All posts by MLE

I have a shoe box in my closet filled with poems, essays and short stories. All writings from years ago when I was earning my university degree. Now my email is brimming with drafts of anecdotes and ranting spiels. There are even flash drives with manuscripts and screenplays to boot somewhere. Until recently, I lacked the courage to share. The truth is,I am a story teller, a philosopher and a survivor who many look to for advice, opinion and insight. I have decided not to let my insecurities about putting my words to print continue to be my accuse or deterrent not to share. Please enjoy.
Sounds Dirty

This Victoria Has No Secrets

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A special thanks to Emily Wright for letting me post here on your website. Thanks Em.

Girl Talk: Ch1
Sex Drugs & Working Moms: This Victoria Has No Secrets

It was Valentine’s Day a few years ago, and I was expected to step out of my powder room, donning Victoria’s Secret’s newest super sexy show stopper. The evening was meant to be oh so romantic.

Lit only by the glow of our fireplace, my love handed me the suspiciously large gift bag with excitement and anticipation dancing in his eyes.  I tried to pull my libido from its hibernation to match his enthusiasm,

 …but I am a Canadian girl, and it was February.

This means I was still carrying my post-holiday weight. Nothing below my collar had seen the sun since September, and I was sporting homegrown insulation.  In short, I was doughy, pasty, and hairy.  Yes, I said it. 

There I was, under the harsh lighting of my bathroom, unveiling the wonder that was my Valentine’s Day gift. You know the outfit, every man’s fantasy.  A lacy full-bodice number with enough  reinforcement to hold cleavage at an unnatural altitude, thigh-high stockings, and garters, of course.   By the time I presented myself, I was wild-eyed, red-faced, and completely disheveled.  One might be flattered that their husband bought a size too small. I, on the other hand, know my hubby all too well. In his mad dash to the store to meet Hallmark’s Valentine’s Day expectations, he picked the salesclerk who looked most like me or who was closest to him in the store and asked her her size.

Don’t get me wrong, the black ensemble was beautiful with its iron boning, 72 hook and eyes lining the back and impossibly tiny claps for the garter belt to be fastened just below the butt cheeks. I am sure it looked amazing on the porcelain manikin. The headless, armless figure also had the advantage of not having flesh or flab to hinder the shape. More importantly, the manikin had assistance strapping the sucker on without the pesky inconvenience of having to breathe.

I am sorry, when Valentine’s Day is on a Tuesday night, a school night,

…you are just happy to get the kids in bed early enough to share a bottle of wine, whisper some sweet nothings, take top, and go to bed.

Instead, there I was with my breasts up my nose, tugging and reefing on the least agreeable fabric known to man.  Imagine 72 tiny curls of wire that need to slip into loops of thread that run down your spine.  The only way to fasten every delicate hook was to put the corset on backward.  I did mention that it was too small, right?  I remember looking in the mirror and seeing the elegantly laced breast cups sitting on my back as I wrestled and wiggled trying to twist it into place.  At one point, my husband asked if I was okay because I had spun myself into the vanity so violently that it was a wonder I didn’t wake the kids.  Once the death trap was facing the correct way, I was an enraged, unlikely contortionist, who still needed to fasten the garter straps. I was bound so tightly that my breaths were short and sharp. How the hell was I going to bend at the waist to locate the tiny gold clasps, let alone secure my nylons to them?

Somehow, I managed to get it on, not without sacrificing skin and my air supply – I got it on.  My gliding to the bed wasn’t exactly by choice as the stockings, again too small, limited my movement. I did reign in my frustration, discouragement, and overall self-loathing for the sake of the occasion.  When my husband began to release me from my torture chamber, I was mixed with relief and outrage.

What was it all for?  Better yet, who was it all for?

Afterward, when he was still giddy with the memory of his gift, he started making birthday and anniversary requests. There must have been something in my expression that said divorce or homicide because he abruptly stopped talking.  I haven’t gotten lingerie for Valentine’s Day since.   

Happy Valentine’s Day!! 

