who lived a fulfilling life. My mother had a more balanced life than my father. She had friends to support her through a loveless marriage. She lived a few hundred feet from the room in the house where she was born. Her siblings and nieces and nephews were our neighbours. She was connected to the place where we lived and to the places we would visit.
There is the grief I felt at the loss of someone I was close to, that I had a connection to, and grief on behalf of the person. When I was 14 to 17, I was more comfortable spending time with my dad than my mom. This reversed by the time I was 25. I left home at 26. My mother would visit me regularly and everything between us was amicable. My father visited me once and we ended up having an argument. Consequently, those years were harder on my father than anyone else. He had no one to support him or confide with. Part of that was his choice, in that he was prejudiced against my mother's relatives, and towards French Canadians in general. That doesn't discount his suffering. At some point I looked past his choices and the resentment I felt at what he put my mother through. I looked at what my self-isolating behavior had done to him. And I asked myself what sort of life did he want to have?
I don't have all the answers, but it wasn't the kind of life he was expecting. If he found fulfillment, it was during my childhood.
I know that when he was in Austria, he worked as a civilian for the occupying American army. He was impressed with them and wanted to emigrate to the US, but had to settle for Canada instead. He was the only member of his family to leave Europe. That is a big step to have taken.
Burying my parent's ashes in opposite weather conditions is something I remember as ironic. My relationship to my father had grown cold, and stormy. The weather was the symbolic opposite of our lived experience.
My father's birthday was August 13th. His funeral was on September 3rd. I'm mindful of those dates.
I'm mindful that I don't experience loneliness as most people do.
Do you remember the crazy/weird Taylor Swift video I posted awhile ago? Anti-Hero.
There is much in this song I feel applies to me. Maybe it will help you to understand.
In the lyrics there is a recurring theme:
🎵
It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me
At tea time, everybody agrees
I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror
It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero
Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby
And I'm a monster on the hill
Too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city
Pierced through the heart, but never killed
🎵
In regard to my parents, but especially for my father, this is what I believe.
(I'm the problem, it's me)
If my diagnosis had been done back then, my parents will have known, and that may have eased their anguish. For instance, my mom was concerned by my introversion, and tried to get me to socialize when I was a teenager. It was part of the reason I preferred to hang out with my dad, who also didn't socialize. At a minimum, with a diagnosis of SPD and SAD they would have understood why I was such a loner.
But I'm still a monster on the hill. I didn't change my lifestyle after diagnosis. I still believe it is the right choice for me. I regret that it harmed my parents, and harmed my father most of all. I was not the son he dreamed of. We didn't have the father-son relationship he may have believed in. Or maybe we did, in the beginning.
If I had led a conventional life with a romantic relationship, I'm convinced I would've harmed my significant other. I've held this view since high school. What a few girls saw in me was unfathomable. I imagined it would end in disaster if it went further.
And I'd be like: (I'm the problem, it's me)
So I never went there.
As far as I can tell, regrets don't feel the same as guilt.
🎵 Pierced through the heart, but never killed (as only a shield to loneliness could do)
By some accounts, I should be dead.
After multiple attempts to return to college in hopes of securing a 'career', I was facing homelessness. That is what led to my psych evaluation in the hospital. Now it is the state that keeps me alive. I'm considered disabled. A useless eater, unable to hold a job.
I'm the monster, too awkward to hang out.
I read that people perceive Schizoids as aloof, secretive, anti-social, mysterious, and cold. Nevertheless, the facilitator at our job preparation group likened me to Steve Martin. She said I had his vibe, and was a bit of a prankster. Decades later, her observation was confirmed when I went online.
Years later, another facilitator likened me to Shrek. There's truth to both.
Most Schizoids have no desire to write/talk about themselves. I might not have opened up as I did without having read your work, and this article in particular. Holly also wrote about her relationship with her father, and I finally took the plunge. Substack (not YouTube) would be the venue.
