The Walking Dead 17

Gentle Reader, I am going to repeat some things today that you might have read elsewhere on these pages, but bear with me, please, as there seems to be a fresh insight or two about how all those things come together. I have written much already about what a difficult time Christmas has been for me, especially the intense depression that sometimes brings with it suicidal ideation. This past Sunday, the depression hit again, for the first time this year, I weathered it through, and tried to make myself available to people at church, which helped me get past it. Monday morning, before I went to work, it hit with renewed fury. I refused to buckle under it, but also knew that I had not yet got to the real root of the depression. I didn't know how intense it was until I ran into a fellow parishioner who lives near the church I attend, and I happened to be walking down her street. She was on her way to the church on an errand so we walked together and chatted for a couple of blocks. It was when I was aware that I wasn't being fully present to her that I knew how intense and overwhelming was this process. it was still good chatting with her, and of course I didn't allude anything about what was happening with me, but talking with her about other things was a grounding experience and for this, I appreciate that she was sent at that moment by God. It was a longer than usual walk that morning before work, and I would end up at a meeting in one of the sites where I work. When I am walking this route, I inevitably go past the house of my maternal grandmother (dead these last twenty-four years), where I spent a lot of time as a child, and actually lived there when I was two. When I walk by there I usually say hi to my Grandma Greenlaw, assuming that maybe she can still hear me. Not this time. As I was approaching her house, I was also dealing with the insight of my worst Christmas ever, when my father, whom I was staying with off and on twenty years ago while I was homeless, pressganged me into helping him by a bunch of groceries for Christmas dinner, on the twenty-third, only to tell me after that I was not invited, because it would be too crowded in the house with my brother and his daughter being there. I was of course shocked, and worse than upset. That evening I was going to kill myself. I went for a walk by a deserted beach. My plan was to walk into the ocean and keep walking till I was drowned. I couldn't do it. It wasn't for a lack of will, but I was aware of a supernatural force forbidding it and I had to obey. I realized then, at that moment, that I had to live, that I had to somehow get through this misery and desolation. I returned to my father's house, a rented two bedroom cabin. He was in his bedroom and all was dark, As soon as I came in he started screaming at me in a high shrill voice that how dare I leave the porch light on when I went out and that he wanted me to leave and I think that he whished I was dead. He had done this frequently before, and whenever I confronted about it the next morning would always say that he must have just been having a bad dream and everything was okay. Everything was not okay. My father actually hated me and it was finally coming to the surface and I would have to accept and live with this. That evening, my brother, who also hated me, came over, and the three of us spent Christmas Eve together, and it actually was pleasant and my father seemed happy to have us all together. Rick was the son he loved and I was made to feel that I was privileged that they should invite me into their private little circle, if but for one Christmas Eve. That night, I became suddenly and gravely ill. Christmas morning I could barely walk. My father said that I still had to leave. Yes, I know, he was a real asshole. And he hated me. I did manage to get on the ferry to Vancouver Christmas Day. I was supposed to be helping out at a Christmas brunch with my elderly friend. When she heard I was sick, she just said Oh shit", not because I wasn't well, but because I would no longer be useful to her. I was going to be cat sitting for some people whose place I stayed at alternately in Vancouver. I would be there almost two weeks, nice respite from my horrible father. When I arrived, he didn't seem interested in giving me the time of day. I was just there to look after their cat. A friend of his came over and they both ignored me and I was not welcome to visit with them. And I was sick. Merry Christmas, indeed. The last time I saw my father, I was visiting him Thanksgiving Day, 2001. He admitted to me his preference for Rick, my brother, and also disclosed that the reason he refused to help me financially was because he had spent all his discretionary money on supporting my brother's cocaine addiction. I never saw my father again. I did call him in December, because I was hoping against hope that I could spend Christmas with them. Not a chance. I was spiralled into one of the most profound pits of depression I have ever gone through and it took me a couple of months to pull out of it. It was horrible. For this reason, Christmas for me has always been traumatic, ever since that horrible treatment from family and so-called friends. Every Christmas I have felt abandoned and unwanted by others and the depression has been almost insurmountable. I still always find something to do, somewhere to go and people to care for. For nine years I was spending Christmas Day at work, supporting clients at Venture, a respite facility where I used to work, and we would go for walks, coffee visits and I would stay for dinner. I also got payed for my time, but that part wasn't that important. Then, this really horrible bitch was hired as the new clinical supervisor and she said I could only be there for two hours on Christmas Day and I could not stay for dinner., Four months later I resigned. And the horrible bitch is gone, too. Just last Monday, as I was walking past my paternal grandmother's house, I did not greet her this time. Instead, I told her exactly what I really thought of her for bringing into the world and raising a toxic, mean-spirited monster like my father and that I also hold her responsible for the horrible impact he had on my life (he also sexually abused me when I was a child, if you need to know, Gentle Reader.) at that moment, I felt something shift. I think I have got past this hurdle now. Time will tell. Christmas will probably always be a bit challenging, but I think the monster has finally been locked in a cage he can't get out of. I am embracing this new opportunity to move forward, a bit stronger and a bit happier. I also feel a little bit closer to forgiving those people who harmed me, though that still might be quite a ways off. I think I can forgive them, for the poor, miserable and unhappy persons they were, for why else would they harm another person? I will likely never forgive what was done to me, and really, Gentle Reader, why should I?