Dark Realities, Depression Hurts

Tom Wants to Talk

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It’s January 27, 2016, Bell Let’s Talk day.

goneThe day you call, text, or tweet to raise awareness of mental illness as an effort to end the stigma attached to this type of suffering. It is a great cause that brings all the levels of support and avenues for help to light. I would like to point out where we are failing and still have much work to do.

The crisis hotlines are only for people who are actually on the ledge. These selfless men and women who answer these calls are trained to encourage you to climb down. This is not a number you can call if you are hurting and contemplating suicide. If that is the case you will be directed to your family physician.

General Practitioner knowledge and training is lacking.

If you are brave enough to go and be honest with your family doctor about your coping methods: whether it be drug use, alcohol abuse, or a tendency to cut, your GP will be happy to prescribe you an anti-depressant and refer you to a psychiatrist. There will be no follow-up, just an assumption that you are indeed taking the meds (which clearly do the trick but take weeks to kick in) and an acute oblivion to the fact that the earliest shrink appointment is several months away.

Human Resources department is enough to drive anyone crazy. The forms required to take leave when you are in crisis fail to have a section for mental illness or depression and even when your doctor has filled it out to the best of their abilities given the irrelevant space, HR will reject the request for leave.

The hospital itself has a protocol that hinders many by painting every patient with the same brush. When there is a suicide attempt regardless of the reason or the method, the ER doctor is required by law to notify the Ministry of Transportation. They will immediately suspend your license. This means that the survivors of suicide, if lucky enough to recover physically, will be unable to resume their lives and pick up the pieces, especially if they depend on their license for their income. The red tape involved in having a driver’s license reinstated is long and tedious. It will take the better part of a year.

How do they expect someone struggling to get their life back not to feel helpless and dejected if they cannot get themselves to work or do their job?

A year ago, my wife of nineteen years was in a horrible car accident. When the blown tire of a transport truck crashed through her windshield, it was a miracle she survived. After weeks of therapy and months of painkillers, her body was healing, but she was never the same. Darlene (the unknown author) developed a dependency on her pain killers which she mixed with alcohol. The mother of my two girls was turning into a completely different person. She was an angry drunk who sank back into dark corners of her past that I could not determine if real. After she accused me of despicable things, I am not capable of; we began living apart.

Finally, five months ago after a breakdown that even she recognized, I convinced her to get help. We called a hotline together. I heard her admit that sometimes she just didn’t want to be here anymore. It was clear to me that Darlene did not see this as being suicidal. Once the councillor determined that she was not a threat to herself or anyone else, she advised my wife to seek a physician’s help.

We waited…waited for help. She was hurting and we had to wait to get help! Admitting that you need help is not the hardest step. The waiting is.

Eight days later, she had a doctor’s appointment, which she allowed me to sit in on. The glossed-over version of events that she spun was worthy of a weekend at the spa. Risking our marriage, I clarified a few points and reminded Darlene of a number of specific breakdowns. We left there with an antidepressant prescription and the promise that a psychiatrist’s office would call to arrange an appointment. Little did he know that Darlene would take those pills with a bottle of wine and that the shrink’s appointment would be a seven-month wait.

black dog, depression, bell let's talk, january 27
Promote Bell Let’s talk January 27 2016 The Black Dog of Depression Follows Her

Four weeks later, Darlene stumbled home. Her work had called; she hadn’t been there all day. With red-rimmed eyes, she dragged herself to bed muttering that she wasn’t feeling well. I made her tea and wrapped her up in a blanket. Thinking it was the flu, I found it strange that she did not have a fever and had yet to explain where she had been all day.

“I was supposed to be gone by now,” she said.

The words floated around me, meaningless for a while. Darlene had tried to kill herself. She had downed a bottle of Tylenol after she left in the morning. She had no intention of going to work. She sat in her car all day waiting to die. When I got her to the hospital, they pumped her stomach. ‘Wait and see’ was what they said after that. The next 72 hours were crucial. For three days, I didn’t know if my wife was going to live or die.

My work gently explained that it was my wife in the hospital, not me. I would be expected back to work unless I had a doctor’s note. Our GP was happy to fill out the form the first time, but after the fourth rejection, he had grown to dislike my company.

