I’m fine

We have a powerful story in my family, passed down through generations. It tells us who we are and comforts us through hardship. Like all the best stories, it’s simple and easy to remember.

Our story is, “I’m fine. I’m not a burden.” Our story is fiction.

I’m Five

My parents are fighting again. I can’t make out the words, but it’s scary. The house might crash down with all the shouting. They might tear each other apart like when our dog got my teddy bear and pulled its legs and arms off and left stuffing everywhere.

I make a tent out of my pink princess blanket and crawl under with my doll and old stuffed kitten. It’s my favourite stuffed animal and has only a few strings where one of its black-button eyes used to be. I sing songs to comfort them, humming when I forget the words to “Lemon Tree” and “Puff the Magic Dragon”.

Eventually, my mom tiptoes in to see if I’m sleeping. She smooths the blankets around me, puts the doll on my shelf, and nestles Kitty in my arms. Her eyes look sad but the rest of her seems ok.

“I’m sorry you heard us fighting,” she says. “Are you ok?”

 “I’m fine, Mommy,” I say. And I am. I’m used to these fights anyhow. They’re like day turning into night, and spring turning into summer. It’s just how it is. 

I’m Eighteen

 Hallelujah, I’m out of the house and have a whole night—uninterrupted— with my boyfriend! I don’t even care if it’s in a tent in the middle of nowhere.

Mark cracks open his first beer as we pitch the tent, and then builds a bonfire as I set up the beds and unpack the food. I watch him as he trims branches for roasting hot dogs. He’s graceful, in a lanky sort of way.

He turns to me with his sideways smile, a lock of chestnut hair obscuring his face. “What’s up, Gruesome?” he says, using his term of endearment for me, and it sounds damned sexy in his English accent.

“Nothing. Just looking.” I smile and lean over and kiss him.

 As dusk turns to darkness, we sit in lawn chairs, our legs touching, and talk about our friends and the embarrassing stuff his drunk mother got up to that week. Eventually, our conversation turns to my plans after high school. He knows I don’t want to stay in this small town.

“You’re going to go, aren’t you?” he says, his voice tight, almost accusing.

 “I’m not leaving you, Mark. You know I’m not.” I try to sound loving, to soothe his neediness.

“Nah. You were probably just fucking with me to pass time.” He’s in a mood now. That’s never good.

“I don’t know what I’ll do, Mark, but I’m sure we can figure it out together. You could come to Vancouver with me?” It’s a question—an idea, really—but he takes it as a solid plan.

“What the fuck am I going to do in Vancouver?” he yells. “What about my job? You never fucking think of me at all, do you?”

I just shake my head and get up to walk towards the tent. His fingers clamp around my arm, tight, but I’m too angered by his grasp to feel the pain. He spins me around to face him.

“Don’t fucking walk away from me! See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. You don’t care about me!” His spittle sprays my face, and he disgusts me. I don’t even get a full “Fuck you!” out of my mouth before I feel a searing pain across my cheek and hear the sharp crack that comes with it.

I step back, and he just stares at me, as shocked as I am. There’s space between us, but I have nowhere to go. Turning, I enter the tent and slam the flap shut. I hate him and try not to cry. I hear another beer opening, and then another.

“Baby, I’m sorry,” he slurs softly, easing into the tent. “I shouldn’t have hit you. I’m so sorry, you really must hate me now.”

“I don’t hate you, Mark.”

 “You’re just saying that. I hate myself for hurting you. Did I hurt you? Are you ok?” he looks at me, desperate for me to ease his pain.

“I’m fine, Mark. Really, I’m fine.” 

I’m Thirty-Five

 I’m newly single and never been better. It’s not easy being a single mom of three young kids, but it’s way easier than being married to their dad. I can breathe again. I can think. I can plan. I can be myself—whoever that is. I can succeed or fail on my own terms without anyone breathing down my neck and racking up debt.

It’s tough on my kids, though. My oldest daughter, Jenn, is 8 years old and has taken to obsessively tidying her room and closet at night and needs to say her good-night mantra (“Good night, I love you, mafoo mafoo mafoo!”) in exactly the same way, as her last words of the day. My younger daughter, Tanis, is having violent tantrums again, at the age of seven. Sometimes, I need to sit on her to keep her from hitting me. And my five-year-old son, Tristan, is so miserable that he destroyed the bedroom I decorated for him with stars and planets and love and hope. I worked so hard to get the money to buy his new bed, but the slats are broken now from his angry crashing, and his mattress is on the floor.

They’re upset about the divorce, but that will pass. We have a bright future. I keep them busy in sports. I help them with their homework, when I’m not too exhausted.

And I hug them and hold them and tell them I love them. I know we’ll be just fine. 

