Rain

It all began with an angel. An angel who’s now in heaven. It began with laughter and peace. It ended in shaking and screaming in agony. Agony because I loved you. Agony because your white orchid bloomed.

 You told me you would make a flower bloom when you passed to show me you were safe in heaven. And the orchid bloomed the day of your death.

I can’t understand myself any more. I don’t know who I am. I don’t like who I’ve become. My story is about your love. Your love and guidance as my father. I want to write a book to make others understand your love.

His name was Earl. I’m not saying he was perfect, but he was perfect to me. My story begins as a baby. He would say Papa, say Papa Shantal. My first word was Papa. My first steps were into his arms. My grandmother and Papa were my first friends, and my only friends for many years.

 I had a hard time making friends in school. Nobody wanted to be around me. I’m not sure why.

But this haunted me for many years. I remember on our school trip to Ottawa, we had two bedrooms and there were four girls. The three girls slept in the other room, leaving me all alone in the room on the right.

I looked at my aspirin contemplating taking the whole bottle. I wanted to die because I felt rejected and alone. But you were the reason I didn’t take the medication. You were the reason I am still alive and you are the reason I have become the person I am today. You and Grandma are the reason I am strong.

Now I want to talk to you about my grandmother. Her sweet voice filled the house. Her cookies filled the air. Her kindness filled our hearts and her constant companionship gave me hope.

I remember one time when I was young, I tried to grow a watermelon. I went outside every day to check on it thinking it would appear overnight. Nothing was growing. But one day she went to the grocery store and she bought a watermelon. To my surprise one day after school, a watermelon was sitting in the garden waiting for me. I was so happy and proud of myself. Now I’m proud of you. I’m proud of your love.

Another time my Papa packed down the hill at the back of the house. He turned it into a snow tubing hill. I went down the hill and I hit the only tree standing to the right of the hill. You cut down the tree. I look back on that day and laugh.

I laugh at the time you tied a toboggan to the back of the car, and pulled me around on it in the driveway. I laugh at the time you kicked the trees to make the snow fall on me. I laugh at making maple syrup with you. It took so much sap to make one bottle of maple syrup. Papa I thank you for the good life I had. I thank you for being my friend.

 I thank you for all the dirty Ernie stories you told me. I know dirty Ernie was you. You made up a character to explain your past.

I remember your red boat. You told me you bought it to go fishing with your father. You took the boat our once. You cried the whole way around the lake because your father died before you had a chance to go fishing.

That’s how I feel about the guitar. We played together every day. Now the guitar makes me feel sick. It doesn’t help that your earn is In the shape of a guitar. I feel like vomiting every time I see a guitar because I miss you. I miss your smile and your voice. I miss the little things like eating canned tomatoes with you. You loved your tomatoes. You loved your cheese and tomato sandwiches. You loved to make others happy. You loved life and you loved your family. Rest in peace sweet angel.

Chapter one The Ducks

Dad I can’t hear you. Dad the ducks are too loud. My father hangs up the phone, he is gone and he will never call back, the ducks laugh.

 I was a scholarship holder and an honors student all the way through high school. I was bold and confident. I held my head up high. I wanted to be a psychologist and I loved to read. I would read every day for hours at a time.

I was also a musician. I loved music and would listen to it while studying. I played the clarinet and guitar.

Unfortunately, one day when I was studying, a voice told me to look down. In front of my eyes was a mosaic of angels holding hands over an archway appearing in my school dorm. The lights melded together with radiant blues and golds. I danced in my room with the people nobody else could hear or see. We twirled in circles while we laughed.

 Laugh sarcastically as nothing makes sense anymore. Nothing makes sense except for the voices I’ve become accustom to hearing. Nothing seems real but my version of reality. A version that only I understand.

 I told the school nurse I was hearing people that were not there. She didn’t take me seriously, so I dropped out and went home. I couldn’t deal with the stress of school while hearing distracting sounds all day. I was completely illiterate for three years because the voices took away my ability to concentrate. I went three years completely unable to read even small simple words.

I was a happy child. I had two people who loved me unconditionally, my Grandmother and my Papa. I was raised in a loving home. My Papa would build me a skating rink each year. I remember him teaching me to swim in the pool on our deck. I remember him teaching me to sing. I remember him always being there to catch me when I fell. He was a great father.             But like every person on the face of the earth, he died. My best friend died and I lost the center of my world.

