A Walk Down Memory Lane
I have been having the most vivid dreams lately. After quitting weed 202 days ago, my dreams came back. Interestingly enough, chronic weed users tend not to dream because THC can interfere with REM sleep. When they cease using cannabis, dreams return often more vividly for a while. I have always been a vivid dreamer and sometimes it feels like my dreams last all night and they are often trauma related. Ugh. Anyways. Its come to be something I have accepted and when I wake up from a intense dream, I remind myself that it is just my brain doing brain things.
The last two-ish weeks, I have been having dreams about my bio family, my uncles passing, my years in foster care and a whole wop of shit from my past. Luckily, I am at a place where it no longer impacts me on a deep emotional level. Is it still annoying? Absolutely. So, naturally, I have turned to reflection. Why are memories from my past coming up in my dreams again? Then, I recognized that I have been editing my latest edition of poetry for its release in June. I have been re-reading poetry that talks about my uncle R’s passing, the abuse I experienced as a kid and teen, mental health struggles, foster care and my divorce from my partner of 13 years. I slept until NOON today folks - that NEVER happens. However, what this does tell me, is that trauma processing is happening even when i’m just skimming and editing pages of poetry I’ve written in years past.
Life is fucking weird. I opened up my email today to see that an old high school teacher of mine found me on Psychology Today.
I read the e-mail and my memory flew back to high school days where this teacher was one of my significant supports.
I went into foster care at 15, which is not a common age for kids to go into care. Looking back, I was really lucky that CAS not only took me into care but that I also became a Crown Ward shortly after my 16th birthday. This meant my biological parents lost full custody of me and made me eligible for things like government funding for post-secondary. This doesn’t mean it was sunshine and roses, foster care sucked in its own ways - but I was physically safe.
Having said this, despite the fact that I was no longer experiencing daily abuse at home, my world was turned upside down. I lost all contact with my six younger siblings, was living in a new home in a new neighbourhood and was struggling significantly with depression and self harm. Teachers started noticing that I began skipping school and that my grades in some classes dropped up to 20%.
One of my classes was anthropology. Coming from the abuse I did in my home, my mind always wanted to understand why hurt people, hurt people. Anything to do with psychology, sociology, anthropology etc. was my jam. At first, I really did not like this teacher. She was strict to the point and wouldn’t let us wear hats or headphones in class. I would purposely walk into class and blast my headphones until she told me to turn them off. I would engage in power struggles with her and take extra long bathroom breaks. It didn’t start this way though. She noticed a shift in me and when I bombed a test, she asked me to stay after class. I had whole heartedly thought that I would be getting lectured. Instead, I was met with concern. She asked me what was happening in my life and why my grades were plummeting - that she knew I had been able to do better.
She was one of the first adults who sincerely took the time to say, “Hey - something isn’t OK”. Despite having my opinion of her being a ridiculously strict and crotchety teacher, the fact that she demonstrated care showed me that she wasn’t as bad as I had thought. She saw me. I had burst into tears, telling her I was couch surfing and struggling with a breakup with my first queer partner. She told me it would be OK, and if my memory serves me correctly, I believe she let me re-do the test so it wouldn’t impact my final mark. I was horribly depressed during that time and just existing. She shared with me that she also struggled with depression and knew how hard it could be. I left her class that day feeling cared about and seen.
The next day I came into class and she handed me a card - I have kept it all these years as a reminder that even in my darkest times, people cared even when I thought no-one did.
I made it. I fucking did the thing. After experiencing spiritual, emotional and physical abuse throughout my childhood and adolescence, experiencing homelessness, struggling with suicidal ideation and depression, going into foster care, losing my entire bio family, struggling with queer identity and supporting myself at 18, I fucking made it.
I own my business, have a community of people who love and care for me, am no longer homeless, I have published my writing, I am in healthy romantic relationships, understand and feel more in control of my trauma and overall, I broke a fuck ton of statistical odds that were frankly, not in my favour (according to the ACES and Gabor Mate’s When The Body Says No and all other research about abuse survivors and foster kids).
Although the walk down memory lane can be bleak, there were moments of light - this teacher re-connecting with me and sharing her pride in what I have accomplished reminded me to take a moment and pat myself on the back. Be sure to do the same for yourselves, Friends.