Live In Peace

I set out this summer determined to settle an old score with someone who had caused me great harm in the past. After thirty years, I was ready to tell my story to authorities and seek justice for the crimes perpetrated against me. I was sick of the survivor’s guilt, shame of not reporting at the time to protect other girls and women, and tired of the worry and regret over things he may have done (or could still be doing) because I never told. I was done with carrying the weight of hate and living in fear. After all this time, I needed to find a way to set that burden down once and for all. For decades, I’d believed that the universal law of cause and effect, otherwise known as karma, would eventually balance things out and make it right. But I guess I’d grown impatient.

Not only was I ready to make a statement to police, but I was also prepared to go public with his name, the entire story, because I was—and remain—convinced there were other victims. The day before my forty-seventh birthday, I filed a report. A month later, at the police station downtown, I gave a formal statement and participated in a two-hour recorded interview. I’ve shared a lot about my trauma over the years, including a sexual assault at age seventeen perpetrated by this individual, but there are details I’ve kept to myself as well, secrets deemed too shameful to ever be shared (like the time, nearly fifteen years later, when I decided to confront him… and he did it again).

Even now, I cringe at those words, but it is what it is.

I recounted every detail for the investigator during my interview in August. As I’ve said, I was finally prepared to face him, ready to see him held accountable for his actions. It was one of the most difficult things I’ve ever experienced, but with the help of a few truly incredible human beings, I made it through. The rest of summer passed in a fog. I caught COVID for the third time. My PTSD and Borderline symptoms were so exacerbated, so intense, I couldn’t think straight. Most of autumn, a.k.a. trigger season, was spent on my couch, in front of the TV, watching reruns of Friends or Dateline, dissociating. For the first time in my adult life, since I’d become a mother more than twenty years ago, I contemplated suicide (or applying for M.A.I.D). I told my doctor at the start of November, who upped my meds and sent out another referral for psychotherapy.

I suppose I hadn’t anticipated any negative consequences from the investigation, only positive results, so I was thrown by the severe somatic reaction I was experiencing. I had expected my mind to do what it always does in crisis, I was ready for that to some degree, but this time, my body was attempting to process the experience, too, and it was struggling. Determined to transmute darkness to light, to feel some joy in my soul, I put up Christmas decorations on the last night of November. My nana used to decorate their house every December first, on her birthday, so it makes me feel connected to her when I can light my tree that same evening, and this year, I desperately needed connection. On Sunday morning, my daughter and I snuggled on the couch to watch the entire Back to the Future series and had a total blast. My spirits were unexpectedly, almost absurdly, high. Every one-liner had me floored. We ate Doritos and drank Coke and laughed our asses off. It was amazing.

Moments after the credits rolled on the last movie, I received a brief text from a family friend sharing the news, followed soon after by a phone call from the investigator in charge of my case, to confirm/inform me that the man who’d raped me had just passed away. He’s dead. And, just like that, it was over. How do I feel? That’s an impossible-to-answer question at the moment. I don’t know yet. Honestly, I do not know. Some people have expressed frustration or sympathy because I didn’t get justice in the end, but didn’t I get that, in a way? Some sort of universal justice or divine providence. Maybe karma. All I ever wanted was to know that he couldn’t hurt anyone ever again and now he can’t. Not even me.

To the best of my knowledge, at the time of his death, he was unaware of the ongoing investigation against him for three separate incidences concerning me between 1993-2007. I cannot say for certain, but personally, I believe his death was likely due to an accidental overdose, and unofficially, due to a guilty conscience. Nobody falls that far into addiction without some significant trauma or other psychological issues. Maybe some do, but not typically. Despite everything, I cannot in good conscience celebrate the death of an addict, knowing what I do about addiction. It goes against everything I am and stand for. So, instead, I will celebrate my own rebirth.

Suddenly, for the first time in my entire adult life, all of my demons are all dead. Everyone who has ever hurt me that way is gone. There’s nothing to hold me back except my own self. The future is wide open and, let me tell you, I am ready to jump back on this horse called Life and ride my ass off! Spirit has my back. Whether I’d forgotten for awhile or just grown impatient, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t matter anymore, because I remember now:

I am a beloved child of the universe.