On his coffin I wrote “you were the love of my life.” What I mean by this is that he taught me what love is. His kindness and patience shaped who I am today. And I believe the pain I felt from his death sent me down the dark path of schizophrenia. I also know for me, genetic factors played a role. But his death impacted me deeply leaving me torn and deformed mentally.

 I have guilt for the way I treated him growing up. One time when he was drunk, he road my bike down the hill, he fell off the bike. I reacted by picking up the bike, and leaving him bleeding at the bottom of the hill. I let my best friend bleed while I saved my bike. To this day I cry about my actions.

We had lots of beautiful memories together. He taught me to play the guitar. He taught me to sing. And in time, he taught me to ride that bike. Get er done scooter he would say. And when he was angry he would say I hate stupidity.

One time when I was riding that bike, I road it right into the water in the fall. My Papa pulled me from the water and saved me from drowning.

I had sand in my ears for a few days after. But my Papa was always there to save me. He was always there to give me a pat on the back. He was always there to give me unconditional love

 Now all I have of him is a box of ash. A box of ash and all the beautiful memories I have of him.

 I cry as I hang up the hospital phone. My father signed the papers today and now my “treatment” will begin. They hold me down as they inject me with a fluid. They don’t even explain what it is or why I need it. My jaw locks in torment and I bight down so hard I think my teeth will shatter. I can do nothing but scream from my room as they lock the door and let me cry it out like a child being given a time out.

 They gave me no respect or understanding. Not even a simple explanation. Nothing I could do would make them stop. I had no control over my body. I was completely incapacitated by the medications so much so that I couldn’t control my bodily functions. I touched his arm while being injected as if to say I forgive you. I forgive you for this pain.

 I remember there was a bell that would go off every time a mother had a child in the hospital. To me the sound was from the invisible people.

To me everyday occurrences had special meaning. For example, if a light was flickering, I thought it was a message. And if I was given milk to drink, I thought it was a reminder not to eat animal foods. I had a hard time talking to others because I was constantly talking with people in my mind.

 The voices wanted me to be a vegan. I thought the voices wanted me to ascend into a higher vibration and leave the earth. Because I believed this I wouldn’t eat or drink. I thought my body didn’t require food or water. I was completely delusional and believed in aliens.

 I didn’t even feel hungry any more. The hunger was replaced with a dull ache in my heart. An ache that said the normal structure of life was gone, and a destructive belief system had taken its place. A tarnished wheel of pain. Horrible feelings that gripped me so tightly.

I was terrified I was going to be punished for eating meat. I thought in my next life I would be recreated as an animal so I would be slaughtered and feel pain.

I was shaking as they tied me down to the bed because I was smashing my face on the wall. I wanted to smash the voices out of my head. I wanted to feel normal. I wanted to be understood, but most of all I wanted to be with my Papa.

But our story doesn’t begin in the hospital. Instead it begins in a highchair. I remember being in that highchair vividly. When I was with my mother, I would sit in that highchair for hours in my own mess. And it was in this highchair that I met BOO. BOO was the first voice.I looked at a chicken bone on my tray. All the chicken long gone. I picked at the bone hoping it would offer something to eat. But all I got was some marrow. I continued to wiggle in the chair. Boo was always there for me. Boo was the only person who was there for me when I was at my mother’s house.

This experience contrasts strongly to the love I had with my grandparents. Black and white, night and day, then and now.

But Boo wasn’t’ just a normal imaginary friend, he was a coping mechanism I used to survive the abuse of the highchair. But it is in this chair that I can first recall hearing voices. As I grew the voices became commanding in nature. They would criticize my actions. They would make rules about life. But as a child the voices were innocent and even enjoyable creating a feeling of friendship and comfort.

The voice was a little boy. A child who wanted me to mother him. I remember singing to the child. I would hold out my hand as I slept to comfort him. I even went as far as to give him my pillow and sleep on the far side of the bed so he would have room to sleep. This little Boy was Boo. My BOO and my responsibility. I felt like a mother and he felt like my son. I loved this child so deeply. I would feel static while Boo was around. I was later told his little hands in mine were tactile hallucinations not a real person. Boo used to tell me he had no body. He would say I have no body, but I love you mommy. And I would tell him he would always have a home in my heart.