I’m Forty-Six

 I’m curled into a ball, at the back of my closet, stifling my sobs with a dirty white t-shirt pulled from the laundry hamper. I don’t want to do this anymore; it just hurts too much.

Jenn’s not well. She’s 19 and routinely drowns her feelings in alcohol. Last Saturday she drove a friend’s car into a ditch (she doesn’t even have her learner’s licence) and called me, slurring, at 2 am for a ride home. Just a typical weekend.

Tanis is sandwiched between two siblings in crisis. She’s busy being the “good one”, with all the righteousness she can muster. No matter how hard I try, I can’t give her the time and attention she needs and deserves, and she reminds me of that. Good for her—she knows what she needs and asks for it. I just can’t deliver. There’s not enough of me to go around.

And Tristan? At fifteen he’s in full-blown addiction. Kicked out of three schools already. Dropped out of Tae Kwon Do, which was the love of his life before he met drugs. He has periods of psychosis where he rants and screams and threatens to hurt himself, but he refuses help. And for whatever fucked-up reason, if an addicted 15-year-old kid doesn’t want help and has no criminal record, there’s not a Goddamned thing I can do about it. If I can’t find a way to change his situation soon, he’ll end up on the streets or dead. That’s no exaggeration.

I’m lost. My family is lost. I’m franticly trying to see a path forward and just can’t. The only thing I know is that no matter how badly it hurts, I can’t give up. I can never give up.

As my sobbing subsides, I’m left with a fierce determination to do things differently. To face things, head on. To scream for help and accept help. To stop pretending we’re fine. And to be ridiculously creative in finding a solution.

There’s a knock on my bedroom door.

 “Mom? Is dinner going to be ready soon?” Tanis calls, unaware of my emotional storm. “I have Tae Kwon Do tonight.”

I quickly wash my face, breathe deeply, and open my door. I must still be a bit red around the eyes, because Tanis looks at me closely.

“Are you ok, mom?” She’s genuinely concerned.

“I’m fine, sweetheart. How was school today?” I ask. I give Tanis all my attention as I fry the ground beef. 

I’m Fifty-Two 

Two months have passed since Tristan’s death. It’s real and not real. My need to be alone is instinctive, protective, overwhelming. I feel things now, sometimes. I want to feel, I need to feel, but I’m terrified of feeling deeply in front of people. I decide to go away so I can feel without hurting anybody, without worrying anybody, without witness.

I find myself eight thousand kilometres from Canada, in Sesimbra, a small fishing village in Portugal. I notice the crystalline water, white sand, and impossibly blue sky, but they’re no more than a flat backdrop to my grief. I am consumed by self-doubt and sorrow. My grief at times so angry, it storms and screams and tears me to shreds. I want to crush the universe and everything in it for being unfair and unfeeling. Without warning, guilt smashes me in the gut with a wallop that leaves me curled on the floor, breathless. I ask myself, endlessly, “Should I have…?”, “Could I have…”, “Would it have made a difference?”

Sometimes, my grief is stealthy, and I don’t notice it at all until I realize that I’ve done nothing, seen nothing, and thought nothing for hours. I welcome my grief, no matter how it comes, because it connects me with Tristan. It’s how I spend time with him.

I relish being alone with my grief, but it’s soon time to go home. It’s almost Christmas. My family needs me.

I will learn a new way of being fine, for them.

I’m Fifty-Three 

I’m at a Narcotics Anonymous Speaker Jam, watching Jenn share her story of experience, strength, and hope with a room full of 300 people in early recovery. She’s onstage, speaking about how she stayed sober through grief and loss. She’s poised, her voice steady and strong as she speaks into the microphone.

She describes the terrible pain of losing Tristan—her little brother who saved her life by introducing her to recovery. Tristan, who was honest and vulnerable with her, before she could be honest with herself. Who was the first person to understand, love, and support her when she was finally able to say, “I’m not fine. I need help.”

She tells the crowd that she stayed sober through so much pain and grief because she allowed others to love her in the midst of her pain. At a time when she was just beginning to rebuild her own life, she needed to find the strength to let herself fall and trust that others would catch her. And they did. By hurting out loud and letting people into her life, instead of shutting herself away, she was carried forward in love and community, until she could carry herself again.

I walk slowly home from that meeting, my mind and heart full. Large snowflakes drift lazily around me, reflecting the surreal quietude I feel inside. I’m inspired by Jenn’s words, and by her life. She’s only 26, but there’s so much I can learn from her.

I’m deeply grateful that Jenn doesn’t carry the weight of our family story; that she’s replaced fiction with truth. We are not always fine. And if we’re a burden at times, it’s a burden that can be carried and shared by a loving community.

As I take off my boots and put the kettle on for tea, I think about community. Maybe I don’t always need to be strong and alone. Maybe I need to find my tribe and learn to lean on others.

Then…maybe then, I will be okay even if I’m not fine.