I read about the damage social media is doing to younger generations and I agree with it. They should seek real-life connections. At the same time, I find social media to be my comfort zone. During the pandemic I made tasteless remarks about how it was a Schizoid renaissance. We're the 1% who thrive under lock-down and isolation. Schadenfreude for introverts.
My aunt knew that Normand had schizophrenia, and it seemed logical to me that of her five children, she would be most concerned about him, her youngest. I imagined that if I were in the room when she was saying those things, I'd speak up and explain that it's because she's worried about him. If it were the truth, my aunt would admit it and let Normand know that this was the case. I have a vivid imagination, but my aunt was not a woman prone to admitting her weakness. She had to raise five children with an alcoholic husband. As a child I witnessed how angry she could be. I saw her smash a radio my uncle was listening to.
Suffice to say she used her strength to help with the loss of my parents. Whether she knew I was destined to end up alone and be a failure professionally, I'll never know. She was aware there was a connection between Normand and I, and sought to encourage it.
Could I have helped my cousin had I remained in town and stayed in touch?
An unanswered question that may evolve into regret.
The last week or so have brought a sense of closure. I'm fleshing out and putting into words thoughts that were disorganized. How I feel about it is not yet settled. No worse than my anti-hero Taylor Swift. Thank-you for being here, allowing me to share what's been on my plate for a long time. Feel free to continue our conversation, or...
However you proceed, be well, sister (I never had).💖🙏💖
No worries about the length, brother. As you can see, I'm quite verbose, especially when talking about important things from the heart so you just keep being you.
I'm going so hold this with me, but I may not be back to reply for a few days as I'm going out of town tomorrow morning. Just wanted you to expect my absence.
Thank you so much for sharing your story. I've read it two times now.
We have some parallels with some things, especially in the hospital. I've been trying to get here to reply, but this requires presence that I haven't had yet.
I'll come back when I can be more present but I wanted to at least give your reply an acknowledgement so you didn't feel ghosted in case you were feeling vulnerable after your heartfelt sharing.
This is so beautiful. Thank you for sharing your wisdom of shifting perspectives even in grief. Sending love and light to you. ❤️
It is my pleasure, although as I say, I'm feeling quite vulnerable with so much personal revelation. I think part 2 gets into more of the meat of how I think I've gotten to the place.
Have a lovely day! 🌞
Thank you Alecia. You have been my trigger for memories long buried. 🌼
~
What did Hubble see?
On February 3 in 1995
Bow Shock Around LL Orionis
Named for the crescent-shaped wave made by a ship as it moves through water, a bow shock can be created in space when streams of gas collide. This image captures the bow shock around the star LL Orionis.
We joke around so much that I'm not sure if your comment about memory triggers is a genuine or a joke related to the Hubble image on your birthday.
If it's the former I appreciate it and if it's the latter, I hope the memories are good ones and if they aren't, that they unlock something that's helpful to you. 🌻
It's about memories that have resurfaced over the past few months, thanks to you 🌻
I hope they serve you in a positive way, brother, and I'm honored to be the catalyst. 🌹
I looked up your Hubble image. That's lovely! I guess I've realized that there's may not be a way to necessarily post images in comments unless one links to it. I"m going to try that here. Here's mine - https://science.nasa.gov/mission/hubble/multimedia/what-did-hubble-see-on-your-birthday/
If replies to your article are made on Notes, then I believe links might work, or a copy of the image may be posted.
Not seeing your birthday image ...
Ahhh...I see.
How about this?
https://imagine.gsfc.nasa.gov/hst_bday/images/november-22-2019-galaxy-ngc-1313.jpg
Oh my, the Topsy Turvy Galaxy!
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/NGC_1313
I’m on my way out the door but I took a quick peek at it. From some of the things that you’ve shared, me thinks that maybe it properly reflects your path, doesn’t it? I’m going to have to look mine up more in depth now. thanks for the prompt!