I don’t think a lengthy investigation and criminal trial, even with a guilty verdict (followed by whatever mediocre sentence he may have gotten), could have given me the same kind of peace and freedom. In the end, the man who stole my youth has left me free to live the second half of my life unencumbered. He also spared his family great humiliation and shame. For this reason, I’ve decided not to give his name publicly and let him rest in peace, while I go out and live the rest of my life with peace in my heart. I am done with this story. I hope I never tell it again. Now it’s time to open a new book and start fresh. I can’t wait to see how the next story unfolds…

Five Years

I lost my voice five years ago.

Oh, I can speak aloud no problem, my vocal cords remain intact and in good working order. But my true voice, the one I use to say (or write) anything that really matters, became muted. For a little while, I thought my creative juices had simply entered a fallow period, a brief barren season that would pass soon enough. But then months rolled over into years, and still, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t use my voice. In my personal life, there was so much that I couldn’t talk about, I felt afraid to write anything at all.

Grief stole my tongue (the cat left it alone/didn’t even bother to try).

A few months before my fortieth birthday, in March 2017, I decided to get sober, which meant no alcohol, but more importantly for me, no cannabis. No weed, man. I knew that losing booze would be relatively easy; I’m rarely a big drinker. But the green queen, Mary Jane, she had been a super close friend for twenty years—we did basically everything together—and here I was, saying goodbye. But I had to lose both, or I’d vacillate between the two, and I was already using more than usual. I realised deep in my bones that, if I didn’t stop, there was a solid chance I would spin out of control in the coming weeks. Someone I loved beyond measure was dying, and I was self-aware enough to know that, when he left, it would break me. And knowing me as well as I do, because I’ve lived with myself for a lifetime now, I couldn’t afford it: falling apart, spiraling down, and spinning out of control was not an option. So, I got sober. Thirteen days later, one year to the day after his leukaemia diagnosis, Cameron was gone.

I stayed sober for two years and eight months, and during that time, I wrote and published two pieces, maybe three: a poem for an anthology, an essay for a recovery newsletter, and that other thing (if it exists at all). To be frank, I’m sure they were all crap. What could I write when every day was a fight? In my years as a nonfiction writer, I’ve repeatedly heard, “write from the scar, not the wound.” Patiently, I waited and waited (and waited some more) for those damned wounds to scar, but they never did; in fact, new wounds continued to appear and, bleeding to death from loss and grief, writing seemed like a useless waste of time. It is almost impossible to write in the dark, and for me then, there was no light. Light was like the memory of a dream: it existed, but not in this world.

In the spring of 2019, literally overnight, I developed a strange, idiopathic medical condition with some harsh symptoms, which included severe swelling and inflammation, sudden significant weight gain, and a regularly near-crippling abdominal/pelvic pain that had me at the local emergency room on at least four occasions. Aside from finding nine kidney stones (apparently not the cause of my issues), after a cystoscopy, colonoscopy, ultrasound, two CT scans, and countless blood tests, neither the nephrologist, the urologist, the gynecologist, the gastroenterologist, nor my physician could determine what the fuck was wrong. Something was going on, my white blood cell count was high, indicating an infection, but none could be found or resolved despite the four runs of strong antibiotics I’d been given. At a loss, I was prescribed ever increasing doses of morphine, but I hated it. The side effects were bad, the benefits short-lived. I couldn’t write then, of course, because my head was foggy, and when you’re in serious physical pain, most of your thoughts are consumed with some variation of the theme, “Ow, ow, OW! Ouch.”

When my husband, from whom I was separated but still very much involved, started dating an old girlfriend of his that summer, what was left of my heart went up in flames and turned to dust. For a decade, we had raised our kids together in this beautiful, messy, blended family, and in the span of three months, the whole thing had disintegrated and morphed into something I could barely recognise. Divorce papers were filed. My entire being felt utterly ravaged by grief and pain. As a last resort, given the state of my physical and mental health, I began to micro-dose THC with larger amounts of CBD. Within two weeks, I had lost almost all the weight I’d gained, twenty-five pounds (or two stone for you British folks), and no longer needed morphine for pain. I’m not going to call it a miracle cure, but that’s exactly what it felt like.

Unfortunately, despite my improved physical health, the situation with my former partner continued to deteriorate. One night, I decided that if we had a couple drinks together, inhibitions and walls down, we’d be able to work it out and get back together. I swear, this was my thought process at the time. Four months shy of my third year of sobriety, and I sincerely thought that we would save our marriage, if only we could find a way to get past ourselves (via alcohol). Yes, I hear it now. Crazy. At the time, however, in my despair, it all made perfect sense. In the end, he did come over, but I drank the six-pack alone, and suffice it to say, none of what transpired that night saved our marriage.