I would even leave my food for him to eat even though he told me food wasn’t necessary in his world. To this day I grieve the loss of my son. I grieve the loss of a person who never existed. But only in my mind. He was real in my mind and he still has a piece of my heart fictional or not. I’m not sure how to go about grieving a person who never existed. How do you have a funeral or go through bereavement when the child you have grown to love is nothing more than a chemical imbalance in the brain.

 I can’t even talk about my son because people don’t understand. They think I have a vivid imagination or that I’m lying about him. All I can say is Boo was my teacher, friend, companion, and comfort for a long time. I still miss him. I will always miss him.

 Also, when I was at my mothers, she would feed me nothing but sugar crisps. I remember sleeping in my own vomit. I wrote her a letter explaining how I feel. I called it grieving you today.

If the walls could talk then maybe you would understand. You would understand how bitter and hateful I am towards you. You would understand why I need to let you go. I’m not mad at you because you left me to sleep in my own vomit, or because you left me sitting in my highchair for hours on end. I’m not mad at you because you made me live through complete hell to get attention. I’m not mad at you because you decided it would be funny to lie about having cancer. I’m not mad I’m, just grieving you today.

 If my mind had four walls then there would be a hell on earth. If my mind had four walls then I would burn it down and send the smouldering ash back to the pits of hell. If my mind had four walls then they would all belong to you.

 If my mind wasn’t damaged to the point of madness then would you hold me close to your breast? Would you rock and coo to me in your soft, hushed voice? Would you love me unconditionally? Would you take me as your own and become a part of my life?

Would you be there in the dark to guide my hand? Would you save me from myself and show me how to stand up straight in this world? Would you hear my trembling voice and come to my aid? Will you ever decide to come out of the closet long enough to see the beauty life has to Offer? Please wipe the dark, dusty stains off your walls and open the window. Take in the scent of the fresh morning air and let yourself live.

Open up the door and see that there is more to life than faking illness and tears in the dark. Please, for the love of god, allow yourself to feel the love others have to offer rather than the pity they smear at your doorstep.

You pick at your body until you open raw wounds. You see slivers and glass that aren’t there. You scrape at your legs and the back of your hands until they become raw and sore. And you pick at me in the same way. You lie in bed all day and never answer your phone. You sit by the closed window in complete darkness waiting to die. You tell me I’m corrupt and belong in hell with all the other sinners of this world. You meld me into submission and take away all that I am. you refuse to help me up to the sink when I’m too small to reach. You mark my body with your holy oils and fill my mind with your fears and doubts.

You have turned faith into an evil gremlin at the foot of my bed, waiting to take my soul away. You have become the cross upon my wall. When I was a child I remember waiting at your bedroom door. I would stand there for hours and look through the narrow crack of silver light. I would stand there and pretend we were together. Even though you were on the other side of the door, it still felt like we were together.

But one day you taped over the crack. You took away the only connection I had with you. You made me feel like I was spying on you and that I was unwelcome. You made me feel like a throwaway.

You made me feel unwanted and worthless. You made me cry. And every day since then I have been building myself up only to have you tear me down again. You call me after not seeing me for months and tell me you love me. Then you don’t speak to me for months and miss my birthday. Last Christmas you told me I could spend Christmas with you. You told me we would have turkey and bake cookies together. You filled my heart with joy and happiness. Why did you throw the Christmas tree out the back door? Why did you leave it out in the rain and cold to become frostbitten and torn? Why didn’t you just slap me across the face and blacken both my eyes? I think that would have felt better than what you chose to do.

 Do you even know what Grandma’s last words to me were? She told me on her death bed that I was going to go to hell; that was the last thing she ever said to me. Sometimes when I close my eyes I can still hear her saying those words. And I can still see your head nodding maliciously in the background.

I can still see her cold corpse lying in her wooden box. I can see her pulled-back plastic face smiling up at me. I can still feel the toughness of her leather cold hand riddled with rigor mortis. I can still remember how you refused to take me home when I clung to your dress. I can still feel you pushing me away.