I'm thinking my young star in Orion reflects my smooth sailing analogy. A bow wave against the turbulence of a nebula.
I've tried to post my Hubble image but can't figure it out. It does fill me with energy and wonder! Thanks for sharing your experience!
Thanks for saying the reply.
I just realized that it seems that one can't post an image in comments. Live and learn.
Here's a link to mine. It's one of the less stunning images, but I know there's some power building behind it. lol
https://science.nasa.gov/mission/hubble/multimedia/what-did-hubble-see-on-your-birthday/
I lost my mom in 2002 and my dad in 2003. I didn't experience grief as it is conventionally portrayed. I was not close to my father. We grew apart. I'm saddened he didn't have the life he wanted.
At the time of their passing I was headed down the path of solitude. I was fatalistic without feeling that way. Neurotic may be a better term. I still am those things.
Wow. Those losses are so very close together. How did that impact you?
I was deeply touched by the tenderness in "I'm saddened he didn't have the life he wanted" even though you grew apart. That speaks on your behalf.
Does your neuroticism isolate you?
This is awfully long, but here goes...
Looking back, I expressed more grief when my parents were alive, and the doctors informed us that her cancer was terminal. My father broke down in tears as he didn't accept he would outlive her. I cried when visiting mom in the hospital, holding her hand, while she's telling me conspiratorially to fetch her Toyota Tercel so we could get out of that place. That made me laugh while crying, as those emotions are connected, for some reason.
The last time I saw her, she was fighting for breath under the morphine. This is what dying from cancer looks like.
My aunt was by her side when she passed away. I wasn't courageous enough to witness it, and when I don't want to experience something, I avoid it.
Afterwards, I spent a little time alone in a room with her body, at the hospital. I addressed her as "Mon Colonel" which was the nickname she enjoyed. I wanted to express my sorrow for the suffering she endured. I didn't have words to say goodbye, just jumbled thoughts. I sat on the window ledge, looked at her and looked out the window, trying to imagine she was in a better place. She believed in God. This was my way of respecting her beliefs and putting my mind to rest.
I don't remember if my father went into the room, or had already gone into the room to say his goodbye. He was there outside the door in a wheelchair with a nurse or attendant. I did not say a word to him.
That was the end of my grieving in terms of the emotions I felt. November 2002.
I'm about as emotional now writing about it, as I was then. As always, they arrive in waves.
The next part, dealing with arrangements and paperwork, needs no description for someone who has gone through it. My aunt was by my side for that interminable process. She also kept an eye on my father, who was living in the family home next door.
The service was on November 15th, at the Catholic church in our village. Not being a practicing Catholic, I went through the motions as best I could. I felt out of place as I usually do. The most remarkable thing about the church service was one of the choir singers; her voice was like that of an angel, a songbird fluttering above us.
My mom was laid to rest at the local cemetery in the midst of near blizzard conditions. It would be quite a contrast to the warm September day when my father was laid to rest beside her.
The impact on me from mid November of '02 to September of next year was so slight that it must have been abnormal. My aunt never let on that my behaviour was weird or callous or anything. But it must have been.
I didn't visit my dad at the family home, or at the assisted living facility when his health deteriorated. He died alone. When I was asked if I wanted to spend time with his body to say goodbye, I declined.
I was the world to my father. And I abandoned him. I didn't care to see or talk with him for years.
His happiest moment may have been during graduation ceremony at the high school. He and my mother were there, but I remember him. He was so out of character, taking picture after picture. Smiling, and elated.
It would all go downhill from there, when I failed to launch and dropped out of CEGEP (college).
Our relationship grew worse when I began to dislike my job at the inn.
I had followed his advice to save money and buy a house. When I did buy a house, it was to get away from him.
Distancing myself from my parents wasn't his fault. I had developed a personality disorder. My life and the harm I caused are a testament to living with a PD and not realizing it.