To try and heal my broken heart, sea and sun as medicine, I took a trip to Kite Beach in the Dominican Republic at the end of February 2020. A week after my return, we began the first of four COVID-19 lockdowns. Meanwhile, litigation dragged on and on. I joked about writing a book, Divorce in the Time of Covid, but didn’t have the energy. Mostly, I watched episodes of How I Met Your Mother on endless repeat, or if I was with my daughter, we binged Pretty Little Liars. Eventually, it became painfully clear that there would be no winners in the divorce, only losers, so big concessions were made (likely on both sides) to finally end it. Final papers were filed last spring, and the divorce became official this year.

For ages, I have avoided putting words on paper, because I had no distance from anything, no scars, only gaping wounds, and I was scared to write, terrified to break down the walls and show my heart, worried that I would say something I’d later regret. Anything you say can and will be used against you. But half a decade is a long time for a writer to not write, for a voice to be silenced, especially when that voice screams on the inside to be heard. Today, it has been two months since my divorce was made official, and I am at peace with it now. Today, it has been five years since I lost a soulmate, and in a way, I write this for him, for the man who believed in me long before I did. Cameron faced both life and death with courage and grace; I want to live like that. Today, after five of the hardest damned years of my life, I finally found the courage to use my true voice again. And I’ve got lots left to say.

Amazing grace.

(Image courtesy of: Opportunity Marketing – online)

Death is Not the End

Death is not the end, it’s another beginning.

Grief is for the living, not the dead. I know

love survives all things, every transition. And death is but a doorway

to rebirth. The soul recognises what the human mind forgets.

I’ll never forget

the light of laughter in your soulful eyes, or the way

you said my name with such love, or the time

you told me that you were so proud

I had begun to follow my dreams. It seems

impossible to imagine a world without you. We carry

white lilies to your graveside, and poems, grasped in trembling hands.

Prayers are performed, dirges are read, songs are sung, but

not one is as precious as you are. Not a single one.

I know, grief is for the living, not the dead.

Death is not the end, it’s another beginning.

Faceworld

A friend and I recently joked about how discouraging it would be if Facebook had an online timer located at the top right-hand corner of the screen to keep track of how many minutes we spend scrolling through our newsfeeds every day.

It’s a frightening thought.

I think it’s fair to say that more than a few of us would be quite surprised to discover how much time we truly spend in Faceworld.

Even when I try to limit myself, I still manage to log a few hours daily: eleven minutes here, another seven there until, before I know it, I’ve accumulated an hour and a half online. If I don’t restrict my use, I can easily log another couple of hours on top of that, at the very least.

It’s too much.

I almost forget what I used to do with my free time, in the olden days, before social media.

God knows, over the past decade, my life in the real world has only gotten bigger, louder, crazier, more chaotic, laborious, time-consuming, demanding, and taxing on absolutely every single level imaginable, so how I manage to find any time to do anything other than what’s right in front of me is a mystery. It’s next to impossible to manage two existences at once.

But I do it.

And I’m not alone.

Many of us straddle these two worlds, occupy two separate lives, to some degree or another.

On a daily basis, we navigate a virtual reality that operates in symbiosis with our own, and coexist in a strange sort of superposition—here, in the real world, and online, in Faceworld, at the exact same time. When we focus our attention on one reality, the other collapses, in a manner of speaking. For me, on a personal level, it boils down to this:

The more I interact with one world, the less I connect to the other.

I spent last summer, in its entirety, in the real world. Outside in the garden. Barefoot in the sunshine, knee-deep in earth with the plants and worms, listening to the song of birds overhead, I gulped down the peace and quiet like cool water from a freshwater spring, and experienced a few golden moments of divine grace, impossible to articulate, but striking in its ability to make everything impossibly clear.

I gave nary a thought to Faceworld, to be honest, for months on end, so consumed by the real world I was. But now, in the dead of winter, those days are oh-so-far-away, and I feel compelled to check repeatedly on the state of both worlds, because it’s such a mind-blowing mess. America’s future lies in the hands of a madman. Folks are scared, confused, and angry, no doubt, but mostly, overwhelmed, since it’s no easy feat to protect and keep loved ones safe, healthy, and whole, in times such as these.