On the second day, after the liver specialist told my wife to get her affairs in order, our daughter sat by their mother’s side and kissed her goodbye. That night, Darlene died in my arms.

Women will often say that the best day of their lives was their wedding day or the day their children were born. Those days were great indeed, but when you have had the worse day of your life, the rest are like little pieces of wonderful. I wish I had one good day to give back to Darlene.

So many of us failed my wife, including me. We let the darkness win.

Depression is not a choice; the ignorance surrounding depression and mental illness is.

Etiquette, Shared Secrets

RSVP, Damn It!

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RSVP

… a tired custom…

For everyone who has ever been brave enough to organize an event, whether it be as intimate as tea or involved as a wedding, I appreciate your tenacity to follow through despite the slow demise of social etiquette upon us today. Will the RSVP be phased out because it is simply ignored by far too many? Will it be an old, tired custom that will be abandoned like the curtsy or holding the door for another? Not if I have anything to say about it.

Let’s for a moment believe that there is a confusion with the translation. One of the first acronyms of our time, RSVP stands for répondez, s’il vous plaît. Yes, it is French.

The exact translation is ‘respond if you please.’

Perhaps this is the cornerstone of the debate. “If you please” is subject to explanation. This does not mean that if you want to. Quite simply, if you please is a polite way of saying ‘please’ in French. Sometimes the most accurate translation is not the correct one. For instance, in German, hunger is a state to which one belongs, so they say, ‘I have hunger’ but, the true English translation is ‘I am hungry.’ This rule applies with RSVP. Respond if you please simply means, ‘please answer.’

Or, like many hosts will secretly be chanting as the impending date encroaches,

….”Reply, damn it!”

This does not mean reply only if you are attending or only if you are not attending.  This means reply, respond, answer in person, by phone, by text or by email no matter what.  Announce your intentions even if it is the ever non-committal, maybe! It is the very least you can do when someone has gone to the trouble of planning an event and has been so kind to consider you as a worthy guest.

… Our ethics are being compromised with every fragmented and micro human connection we make.

By responding, the host can accurately accommodate the number of guests expected. That way they can avoid waste or, worse, not having enough food or amenities for everyone. Oh, just so you know, everyone who has ever hosted anything…ever, just shuttered unanimously at the thought of running out of provisions.

Unfortunately, I believe that this growing trend of not ‘RSVP’ing is the root of a far bigger problem.

Our social accountability is depleting rapidly in this high-speed world we have created.

With the click of the mouse, we are able to scan images and messages with no real appreciation for the effort, time or individual responsible for the content. Our ethics are being compromised with every fragmented and micro-human connection we make.

Let me give you an example. How is it appropriate to click ‘like’ on a Facebook status that illustrates someone struggling or announces the passing of a loved one? If you don’t have time to write a few genuine words of support or condolences, please resist the urge to click ‘like.’ This is about basic human respect, appreciation, and empathy. There seems to be a shared unwillingness to commit or be responsible. With every click of the mouse or swipe of the screen, we are dismissive of expediency. Which brings us back to the RSVP. Please respond. When someone has sent you an invitation, especially when it comes through the mail, has a real postmark or is hand delivered, allot them the common, quickly proving to be not-so common, courtesy of answering them.

 There seems to be a shared unwillingness to commit or be responsible. With every click of the mouse or swipe of the screen, we are dismissive with remarkable expediency.

 

Which brings us back to the RSVP. Please respond. When someone has sent you an invitation, especially when it comes through the mail, has a real postmark or is hand delivered, allot them the common, quickly proving to be not-so common, courtesy of answering them.

Which brings us back to the RSVP. Please respond. When someone has sent you an invitation, especially when it comes through the mail, has a real postmark or is hand delivered, allot them the common, quickly proving to be not-so common, courtesy of answering them.

Small human decencies are fading out of existence at a startling rate because we are too busy and so connected to the entire world that we lose sight of our immediate surroundings. The RSVP holds us to a higher standard of accountability. Rise to it because thanks to social media even ‘RSVP’ing is as effortless as clicking a response.