My parents did not deserve to have a son with Schizoid PD. My dad suffered more since he did not have friends like my mom did. He was a German immigrant to Canada, she was French Canadian. We lived right next door to her siblings, inlaws and cousins.
My diagnosis of SPD was in 2016. Now I can look back and see what a monster I was. If the job I was clinging to hadn't kept me within driving distance of the hotel and where I was raised, I likely would've moved far away. Eventually I did.
When I bought a house and left home in 1993 I really wanted my parents to live their own lives without me. But I couldn't tell them that. That sort of desire is abnormal, if not sociopathic. Now I know why I had that desire.
While researching SPD, I read a comment from a sibling wondering if her estranged brother had it. There were several such comments, seeking answers. Most of the time, there is no diagnosis. The person just moves away, refrains from initiating contact, and never consults a psychologist. Family members are left wondering what happened. Just like my parents.
* * *
I scored high on neuroticism on the Big 5 test. It wasn't explained what I'm to do with this information. It's related to my diagnosis of social anxiety disorder.
My understanding of being neurotic is I cannot handle stress. I catastrophise the future, and have pessimistic, fatalistic thoughts. I accept these thoughts, and this alleviates feeling depressed or worried. Neuroticism may have played a role in sabotaging my attempts to return to the workforce.
My desire to be alone isolates me physically; being neurotic means I feel like a clown if I'm to wear a suit and tie. So I never wear a suit and tie. I never do this, I never do that. My self-appraisal is negative, and rightfully so. Yet I don't feel bad. I don't really grieve. I jump to acceptance.
If there are other aspects to my neuroses, I have yet to figure them out.
* * *
If I'm to tell the story of my dad, I'd reminisce about the happy times. All the old photographs I have are 100% happy or funny times. The same can be said of the photos I chose not to keep.
I wonder why I didn't keep the albums as they were. Is it a ritual to go through albums and do a culling after someone close dies?
* * *
Addendum
Today I learned that my cousin Normand passed away in October 2017. He was 54.
As childhood neighbours we would drop by each other's home, hang out on the golf course, and take walks in the mountain.
He was the cousin with whom I had a mysterious connection, despite our difference in age. He was 4 years older.
In his early twenties, he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. For the rest of his life, he would have to take medication to control it. This is what I was told.
Over the years we went our separate ways, then I saw him occasionally, from 2006-08, before running away to Nova Scotia.
The last time I met him was in September of 2011. Once again, we would hang out, visiting the places we knew as children.
Normand said he was surrounded by friends with criminal records. He didn't know why they wanted to hang out with him. They may have been bad dudes, but they weren't trying to exploit him. Perhaps because he was non-judgemental.
Normand's mother, the aunt who had helped me, passed away in 2009. He told me of the things she said to him on her deathbed; that he would never succeed or find love; that he would die alone. My thought was that she said those things because she was worried about him. I don't remember if I shared that thought.
* * *
One memory has led to another, and it was inevitable that I would learn of this through a Google search. In August of 2011, a month before my visit, Normand's older brother and his wife had lost their daughter. She was 23. In place of one obituary, I found two.
* * *
In conclusion, this confessional marks the end to a chapter of my life. Which is as it should be, given the choices I made.
A picture is said to be worth a thousand words, so if there is something personal I wish to convey, I will try to do so through old photographs. Words alone are too impersonal.
Thank-you Alecia and Holly for sharing your stories.
As Normand would say, prends soin de toi.
Brother, I have been consciously holding your response with me ever since I first read it. Please forgive me for taking a moment to get back into this space with presence. I had been sitting with my latest Part two of my blog of personal sharing and felt a strong need to get it out by a certain time. That required my complete presence and I couldn't be present in both spaces at the same time.
The first thing that I was struck by was the similarity of your mom in the hospital "...telling me conspiratorially to fetch her Toyota Tercel so we could get out of that place" and my extraordinarily similar experience with my dad in the hospital.