I’m distracted, unable to concentrate, fidgety.

I want to help, but I’m no help to anyone when I’m like this, all wound up, jacked up, and on edge. I’m confused, angry, scared, and the only thing I know for sure is that, if I listen carefully, I can hear my body, mind, and spirit tell me it’s time to unplug, get grounded again, and recharge.

Unplug to recharge.

I need to get some writing done, spend some time in the real world doing some real-life things, and take a break from the drama of Faceworld. To be honest, I’ve only got the energy for one world these days, so I’ve got to limit my time on social media and focus my attention where it really counts.

If I’ve got any gifts to offer, they’re useless, unless I actually intend to use them.

And I most certainly do.

So, for the foreseeable future, I will be abstaining from Facebook all day-every day until the SUPER HAPPY FUNTIME HOUR, which will be nightly from 8:00-9:00 p.m.

Maybe I’ll see you there!

Stay fierce.

 

 

(Facebook photo courtesy of http://www.pcmag.com)

 

Spin Doctors

Question: What is the main difference between Happy Holly and Depressed Darla?

Answer: Happy Holly is a master in the art of self-deception.

Depressed people do not necessarily possess an overabundance of negative thoughts.

In fact, current research in social psychology suggests that depressed people tend to hold considerably more realistic perspectives than normal, non-depressed folks, particularly when it comes to the self. Did you know that?

Apparently, happy and healthy, so-called “normal” people are basically skilled spin doctors, who organically distort their own thinking processes, in order to uphold a positive self-image. I find this fact fascinating!

Happy Holly, and others like her, regularly employ little tricks to help maintain a reasonably high level of self-esteem. Depressed Darla, on the other hand, struggles with self-deception. It appears to be quite difficult for a sad, depressed person to manufacture the positive illusions required for happiness.

Makes sense when you think about it.

According to social psychologists, Shelley Taylor and Jonathon Brown (1988), there are three positive illusions that happy folks typically share: 1) they overestimate their better qualities and underestimate the less favourable ones; 2) they overestimate their ability to control events and influence outcomes; and 3) they are unrealistically optimistic about the future.

Essentially, Happy Holly is so damned happy, because she’s able to fully embrace the good and reject the bad in herself, she has a strong sense of agency accompanied by a firm belief in her ability to exert control over life experiences and, as strange as it may sound, she feels like she’s got a better shot than most at living the Good Life, as she defines it. Not because she’s narcissistic, or terribly arrogant, but because she thinks she’s a slight cut above the rest. She has to, frankly, because Happy Holly’s happiness depends almost entirely upon her ability to lie to, and deceive, herself about herself.

The key to happiness, it seems, lies within our ability to fool ourselves.

My advice then, should you find yourself down in the dumps, is to track down a pair of rose-coloured glasses and turn them inward. Don’t be afraid to see yourself as the magnificent creature you truly are. Downplay your flaws, highlight your best features, overlook—heck, outright deny, at least in the privacy of your own mind—any failures, but claim every last success. Live the poem, Invictus by William Ernest Henley, and affirm to your incredibly resilient self on a daily basis: I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul. Believe the entire universe conspires to assist you in manifesting your desires. And, above all else, hold yourself in the highest of high esteem, even if you must deceive yourself to do so. Be your own spin doctor.

Put a positive spin on YOU.

It may feel a bit weird at first.

If so, remind yourself loudly and often, “This is what normal people do. This is what normal people do. This is what normal people do. This is what normal people do….”

Soon enough, you’ll be smiling, too.

 

All Good Things

Christmas is just around the corner, folks.

And, blessedly, only days later, we’ll celebrate the start of a brand-spanking-new year. Sweet baby Jesus, it’s about time!

I don’t think I’ve ever met a year that hit quite as hard as this one.

I’ll be glad to see the back of it, that’s for sure, and I don’t think I’m alone there. Amiright?

But even so, as hard and painful as 2016 has been—on far too many levels to ever count—I still feel a deep need to take a minute and gratefully acknowledge that somehow, in the midst of all the craziness and turmoil, a little bit of sheer joy and pure awesomeness still managed to find its way to me over the past 12 months. I got my ass kicked, for sure, over and over, but I also saw my fair share of victories, too…

#nomatterhowsmall.