 

Etiquette, Shared Secrets

The Secret of the Center Stall

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 …..Let us poop in peace, please….

ladies

Sometimes keeping up with the neuroses of being a woman is just too much. I have enough on my plate without feeling the familiar rise of anxiety and insecurity when using the ladies’ room. As a mother of a little girl, I am doing my best to curb these shared experiences of irrational modesty and needless embarrassment. The problem is not only that we put these pressures upon ourselves. It is that we also refuse to sympathize with those suffering. It could be argued that this internal commotion is socially constructed or deeply rooted in old fashion upbringings. Regardless, it is well known, inherently shared, and silently understood, yet we do nothing to change it.

Stupid hang-ups shape generations and perpetuate dark-aged thinking that should have died out long ago.

When I look back to my adolescence, at a time when I was innocent and as flawless as I was ever going to be, I am infuriated with locker room behavior and decisions. None of us girls sneered or snickered at one another. We were all too busy covering up and facing the wall when changing our clothes. Making eye contact, let alone speaking to one another, was out of the question. It is only decades later that I realize that

… this was a collective panic and fear of criticism and judgement.

I hope my daughter’s generation is stronger, smarter, and able to reject such stupid hang-ups that denied my generation the courage to shower after grade nine gym. Think about it. All 25 of us refused basic hygiene as a way to avoid full nudity in a locker room full of other girls with the exact same anxieties. How bloody ridiculous is our gender?

Meanwhile, the boys are floundering around buck naked, engaging in horseplay and literal sword fights on the other side of the cinder block wall. Can I get a what the hell? Unfortunately, this asinine dichotomy follows us out of high school and right into adulthood.

Where I work, there are three stalls in the women’s washroom. If one uses the ‘guy code’ of urinal selection, no one should ever use the facilities in the middle. Who wants neighbors? Given that theory, the stall in the center should always have bathroom tissue and be the cleanest. I can only assume this folklore to be true, for I never use door number two. Considering how neurotic women are about their nudity, than their natural bodily functions must catapults them into a realm of incomparable insanity.

It irritates me to no end when I slip into the soundless restroom only to find a closed stall door whose occupant is obviously trying to go unnoticed. Seriously, I mean, they don’t move. Except for their feet, the wad of clothing bunched up on their shoes and (occasionally) the not so pleasant odor that one would (sorry, should) expect in a bathroom, the person in the stall is nearly invisible.

Only a woman could stop in mid-movement to prevent being embarrassed…

by her own bodily sounds, smells…function. Like I don’t know what she is doing in there. What’s more, I don’t care. Why do we do this? Unfortunately, I am no better. The food court, ten flights down, has a full public washroom; one with two long aisles of stalls. It is almost as if the first bank is designated ‘express’ and the second for, let’s say, high maintenance. It is like a dream that’s only 10 stories, 2 escalators, and half an underground block away.

On those days that I happen to pop into the ladies room on my floor and there is a poor soul wishing away their existence, mercifully .  

Okay, that is not exactly true. In fact, I usually respect her efforts to go unnoticed and do what I can to avert stage fright, up my PSI, wash my hands as quickly as possible and leave. I do not do my hair, file my nails or apply lipstick. What I don’t understand is why some women feel the need to chat or lounge around. It is one thing to do that when you are in the washroom alone, I mean really alone. It is another thing to stand around when you know there is someone sitting behind a closed stall. She is probably holding her breath waiting for you to get the hell out so that she can unburden herself. Why do women torture one another like this? I am not saying that it is rational for someone to be embarrassed while in a washroom, but we all know where that comes from.  Hell, who hasn’t heard that you should always wear clean underwear in case you get hit by a bus?

… Is your underwear clean in case you get hit by a bus?

This was something a grandmother would say. Imagine how horrible it would be for the doctor or nurse to cut your blood-soaked clothes from your mangled body to find dirty bloomers? It did not matter that if you were actually hit by a bus that you would surely poop yourself, anyway. What matters is that you are always proper, even at a time when being proper should be your last priority.