That night, under the beeping and droning of the oxygen machine, he told me to put the bed rail down so we could get the hell out of there so we could go home. I told him that no one would spring him from that place quicker than I would if I could, but that wasn't a possibility.
The medication and the machines were keeping him alive and he likely wouldn't make it to the front door, he certainly wouldn't make it home alive, and they wouldn't provide an ambulance. My heart so wanted to give him what he asked and it broke my heart for me not to be able to do so. 💔
It's a strange thing that you and I had similar circumstances. I understand.
I understand you not wanting to see her "like that" as she took her last breath. This will be different for all of us. I have always given my very emotionally sensitive and highly visual daughter the option to be there or not to be there, for this is an individual choice that each person needs to live with.
She chose not to because she had just spent two weeks with him enjoying her time with him talking about important things, playing games, and just enjoying being with him. Had she made the long trek to come back home to be there, those visual and emotional memories would've superimposed themselves onto her psyche and she would live with them for the rest of her life...or not. But it was her choice and I think the right one for her with no guilt put upon her by anyone else.
The sweetness of you calling her "Mon Colonel" as her beloved nickname touched me. I didn't have such nicknames but mine came in the form of playing some music from the Guardians of the Galaxy soundtrack which was both of our favorite movie.
As soon as it came on started bobbing his head under that oxygen mask followed by the tapping of his foot to the music that bonded us together and meant so much to him. I can barely see through the tears right now to type as I remember that very poignant moment. Thank you for bringing it up in me again.
As you recounted your Catholic church experience and the woman's angelic voice, that would have captured me too since I find little comfort in such traditions, as you so well know in your reading of part two of my sharing.
I find the contrast of your mom and dad passing so very close together and their burial so contrasting - one in a blizzard and the other in the warmth of the summer/fall. I imagine that felt so surreal.
The sharing of your father and not seeing him again brought up all manner of feelings inside of me. I don't know if they're mine, yours, or a combination of both but they felt all confused, twisted and knotted up. It's not a judgment against any of it but merely a noticing.
Things related to mental health issues and personality disorders are far above my pay grade. I can't say that I understand them, but I deeply empathize with them as we have some people living with bi-polar and mental health issues in our family which can be difficult to parse out.
You talk about what "a monster" or how sociopathic you were before being diagnosed. I can't know why you call it that because I don't know how you acted out or didn't, but it sounds like there's some negative judgment against yourself for something you didn't even understand that you had. That hurts me for you.
Should we look back at our past with a neutral eye as an observer of our actions in an attempt to learn to try to do better in the future? I do. We're to "notice" neutrally that which doesn't feel good to our mind and body in hindsight for pespective and learning but to continually judge it and feel guilt about it is absolutely wasted time and energy.
Now learning from it and trying to do better - even when we are imperfect - is completely different energetically. I hope you are able or have been able to cut yourself some slack with that. 🤞
As far as the Big 5 test goes, I understand that. I often question whether the results come from how we actually came in wired and how much of it was either nurtured or mental and emotional habits that were acquired from difficult life circumstances.
So many of the traits you mention seem to be so common today with millennials on down. I think that much of that for them comes with this f*cked up world we're living in, especially since the screens entered our lives and so many never knew life without them.
Add to that the fact that our mental health services suck because of the often passive role that therapists take as a backseat to medications. Rarely does anyone tell us the straight truth which can help us better understand our tendencies giving us tools with which to deal with them.
These days, we have perpetual patients that never get off the meds nor out of therapy and how many of them are actually improving their lives? Many I see don't but that doesn't mean there's not a multitude of others who learn to thrive under the wisdom and counsel of awesome therapists.
As for the photos and culling of albums, we started that immediately because we can't possibly keep tens of thousands of captures and I have generations of photos of people I don't know and I don't have family members left to tell me.