Last January, I started to sporadically record good things that happened to me on tiny slips of paper and save them in a small clay mug I purchased in Hawes, Yorkshire, a dozen years ago. It’s been an interesting exercise. I have to admit, a lot slid under the radar, honestly, as I do have a tendency to start strong on a project, then get all caught up in life and forget about whatever it was I’d originally planned to do. Still, it was fun to go back and take a look at what made me stop and take notice.

It’s easy to see all the brokenness in the world these days.

Harder to find the beauty.

And so, today, in no particular order and for no reason other than to remind myself that I did experience at least a few fairly great moments in the midst of all the madness and chaos, I present to you…

50+1 Things I’m Thankful for This Year (2016):

1. My new iPhone
2. Our Christmas tree came down nice and easy… in February
3. Glennon Doyle Melton (Author, Love Warrior) invited me to be her guest at a huge Momastery event in New York City (unfortunately, my flight was cancelled due to snow, but still!!!)
4. Aspen Matis (Author, Girl in the Woods) agreed to meet for coffee and great conversation in N.Y.C. (damn that stupid snowstorm, grrrrr)
5. A gorgeous gibbous moon one winter evening
6. I took a trip downtown and caught all lights, busses, and transfers—no waiting!
7. Successful red-tape negotiation and fast-moving lines in government buildings
8. Eldest son’s reconnection with his long-time best friend
9. Sexy new boots and warm winter coat
10. The day my passport and tickets to New York arrived (and my birth certificate with my mom’s handwriting on it…)!
11. On a bad day, my cousin-sister sent a precious message offering help, if needed
12. Cast removed from youngest son’s busted finger
13. Youngest son took his first trip to Florida (and returned home safely)
14. Elizabeth Gilbert (Author, Big Magic) liked my Tweet!
15. Found a gentle and kind new dentist
16. Really good conversation with my mom
17. Decision to take the summer (and subsequent academic year) off
18. I turned 40! So did a few of my closest friends
19. The cardinal and his mate who sat on the wire by my balcony and sang to me
20. A strong mark on a difficult assignment
21. One of my besties, my angel, gave birth to her third child: a bouncin’ baby boy!
22. Unexpected message full of light and love from a poetess friend living in Seoul
23. After tragic losses, two beloved friends gave birth to healthy Rainbow Babies
24. A Facebook post from my friend, Jessica: You’re my Favorite Badass. She wrote, “This week, my favorite badass warrior superhero is Arwen Faulkner, who got knocked down again last year but got up again not only still alive, but wiser, more beautiful, and more loving than before (and who knew that was even possible)?”
25. Windfall! Small bank refund
26. Cousin-sister ordered us tickets to see Lauryn Hill in Montreal (couldn’t make it in the end, due to logistics, but oh man, what a gift!)
27. Quit cigarettes!!!
28. A productive Saturday
29. Wrote a powerful short story (The Black Forty-Seven)
30. Apparently I had a REALLY good lasagna and Caesar salad one night… worth mentioning…?
31. Good conversation with a great friend left me feeling recharged
32. A delicious heat wave to warm the bones
33. Chickadees fed from the palm of my hand!
34. An elderly neighbour from down the street stopped me to say that I’m doing really great, he’s not the only one who can tell—and he’s happy for me. So sweet!
35. Angela’s suggestion to start a faerie garden that led to a summer full of fun
36. Found a lucky toonie ($2) on a walk
37. My kindred’s remission from leukaemia (however brief)
38. Visit from a Mourning Dove (my dad’s spirit)
39. A birthday gift trip from my mom
40. A family member of Bronwen Wallace’s (1945-1989), poet/writer/activist and subject of my first book, sent me a pair of her earrings to wear for inspiration
41. Cheryl Strayed (Author, Wild) liked my comment about “gobsmacked” on Facebook
42. Almost got accepted into the Summer Research Internship Program at Carleton (Dean sent an email to congratulate me on my topic and say how close it was)
43. My freshly painted apartment
44. Daughter’s toothless grin
45. A kind gesture from a loved one to help take some of the pressure off
46. Co-created the #FacesOfPTSD campaign with four other incredible survivors
47. Singer-songwriter, Jewel, tweeted in support of the #FacesOfPTSD campaign
48. Received an advance reading copy of LOVE WARRIOR by Glennon Doyle Melton
49. An early snowfall that sent Trigger Season packing
50. Nothing like a new housecoat…

AND…

51. It’s almost over: I survived!

 

Here’s hoping 2017 is full of new beginnings and an abundance of joy.

