It rained this evening, this first rain of the year. Normally we don’t get rain at this time of year, more often receiving lovely fat snowflakes, but it was nearly ten degrees Celsius during the day and the snow stood no chance. Thus, rain.
An impressive survivor of the rain
It pattered on the awning above the living room window and left the tree branches dripping with silver. The grass all became spongy and the air was crisp and fresh. I had to go out for a walk, even if the sun was setting and it promised to get cooler fast.
I ventured out and took a different path than normal. I opted to duck down the alley behind the house and peered over the hill down to the park below. The hill is covered in shrubs and trees, gnarled and full of detritus from the winter. The tall grass lay in sodden mounds, draped haphazardly next to and overlapping with one another. The sun-bleached dead stalks were a richer blonde after the rain and soft underfoot. I had hoped to see sprouts of green, even minute shoots of grass or dandelions, but it isn’t time yet.
I continued my walk to the far side of the neighbourhood, breathing deep the moist air. I listened as robins chip-chipped from tree tops, newly returned from their forays south for the winter. I watched gophers scurry from burrow to burrow, alerting others of my presence. I saw magpies pluck things from the ground and alight on branches nearby, piling up their robust, spiny nests.
The west end of the neighbourhood is a bluff overlooking the river. The bluff itself is a marvelous tapestry, covered in grasses, wild roses, wolf willow, and saskatoons. The first flowers to appear along the hillside are pasque flowers, sometimes referred to as prairie crocus. These beautiful pink and purple blooms are fuzzy, making them so much cuter, and they erupt in force. Gulls often herald the return of spring with their plaintive cries, and many made themselves known along the river.
At the south end of the path, I momentarily startled (and was in turn startled by) a pair of whitetail deer. They aren’t unusual in this area, but these two were exceptionally comfortable being close to me, so I quietly enjoyed their silent company as they foraged for any edible bits in the grass.
I returned home through a manicured park, lacking any of the creative disarray of nature, but the ground was springy and soft and the trees dripped gently all around.
I was subconsciously aware of how the white-grey-brown monotony of winter was wearing on me, but it wasn’t until tonight that I really felt the promise of a change. In four days’ time, the temperatures here should climb into the double digits and all the moisture gently dropped tonight will accelerate a burst of fresh, green growth. Grass will green up, tender shoots will emerge from the leaf litter, and the early bees will soon have some food. Those pasque flowers will emerge from beneath the grass mounds and unfurl their gorgeous fuzzy petals. The days will get longer and the world will once again feel welcoming and warm.
I had been hanging by a single gossamer thread, my mental wellbeing kept in check by tenuous guards. I am terrifically excited for the change.
I hate the word burnout. When I think of burnout, I envision a match, blackened and gnarled, smoking from its last ember. I picture fingertips singed from trying to prolong the life of that flame and holding on too long.
Burnout sounds too final. Like an ultimate ending rather than a period of dormancy.
I’ve been running on fumes for what feels like an eternity. Every few weeks I totally run out and have a meltdown. Too much bad news, too much stress, too little cooperation, too much dependency, too few resources, too much and never enough. What do you do when you reach the end? When there’s no fuel for the fire anymore?
The world is ugly, unfriendly, and violent. I live in Canada and the threatening whispers from the south of us are getting to be audible conversations, comments made without any sort veil or obscuring. To see what’s occurring to the rights of people so nearby and to think that could be my future, the future of my family and friends, has but me on edge.
The continued extermination of peoples around the globe at the hands of hyper-militarized powers is abhorrent. I can’t open any app on my phone, program on my computer, look at TVs, or even listen to the radio without being bombarded with bad news. My generation and those younger than me use digital means to communicate as our primary channels, and now they’re fraught. To try and reach out to a friend can mean seeing dead children if you don’t open the right page fast enough.
It’s important to be aware of this level of violence, but to be as powerless as the average person is in the face of the capitalist machine means the changes I can realistically make will not save the lives of those children. The gears of war will not grind to halt because I donated what I could afford to a starving family. My compassion is unending but my endurance is not, and I bleed and bleed and bleed my heart dry over crimes I cannot prevent or bring to justice. The small things I can do, I do. Seeing it day in and day out ages me in ways I didn’t think possible.