When I reread your comments today, I saw the addendum. That was quite cruel of your aunt, in my eyes, and I'm so sorry that she left him with those heavy messages of doom on her deathbed. It took me back to your time with her and I wondered if she might've also given you direct or indirect messages of doom that affected your psyche and the possibilities you held for your life?
It's interesting this unfoldment you've experienced as you've dipped back into this pond of loss. For some reason, you've been given a birds-eye view of what has transpired in your family in regards to life and death. The question that comes to me is how you're feeling about it?
This has been quite in-depth for both of us. Thank you so much for allowing me into your world. I hold your stories in my heart for hope that they don't weigh you down and that you find nuggets of perspective that bring you some healing and ease for those things that require it.
Be well, brother.
✨💖🙏💖✨
Sorry for the length. (I'm Canadian, we like to admit we're sawry.)
I'm thinking your dad and my mom would get along quite well if they were to meet. Similar circumstances suggest we were witness to kindred spirits.
Indeed I understand. We couldn't meet their request. That made me cry, and also laugh, because that was my mom being true to herself.
Seeing and hearing her struggling to breathe was me seeing her body doing what it must to survive. My mother, if not her spirit, was gone. My aunt spoke of needing to be beside the person, telling them that it is alright to let go. She had done this more than once. I just didn't have the courage to do it. Her passing wasn't peaceful when I last saw her.
You listened to songs from your favourite movie, that is wonderful! 🎵🎵
Had it occurred to me, Kenny Rogers and Julio Iglesias would be on the playlist.
Your words are so heartfelt, Alecia. I must admit that a father-daughter relationship has a dynamic I'm unfamiliar with.
Could it be you experienced a different form of grief because you felt happier for your dad? You describe a man who lived a fulfilling life. My mother had a more balanced life than my father. She had friends to support her through a loveless marriage. She lived a few hundred feet from the room in the house where she was born. Her siblings and nieces and nephews were our neighbours. She was connected to the place where we lived and to the places we would visit.
There is the grief I felt at the loss of someone I was close to, that I had a connection to, and grief on behalf of the person. When I was 14 to 17, I was more comfortable spending time with my dad than my mom. This reversed by the time I was 25. I left home at 26. My mother would visit me regularly and everything between us was amicable. My father visited me once and we ended up having an argument. Consequently, those years were harder on my father than anyone else. He had no one to support him or confide with. Part of that was his choice, in that he was prejudiced against my mother's relatives, and towards French Canadians in general. That doesn't discount his suffering. At some point I looked past his choices and the resentment I felt at what he put my mother through. I looked at what my self-isolating behavior had done to him. And I asked myself what sort of life did he want to have?
I don't have all the answers, but it wasn't the kind of life he was expecting. If he found fulfillment, it was during my childhood.
I know that when he was in Austria, he worked as a civilian for the occupying American army. He was impressed with them and wanted to emigrate to the US, but had to settle for Canada instead. He was the only member of his family to leave Europe. That is a big step to have taken.
Burying my parent's ashes in opposite weather conditions is something I remember as ironic. My relationship to my father had grown cold, and stormy. The weather was the symbolic opposite of our lived experience.
My father's birthday was August 13th. His funeral was on September 3rd. I'm mindful of those dates.
I'm mindful that I don't experience loneliness as most people do.
Do you remember the crazy/weird Taylor Swift video I posted awhile ago? Anti-Hero.
There is much in this song I feel applies to me. Maybe it will help you to understand.
In the lyrics there is a recurring theme:
🎵
It's me, hi, I'm the problem, it's me
At tea time, everybody agrees
I'll stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror
It must be exhausting always rooting for the anti-hero
Sometimes I feel like everybody is a sexy baby
And I'm a monster on the hill
Too big to hang out, slowly lurching toward your favorite city
Pierced through the heart, but never killed
🎵
In regard to my parents, but especially for my father, this is what I believe.