 

I wish you all good things,

Arwen

 

 

 

Graveside Mourner

My father’s ghost was at his funeral.

Hidden among the shadows of a great

maple tree, head bowed, he casually

observed the crowd, as the minister read

aloud. Just another graveside mourner.

 

*

 

It’s been 5 years since that July day.

I love you, Dad.

Survivor’s Guilt

 

I think about her every so often.

I’ll be sitting on the bus heading to an appointment across town, or at home, chopping veggies for dinner, and suddenly, there she is—or, at least, a reasonable facsimile. We’ve never met, so I have no clue what she really looks like, how old she is, where she lives, what kind of car she drives, if any, or what she does for a living, but I have no doubt she’s out there somewhere.

Sometimes, I wonder if she wonders about me, too.

If so, does she blame me, because I didn’t protect her?

Barely seventeen years old and struggling to survive my own trauma, I wasn’t strong enough to save anyone else, but even so, after more than two decades (twenty-three years to be precise), it still haunts me at times, the idea that she exists, the knowing-in-my-bones of it, and the guilt, the shame, because I let it happen, not only to me, but to her, and any others who followed and suffered through my silence…

I let my rapist walk away scot-free.

Free to do it again.

I refused to report the rape to the police. Didn’t tell my mom. Instead, I just tried to put it behind me, move on, forget about it. It was 1993, after all, and the term “date rape” was not in widespread use. Most people still tended to believe that a rape between people who knew one another was basically a misunderstanding, not “real” rape, which was assumed to be committed by a stranger, and since my rapist was known to me, intimately, the very notion of filing a report and potentially testifying against him, a former lover, in a courtroom stuffed with stern, judgy people made me want to die.

I couldn’t.

It took years before I was able to own what happened to me.

Rape.

I couldn’t possibly have said it aloud in front of a judge and jury, God, my mother, and anybody else who happened to be present—the word and the whole ugly story and everything that came before—only to be disbelieved or, even worse, blamed. No way. I didn’t have that kind of courage or conviction.

Although contemporary statistics have proven beyond all doubt that the perpetrator is known to the victim in a vast majority of rape and sexual assault cases, we still inhabit a world where only a Perfect Victim is entitled to justice, and even then, doesn’t always get it. If I had told someone way back when, filed a report and testified, the boy who raped me might have gotten away with it anyhow. It’s probable.

We had a history and I was an imperfect victim.

Still, I feel guilty about her sometimes. I don’t know her name, but I know her pain, as sure as I know my own. Did she survive? Does she feel guilty as well, knowing, as I do, there must be others like us? I mean, if a boy rapes a girl and gets away with it, who does he grow to become, in all likelihood?

A man who rapes women.

According to Google, survivor’s guilt occurs when a person perceives themselves to have done wrong by surviving a traumatic event when others did not. Most often associated with accidents or natural disasters, I think it also applies in certain circumstances to victims of unreported rape who, in addition to the weight of their own pain, carry the added burden of responsibility toward potential future victims.

How ridiculous is that?!

A rapist walks free and we, the raped, hold ourselves accountable for future rapes by this rapist??? No.

No, no, no, no, no!

A rapist is the only one responsible for rape.

The boy who raped me is the only human being on this entire planet accountable for his actions.

But even so, every now and again, I think of her. I’ll be walking through the woods on a golden afternoon, or in the office, putting sentences together for an essay, and suddenly, there she is…

Love Warrior

 

“I don’t know how to fix my marriage. All I know is that I need to tear down my own walls and face what’s underneath. I cannot save my marriage but I can save myself. I can do that for me and for my children and for every relationship I have now and for every one that comes in the future.”

Glennon Doyle Melton, Love Warrior

 *

I was a little afraid of this book at first.

Okay, I was a lot afraid.

I probably ought to admit that fact upfront if I’m going to be even half as honest as Glennon Doyle Melton was in the writing of the fierce tour de force that is her powerful new memoir, Love Warrior.

Why was I so scared?

Because I was terrified of what it would mean for me.