My job is a thankless one, and I’m transitioning to a new role that, on paper, should remove much of the stress of what I have been handling for over three years. My title might be changing and my responsibilities will be different, but the people I work with do not change and will not change. The dynamics will remain in place, and that promises to merely reshape the stress. I will still need to chase adult people around and ask them to do the absolute bare minimum – tell me what you did today. Tell me what you plan to do tomorrow. Tell me what the plan could be for next week. I no longer need to try and coax boomers to open the web browser on their phone (Yes, the one that looks like a circle with three colours. Click on that one. Try again.) and instead I’ll be coaxing millennials to just talk. Endless, endless babysitting.
The responsibility for things going right is something I take very seriously. My ethic is such that if you have the option to do the right thing and do it well, you should do it. There’s no room for half-doing something or doing a piss poor job in hopes that others will pick up your slack. As I’ve aged from a university student to a flailing adult to a more established adult, I’ve come to realize that sentiment is tragically rare and that others will take advantage of your willingness to help. I know I cannot change the world and how people operate, but I can’t help but rail against the infuriating irresponsibility and laziness of the general public. At least that’s how it is here. Maybe in some utopia, on another continent or another planet, the propensity for opportunism at others’ expense is absent. If I ever find out where, I’m going there.
I digress.
I know I cannot change this, and thus is behooves me to make changes to my own approach lest I have a complete and utter breakdown and wind up out of work, out of pocket, and out of home.
I needn’t change my inclination to help when help is needed, but I certainly do need to stop saying I’ll help. If others haven’t done the work they need to do, I don’t need to help. It isn’t my duty to help them. They can suffer the consequences of their actions and take steps to learn from them and do better. Right?
Right. Or so I need to keep telling myself, because if I don’t shut the fuck up and let others figure it out, I’m going to lose my mind.
I have long felt misunderstood by those around me. Growing up with an autistic mother meant she was never quite on the same level as me, or my sister, or my dad. Or anyone. As the eldest child, raised to be an achiever and perfect, a failure in communication could be disastrous. Despite my best efforts, there’s always been a barrier there with her, and no amount of clarification or de-escalation or arguments has ever made communication with her simpler. As a result, I’ve long striven to be clear in what I’m saying and feared not having my point made effectively. It’s become increasingly more clear as I’ve gotten older that even when I make my absolute best efforts to be understood, I’m not. I use simple language for folks who need it and more complex language for those who can. I talk my points through step by step. I do my utmost to make what I’m saying relatable and not a sermon, not a lecture. I engage as a person, not an authority. All of this work, all of this effort, and I am still misunderstood. It is the most excruciatingly isolating experience, and I don’t know what to do about it. I’ve talked with my therapist about it at length, hoping for some guidance. The summary of what we’ve reached is that rather than fight for people to understand me, I need to learn to be more okay with being misunderstood.
To be understood by others is what bonds us as humans. To reach someone and share an insight, share a feeling, is the epitome of the human experience. We are social creatures and to be alone or excluded because those around you don’t comprehend what you’re trying to communicate is torturous. While I agree with my therapist that I need to work on being more at ease with people not getting me, I wish there was a magic wand that would make it go away. I feel as though I’m in a glass box everywhere I go, and no matter how hard I scream the people right outside can’t hear me.
In all this, I feel powerless. Without a voice, without authority, without agency. The questions, suggestions, comments, and actions I have attempted have been unsuccessful and it feels fruitless to even try anymore. Shouldn’t that be freeing? In one light, this absolves me of responsibility. I’ve tried and didn’t make it. I learned the rules of the system and, in knowing them, know I can’t make a difference. Why should I continue? Walking away from a situation that I cannot change does not come easily to me, and I’ve been beating my head against a wall for months, years, trying to make a difference despite being shown time and again that it doesn’t matter. Now I feel like I’m a fool as well as exhausted.
I don’t like burnout because it doesn’t hold hope for rekindling in the future. I feel completely, utterly extinguished. Surely there’s hope for a fan to the embers though, right? It doesn’t have to be now, but someday?
My dad is an interesting guy. Born and raised in Calgary to an upper middle class family, he had a pretty charmed life in terms of material things and support. Sporting long hair and a beard in the late ’60s and early ’70s, he espoused the peace, love, and happiness of hippies while maintaining a good relationship with his relatively straight-laced family. A dad with chronic pain who never once complained and a hyper-critical mum also meant my dad grew up not talking too much about how he felt. He married my mum in 1983 and in a few years my sister and I entered the picture.