(I'm the problem, it's me)
If my diagnosis had been done back then, my parents will have known, and that may have eased their anguish. For instance, my mom was concerned by my introversion, and tried to get me to socialize when I was a teenager. It was part of the reason I preferred to hang out with my dad, who also didn't socialize. At a minimum, with a diagnosis of SPD and SAD they would have understood why I was such a loner.
But I'm still a monster on the hill. I didn't change my lifestyle after diagnosis. I still believe it is the right choice for me. I regret that it harmed my parents, and harmed my father most of all. I was not the son he dreamed of. We didn't have the father-son relationship he may have believed in. Or maybe we did, in the beginning.
If I had led a conventional life with a romantic relationship, I'm convinced I would've harmed my significant other. I've held this view since high school. What a few girls saw in me was unfathomable. I imagined it would end in disaster if it went further.
And I'd be like: (I'm the problem, it's me)
So I never went there.
As far as I can tell, regrets don't feel the same as guilt.
🎵 Pierced through the heart, but never killed (as only a shield to loneliness could do)
By some accounts, I should be dead.
After multiple attempts to return to college in hopes of securing a 'career', I was facing homelessness. That is what led to my psych evaluation in the hospital. Now it is the state that keeps me alive. I'm considered disabled. A useless eater, unable to hold a job.
I'm the monster, too awkward to hang out.
I read that people perceive Schizoids as aloof, secretive, anti-social, mysterious, and cold. Nevertheless, the facilitator at our job preparation group likened me to Steve Martin. She said I had his vibe, and was a bit of a prankster. Decades later, her observation was confirmed when I went online.
Years later, another facilitator likened me to Shrek. There's truth to both.
Most Schizoids have no desire to write/talk about themselves. I might not have opened up as I did without having read your work, and this article in particular. Holly also wrote about her relationship with her father, and I finally took the plunge. Substack (not YouTube) would be the venue.
I read about the damage social media is doing to younger generations and I agree with it. They should seek real-life connections. At the same time, I find social media to be my comfort zone. During the pandemic I made tasteless remarks about how it was a Schizoid renaissance. We're the 1% who thrive under lock-down and isolation. Schadenfreude for introverts.
My aunt knew that Normand had schizophrenia, and it seemed logical to me that of her five children, she would be most concerned about him, her youngest. I imagined that if I were in the room when she was saying those things, I'd speak up and explain that it's because she's worried about him. If it were the truth, my aunt would admit it and let Normand know that this was the case. I have a vivid imagination, but my aunt was not a woman prone to admitting her weakness. She had to raise five children with an alcoholic husband. As a child I witnessed how angry she could be. I saw her smash a radio my uncle was listening to.
Suffice to say she used her strength to help with the loss of my parents. Whether she knew I was destined to end up alone and be a failure professionally, I'll never know. She was aware there was a connection between Normand and I, and sought to encourage it.
Could I have helped my cousin had I remained in town and stayed in touch?
An unanswered question that may evolve into regret.
The last week or so have brought a sense of closure. I'm fleshing out and putting into words thoughts that were disorganized. How I feel about it is not yet settled. No worse than my anti-hero Taylor Swift. Thank-you for being here, allowing me to share what's been on my plate for a long time. Feel free to continue our conversation, or...
However you proceed, be well, sister (I never had).💖🙏💖
No worries about the length, brother. As you can see, I'm quite verbose, especially when talking about important things from the heart so you just keep being you.
I'm going so hold this with me, but I may not be back to reply for a few days as I'm going out of town tomorrow morning. Just wanted you to expect my absence.
Be well. 🙂
Thank you so much for sharing your story. I've read it two times now.
We have some parallels with some things, especially in the hospital. I've been trying to get here to reply, but this requires presence that I haven't had yet.
I'll come back when I can be more present but I wanted to at least give your reply an acknowledgement so you didn't feel ghosted in case you were feeling vulnerable after your heartfelt sharing.
Be back soon.