…comes down to building confidence, silencing judgement and prioritising our values.

The point being, these warped insecurities, regardless of where they stem from, will hopefully phase out eventually. Until then, be kind; don’t linger. Why would you want to be putting on makeup or brushing your teeth when someone only five feet away is doing what we all would like — a little privacy doing? Even my dog gives me that pleading ‘don’t look at me’ glance when I happen to catch his eye when he’s crouching.

Let us poop in peace, please. We will address the irrational modesty and needless embarrassment by teaching our girls to be stronger and smarter. It all comes down to building confidence, silencing judgment and prioritizing our values.

Change is slow. In the meantime, be kind.

 

   

 

Etiquette, Shared Secrets

Apology

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There are two types of apology.

Both types have two parts…

One: the sincerity

Two: the purpose of your apology

The first apology addresses humanity and compassion. When a co-worker loses a loved one or a tree lands on your friend’s car. You are sorry it happened to them and understand their hurt. This is not ownership or an admission of guilt. It is identifying with human anguish, suffering, or unforeseen misfortune.

The second apology is the one I want to discuss. It is the one you owe someone because you wronged them in some way.

This type of apology is a promise.

When you make an apology, you are actually promising that, if given the opportunity to do it over, you will do it differently.

This apology requires a change in behaviour on the part of the offender.

noU

 

Most imporatantly, it includes two ‘I‘s. I am sorry that I… The first part is the admission, and the second is the accountability. The second ‘I‘ is critical.

‘I’m sorry that your feelings are hurt’ is NOT an apology and

“I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings,” is.

An apology should never contain the word ‘but’ either.

‘But’ implies a contradiction, or it is a flat-out dismissive. According to Dr. Phil, ‘but’ means forget everything I just said. That goes for although and however too. These negate whatever statement that preceded it.

Consider, “I’m sorry I hit you, but you made me mad.” This translates to, I am NOT sorry that I hit you. You should be sorry for making me mad.

The weight of an apology is based solely on the impact your words or actions have on another person or party. You don’t apologize to absolve yourself of guilt or blame; it is an affirmation of empathy that helps someone else’s healing.

Let’s say you bump into a random shopper at the mall. You weren’t looking, nor were they, and the two of you collided. Other than the obvious startle, no harm has been done to either you or the stranger. Socially balanced people say sorry, maybe even excuse me, and go on their way. But what if that same bump causes them to drop their fragile parcel, or they are sent off kilter and fall down a flight of stairs? Then, this would warrant a greater apology unless of course, you are the kind of person who would dart away as quickly as possible. In which case I have no idea why you are even bothering to read this because the likelihood of you apologizing or being accountable for anything is slim, and I hope that you are wealthy and have a good lawyer.

The point is that the bump on your part did not change. The outcome forced upon the stranger did. Ergo, the apology is dependent on their experience, not yours.

It’s like the law of cheating. You are not governed by your own law but the law of your partner. If my husband does not feel an online affair is cheating, but I do (please note my deliberate use of ‘but’), my husband does not get to have an online affair. Well, not if he wants to stay married to me that is. It is simple. It’s about respecting someone else’s boundaries and honoring them.

When you add a ‘but’ to an apology, you are explaining why you did what you did. This will more often than not come across as an excuse or a way of casting blame onto the one you have wronged. This, therefore, makes the apology redundant, especially if you failed to assume any responsibility.

Lastly, if you are not sorry and do not care how your words or actions affect others, then do not apologize. Avoid sounding disingenuous or, worse, sounding like the compassionate person you are not. Instead, be true to the tar hole you are and ignore the basic human response of remorse after hurting another. Perhaps take the short survey on…

‘Am I a Sociopath?’

On the other hand, you have no control over whether your apology will be accepted. If it is not, please point the said person in the direction of this article and let them know that their response has hurt your feelings.

So let us recap. Three steps to a solid proper apology.

1- Admission ‘I am sorry’…. Followed immediately by

2- Accountability …’that I’ (insert violation here)

3- That’s it! No buts!