I think my dad was always meant to be a dad. He loves kids, he loves teaching, and he loves helping people. He’s given me guff over the years for not having kids of my own, as he’s long wanted to be a grandpa. While I don’t think I’ll be able to give him what he really wants on that front, he doesn’t hold it against me (that I can tell, anyway). I’ve always been able to rely on my dad.
When I was in my mid-teens, he was diagnosed with cancer. It started as bladder cancer and spread a bit from there. He underwent surgery, treatments, and years of follow-up appointments to prevent its return. He had a heart attack a few short years later. He had the presence of mind to recognize it for what it was, called an ambulance, and was saved from a widowmaker of an attack. Having dodged death twice, you could say he’s been extremely fortunate, as have we all as his family.
He’s been a lifelong smoker and in recent years that’s caught up with him. He developed COPD a few years ago and has had a frightful cough for longer. Now so familiar with the doctor, he went in for a routine checkup and his doc discovered a small growth in one of his lungs. Suspicious, they monitored it for a couple of years before referring him to an oncologist, who confirmed it was cancer. Very slow growing, but growing none the less. They’ve referred him for targeted laser therapy to try and eliminate the tumour before it gets larger or spreads elsewhere.
He never talks about it, but I can tell he’s nervous. I have long been a very anxious person, and at points over the years that anxiety has taken over. It’s turned me into a shell of a person and reduced my ability to function to next to nothing. I’ve been attending therapy for it for years now and have worked to a point where it doesn’t often grab hold anymore. My dad (and my mum and sister, truthfully) have a tendency of not telling me things out of fear that I’ll become an anxious wreck again. While I understand their reasoning, I don’t think they understand the amount of work I’ve done to become more resilient in the face of it and it hurts me deeply to be unaware of issues affecting them. My sister probably has the best idea of what I’m able to handle and will fill me in when she thinks I ought to know something, bless her. I think my dad has been downplaying how he’s feeling, at least around me, to avoid making me upset. Maybe it’s to keep himself from getting more upset. Maybe he’s legitimately not too worried. I can’t be sure, as he’s not one to express himself overly much. Whatever the case, he’s carrying that right now and continuing on as best he can.
I’ve been really sick for the past couple of weeks. A head cold that turned into a sinus infection that resisted antibiotic treatment and has now rendered me exhausted and breathless. I was at my wit’s end today awaiting an appointment with a doctor. I’m normally not one to ask for help when it comes to health issues, but I felt dismal today before my appointment. Lightheaded, dizzy, short of breath, underslept, and so short of energy it’s not even funny, I called my dad. I asked if he would be willing to take me to the doctor, even though it’s close, because I didn’t think I’d be okay to drive myself. He didn’t even hesitate to say yes.
He arrived ten minutes early, in a warm puffy coat, his new glasses, and a toque with a bright pompom that he got at a garage sale. The roads have been very slippery and he carefully navigated the ice sheets that are the side streets here to deliver me to the doctor, waiting in the parking lot in -25 degree weather for me to finish. He took me to the grocery store with a pharmacy to fill my prescriptions, and when they didn’t have what I needed, he took me to another. He sat patiently when I cried in the car, venting my frustrations and tiredness at him. He listened and soothed (just a bit, he’s not a soother by nature).
When we got back to my house, he came in at my behest to look at the plants my partner and I have been nurturing and the new changes to the office. It had been a long while since my dad was last in my home, and that broke my heart. It’s a small house so hosting is tough, but I need to remedy his absence as soon as possible. He marveled at the orchid I was enthusing to him about and we chatted at the door before he left for about ten minutes.
In the car, I looked at him as though I hadn’t seen him in year. No longer the dad from my youth, he’s fuzzier and whiter than ever before. Smaller, more stooped. His reflexes are nowhere near where they once were and he’s overly cautious as a result. It made me wonder how much longer he’ll be able to drive on his own. An overwhelming wave of love cascaded over me sitting in that passenger seat. While he and I don’t see eye-to-eye on some things, I’ve never doubted his love for me. His absence from my home, the avoidance in telling me about his health issues, and my generally tumultuous emotional state for the past few years make me wonder if he ever doubts my love for him. It feels as though my heart dissolves into nothing, like cotton candy in water, at the idea that he could question my love for him.
I sincerely hope he knows it’s never in question. I always tell him I love him, but I’ll be sure to be more emphatic about it going forward. Thank you Dad. I love you.
Beloved 