As 2019 draws to a close, I can’t help but reflect back on the incredible year I have had. I really pushed myself to step outside my comfort zone. I wanted to test the waters to see where they might take me; and wow did they take me.
A presentation to approximately 800 First Responders at the First Responder Suicide Awareness Conference in Calgary, AB, a social media presence, the honour of a nomination and subsequent win of a Universal Womens Network, Woman of Inspiration Award, a feature on Calgary radio station 98.5 Virgin Radio’s Woman A Day series, and the most incredible experience of attendance at the Haven II Writing Retreat in Whitefish, Montana (www.lauramunson.com) to continue my book writing journey. I am not listing these things to brag, but rather to reinforce what can be done when we reach out, seek support, make connections and believe in ourselves. This was not a seamless journey. There were many struggles, and too many moments of self-doubt and self -deprecation. I used every tool I had, and then some, to help me cope with my PTSD. What I know now, is that I can do things I never thought possible. I know now I am not who I was; not better, not worse, just different. And because I am different, because things have changed, my journey will have unique challenges. I do know that I can continue to serve, not as a police officer but as a strong woman, beautifully broken, with lots of experience. I feel a calling to share those experiences to help others with this journey we call life. I have received so much support that I want to be able to support others as well.
The holiday season can be a time of joy, but also of heartache and sadness, especially for those of us struggling with mental health issues. Remember to be kind to yourself, be kind to others and know that you matter. Don’t be afraid to reach out for help. We all need it at different points in our lives. Consider stepping outside your comfort zone in 2020. Give yourself a chance. There are people and places and events waiting for you to find them, and waiting to give you the support you need. Thank you for following me on my journey. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. I will be taking some time for myself and my family. I will see you in mid January 2020.
This is a short story I wrote for New York Times best selling author Laura Munson’s Haven Spring Blog Series on April 9th, 2019. I decided to repost it as I feel it has even more significance now. Words, writing, storytelling, poems, books… all of it continues to heal me. It is my hope that that my words, will do the same for others.
It has always bothered me how my notes, words that I choose, cold and professional, would be the only vessel used to capture the circumstances of tragic incidents. I hate that words like grief and sorrow and despair are kept locked inside me by policies and procedures. No notations, no references, no freedom to be me, no place for my heartache in my notebook. How I want to release my pain. My sorrow. Words. Inside my head, they form, they flash, they bounce, searching for a way out…looking for validation. I see them. I feel them.
I fought them every day and every night. Until I couldn’t.
Typical night for an RCMP officer on scene. I reached for the little black notebook in my uniform pocket. For a fleeting moment, I tried to think about how many of them I might have filled, during my many years of policing, but lost the thought as I heard the ambulance pull away. The bright moon gave off enough light for me to write and with pen in hand, I was finally able to record the details of the night’s tragic accident. I looked at the wreckage again, making sure my notes would be accurate:
Head on collision, thrown from vehicle, one dead, two injured. Disturbing information, but manageable. Names, dates of birth, next of kin.
What I didn’t write was this: Anguish. Their anguish, or mine.
Writing is something I do, all police officers do, every shift, in all kinds of circumstances.
My words flow easily, as they do at every incident, but they are harsh, empty, and detached. Businesslike with lists, descriptions and facts. I am used to it…well, I tell myself I am. Notebook to pen, I started writing: time, date, place. Information that is straightforward, rote and methodical.
Same time, different day. I opened my eyes, panicked, turning towards the dimly-lit clock on my bedside table. I had been waking up at night for months, my therapist stating this was normal for someone suffering with PTSD. She said my brain was trying to process the years of buried trauma, that I was fighting it and that it would take some time. I often wondered how long “some time” might be, considering I had been in treatment for 2 years. I shifted my eyes to the journal sitting on the bedside table, purchased over 3 weeks ago, never opened, nothing to write. Or so I thought.
I stared ahead into the blackness, feeling a little more awake, but something wasn’t right. I could see the words. They were black, illuminated in white, in my head. Words like urgent and dread, calls, cold and cries. There were so many, and they kept coming.
My panic rose and nothing made sense. I need to get up, I thought, and as I did, my eyes caught the journal and pen again. I wondered if I wrote the words down, got them out of my head, then maybe they might go away.
I grabbed the pen, picked up the journal, and opened its cover. I can’t explain what happened next, nor for the next 20 minutes to be exact, but I can say that the pen wouldn’t stop. The words flowed like water from a tap and revealed the stories from my world. The pain lay on the paper like shattered glass. Pieces of it here and there, big and small, sharp and jagged.
As quickly as it had started it stopped. My mind was blank. The words were gone. What just happened?
I sat there for a minute, turned on my reading light, grabbed my glasses, and began reading
The call came in, I filled with dread
Who would be the next one dead
A child, a man, the dog next door
Cause someone needed to settle a score
There were words of sadness and pain, anguish and hurt
The dispatcher said the news is bad
A child is screaming, she’s lost her Dad
She’s all alone, just 12 years old
She says his skin is growing cold
Memories I had buried so deep
I walk to her, I hold her tight
I tell her it will be alright
My tear slips out, then two then three
The grief engulfs the whole of me
Those words made me see my pain and feel the hurt. Those words, in that instant, changed my life. I had fought against all of it for so long. Words, writing, stories, and emotion. I smiled as my tears began to flow, thinking how ironic life could be. Words…the very thing that had closed me up and shut me down were now setting me free. I realized… I Am Those Words.