 If these walls could talk they would explain to you why I need to let you go. I need to make room on those walls for newer, more meaningful things. I need to let go of the hate that has begun to rule my life. I need to protect my mind and this is the only way I know how.

I need to let you go. I love you with every fiber of my being. I want to hold you and bring you into the centre of my life. I want to hear your voice in the morning and I want to hold your hand. I want to eat dinner with you at the table and I want to know what it means to be a family. I want to feel safe and I don’t want to feel hate and anger.

I want to let you back in again but I’m scared. I’m scared of the hate that is slowly spreading across my mind. I’m scared of the times that I wish you would die. I’m scared of the times I pray your cancer would be real instead of just another lie you use to hurt me. I’m scared of every moment I spend in agony because of the choices you’ve made.

 I’m sorry but I’m taking down everything that has to do with you and I’m sending it back. I’m taking back my life and I’m refusing to allow you to control how I feel.

This is the hardest thing I have ever had to do and I scream as loud as hate, fear and anger will allow. I’d scream for a different ending but I don’t know what to do. I grieve for the loss of you in my life. But the truth is, you are alive and well. The truth is, I just want you to hold me. I just want you to look down into my eyes and see the little girl you gave birth to. I don’t hate you; I’m just grieving you today.

I wrote her this letter to explain how I was feeling. I wrote many more letters but this is the only one I was able to find while making this book.

 Then the medication began. Then the slow torturous death of my son. Little by little he began to fade. My closest friend, my closest companion. He began to fade into nothingness and his death brought about a level of understanding that the medication made him quiet and left me alone to think my own thoughts. I remember when the medication started to work. I was so stoned I couldn’t even put a sentence together. I couldn’t stop the clenching of my jaw and the contracted muscles.

 I couldn’t stop the slow gradual death of my son. Mommy I’m scared he would say. Mommy, where are you? Mommy I can’t see you anymore. I miss my Boo. I miss the long conversations we would have about the nature of the universe.

I also had many teachers from the other reality as I like to call it. It’s like two realities crashing into each other. The reality you and I know and see, and many other possible realities that we cannot prove exist.

 I remember talking to one of the people I believed had the ability to read the thoughts of others. I believed these people were hear to assist in our mental growth. I believed they were here to help humanity. I remember speaking with one of these beautiful people. I made him cry.

            We began the conversation about cabbage. I asked him why we have to pay for simple things in life like food. I said I wish cabbage was free. I wish we could all share a garden and grow food for all.

 He looked me right in the eyes. Water running down his face. He looked at me and simply said “You’re describing me”. He cried with such sorrow. I could feel he believed what he said. I was describing love, and god is love.

            I’m not pretending to know about god. But I do know love is universal in nature. Even animals feel love.

I had a cat named Milo growing up. I loved that cat. One day he went missing and I never saw him again. I miss that cat even today.

 Another thing that happened to me was I was playing a game with my teacher from the other reality. We would go around the board again and again. My teacher told me how pointless competition was. We would land on each other’s marbles sending the other person back to the start of the game. He taught me how pointless it was to win or lose a game. He taught me that life isn’t about how much you have in life, because at the end of Monopoly, all the pieces go back in the box. At the end of life, we are all equal. At the end of the game nothing matters but the love we had and the people we loved. At the end of the game it really doesn’t matter anymore. How smart we are, how big our house is, how many likes we had on social media or how much money we had. I cut off all of my hair because I wanted to feel humble. I wanted to live in a state of humility. Now I don’t mean I wanted to feel degraded or devalued. I just wanted to know my worth without the labels placed on me. I wanted to stand in my own soul instead of the labels I was given. People always said I had beautiful hair. So I cut it all off to prove to myself I was beautiful not the hair. I wanted to feel valued for being me, not for being smart or having nice hair. I wanted to become satisfied with myself and my place in the world without any connection to labels and marinization that life creates.

I walked into the store, and I bought bananas with no hair. I felt naked. And that’s how I wanted to feel.

I remember when I was in the hospital for the first time. Boo made me look at the hospital close on the bed. I told him I didn’t want to wear the close. He said the word dehumanizing. I asked him if I had to wear the pants. He simply said no, the pants are for if you are cold, but you will wear the gown. I put the lose on. The word dehumanizing echoed in my head. Why did Boo say that word? What does it mean?