My husband and I have been working through a complicated separation for the past couple of years, spending lots of time in liminal space, the in-between, and so, as excited as I was to read Love Warrior, a small part of me fretted that I would turn the last page feeling even more discouraged and heartbroken about my own love story. And what if this book affected me so much it altered my own outcome? What if it made me want to go back and try once more? Or never again? What if…?

Sometimes the unknown can be pretty damn scary.

Once Canada Post had delivered my precious advance reading copy, it still took a few days before I was brave enough to actually crack open the cover. I did, however, carry it around with me everywhere I went until then, of course, because that’s what you do when you get your hands on a priceless treasure, you hold onto it. Maybe it sounds silly, but I knew Love Warrior was going to be kind of a big deal for me, like Carry On, Warrior only different, and I just felt like I needed to take my time.

Go easy. Don’t rush. Breathe.

I could have gulped it all down in one sitting.

Glennon is a natural wordsmith and it was that good.

Instead, I sipped Love Warrior slowly over the course of a couple days, savouring every single sentence, setting it aside every so often to stare into space, stunned by the beauty and raw honesty within. I don’t know how she does it, but somehow, Glennon, a master truthteller, is not only able to see through smoke and mirrors to the soul of the matter, but she also has an incredible knack for articulating precisely what has been discovered and making it personal to the reader, who feels as though they have been embraced as a confidant, witness, friend.

My girl digs deep. Gets on her hands and knees and claws to the bottom of the bottom of the bottom until she has excavated the bare bones of truth hidden underneath, far below the surface, dusted them off, and brought them out into the bright light of day. Reverently, she extracts the rich marrow for closer examination, and then generously, gracefully, shares what she has learned. Shamelessly.

Love Warrior is the story of a marriage and one couple’s efforts to rebuild after infidelity, but even more than that, it is the story of one woman claiming her own space and learning to finally feed herself once and for all. Through a refusal to abandon herself any longer and a commitment to face her pain, no matter how awful, Glennon began the arduous process of becoming who she was always meant to be by letting go of everything she never really was.

Unbecoming.

Glennon does not claim to be any kind of guru or marriage expert, nor does she offer unreliable advice, or even worse, “7 Steps to a Happier, Healthier Marriage.” This book will not suggest that you stay in a relationship and it won’t tell you to leave. But it will probably carry you into a fuller understanding and acceptance of yourself, encourage you to embrace your own truths, whatever they may be, and offer a more sage perspective on being in love than any you have likely ever come across before.

Although it will be described as many things, Love Warrior is, above all else, a call to love, Warrior.

A deeply intimate experience, Love Warrior is one of those books that stays with you long after the last chapter has ended, and it will come to mean many different things to countless people in the way that all exceptional books do. My dog-eared, underlined and highlighted copy can attest to how much it has meant to me. But even so, I find myself struggling to find adequate words to convey  how incredibly necessary this memoir was for me, and is, for all of us. I wanted to write something elegant, but instead, all I’ve got are these ramblings as my thoughts continue to settle.

Mind fully blown.

If you treat yourself to one special purchase this month, do yourself a favour and let it be Glennon Doyle Melton’s new memoir, Love Warrior. Do not be afraid. If you are, do it anyways, then go on and buy one for a friend, too. Trust me, it’s a giver.

Love Warrior was written for me. And it was written for you.

In truth, it is a love letter from Glennon to every single one of us stumbling around in the dark, trying to find connection and meaning, a reunion of body/mind/soul, despite the constant bombardment of messages designed to keep us lost and separate, scared and alone.

“We aren’t different. We are exactly the same. We are individual pieces of a scattered puzzle and we are just a little lost down here. We are all desperate for reunion and we are trying to find it in all the wrong places. We use bodies and drugs and food to try to end our loneliness, because we don’t understand that we’re lonely down here because we are supposed to be lonely. Because we’re in pieces. To be human is to be incomplete and constantly yearning for reunion. Some reunions just require a long, kind patience.”

Glennon Doyle Melton, Love Warrior

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You can find Glennon chatting with Oprah about her new memoir, Love Warrior, and other awesome stuff on Super Soul Sunday on Sunday, September 11, 2016 at 11:00 a.m. on OWN. Details (here).

Or visit Momastery.com for an event near you! Follow the link (here) for more info.

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

I was 106 years old.

At least, that’s how it felt my first night on campus, wandering around sweaty and bedraggled amongst all those young, fresh-faced twenty year olds in my Mom pants, trying to locate my classroom in the Tory Building at Carleton University. I was almost late for my women’s Bridging class, a course basically designed to bridge the distance between me and a post-secondary education, and I was almost frantic.

Okay, so I don’t have Mom pants, but you get the picture…

Once located, I blew into the room with a bright smile plastered onto my face, despite the fact that I suddenly felt as though I might vomit right there on the floor in front of everybody. Casually, or so I thought, I slipped to the back, tripped over my own feet, stumbled awkwardly into a chair, and stole a few glances at some of the other women before clumsily extracting my pen and notepad from my backpack. Nobody looked convinced they would be able to sit through the whole three hours either.

Okay, so it’s not just me, I thought. We’re all scared shitless. Cool. My kind of people.

Angela, who sat to my left, quietly introduced herself, and added, “I’m totally freaking out.”

I liked her immediately. Forever.

During break, Angela and I swapped the nut-shell versions of our life stories and our reasons for returning to school, further solidifying our bond. But it wasn’t long before our friendship had grown to include every woman in the room. On that first night, there were about eleven of us altogether, but by the second or third week, our little group had whittled down to an even six: Raven, Elizabeth, Dana, Rose, Angela, and myself, plus our engaging instructor, Olivia.

Six is a harmonious number. Just ask Numerology.

Over the next twelve weeks, we became a community. We learned and struggled together, sharing successes and small victories; we encouraged each other, offered support and friendship, and shared one of the most important seasons of our lives. Once in a while, we met to break bread and share wine, and to whine about how hard it was to make such a significant change in our lives, what a challenge it could be to juggle our everyday lives with our education. We also discussed how amazing it felt, after decades of lying to ourselves, to discover how intelligent and capable and brave we actually were!

Because, well, we were, and we needed to pat ourselves on the back for it once in a while.

Angela had lived through hell and survived. I admired her ability to stay vulnerable and open to life, and adored the fact that she could make me laugh and cry (multiple times) in the same conversation.

Raven, although not the eldest, became a mother-figure to our little band of misfits. Many times, she was available to lend and ear or offer sage advice, and I learned to trust her natural wisdom implicitly.

Elizabeth seemed more reserved, initially, but once she opened up, she blossomed. Always thoughtful and kind, Elizabeth had a keen intellect, and we had many wonderful, thought-provoking conversations.

Dana always had the information. Unbelievably resourceful, kind, and genuine, in all areas of her life, Dana was also an incredible hostess, who went to great lengths to ensure her guests had a great time.

And Rose was doing school for her. She didn’t have goals or plans beyond Bridging, at least not as far as an education went, since she was fairly close to retirement and quite comfortable in her life, thank you very much, but she loved to learn and discuss the issues and always brought something new to the table.

Olivia—a.k.a. Oh Captain! My Captain!—changed my life. I will forever be gratefully indebted to her for being the first teacher ever to recognise my potential and urge me to fulfil it. Olivia made learning accessible and adaptable. She acknowledged our barriers to success and, rather than discount them, offered solutions and examples of others who had faced similar challenges and overcome them.

Although different paths had led us here, to this crossroads, for a short time we had landed in the same space, and it mattered that we had each other for company. Crossroads can be lonely times.

Our first class email from Olivia was titled, “Should I Stay or Should I Go?”

Should I stay in my comfort zone or should I step outside?

It was a decision we all faced, and it was a comfort to face it together.

We covered a lot of material in a short amount of time. We researched and searched for journal articles on the university library database, learned about Peer review and how to cite our papers, studied some sociology, learned how to define hegemony, and wrote essays, among other things. But the most important things we learned, as far as I’m concerned, happened on a very personal level and had to do only with ourselves.

Our unlimited potential.

At our small class graduation, there were no dry eyes in the house, and when we met again a couple of weeks later to celebrate, we all cried again and promised to stay in touch. For the most part, we have.

I entered university with a confidence I had never known before, thanks to Bridging, and within one year, I had published my first essay in a national publication, the Globe and Mail. This summer, once again, I had to decide…

Should I stay or should I go?

But this time, school was my comfort zone, and the unknown was myself.

Again, I chose to take a leap of faith. As I take the next steps in my journey, a hiatus from formal education to further my goals as a writer, I take with me the love of these women and the strength, wisdom, and self-awareness I discovered in Bridging class.

Onward.