Mountains and Molehills

I know you're all waiting for the pregnancy blog ... it is coming, I promise. However, this one is pretty good ... the climb of Mastitis Mountain.

Let me start off by saying that I am an "exclusive pumper" - fancy way of saying that breastfeeding the "traditional way" didn't work for either of us (not to mention Tory, who would have to deal with my post anxiety and a very upset baby) so I decided to pump. Here's the thing ... in my humble opinion, it's the hardest way to do it because you're feeding your baby twice, every time. Feed baby, play with baby, baby sleeps (or doesn't), pump, wash pump, repeat. Endlessly. I was ready to give it up when this mountain started.

About 2 weeks ago, I felt a lump in my right breast. Endless googling later, it appeared I had a clogged duct. That breast was the super producer and I was still getting milk, so I thought after a couple days (of trying EVERYTHING) that I got the clog...but the lump didn't go away. It was a Thursday (or maybe a friday ... they all blend together) that I called Health Link to see about the possibility that I had mastitis. It was increasingly painful and getting a bit bigger. I couldn't hand express because of where the lump was. The Internet (seriously don't do this to yourself) basically said I was a baby and I wasn't hand trying to hand express hard enough. The health link nurses said that since I did not present much of a fever, there was only a small red spot, etc., to "not go to the doctor until it gets worse .. if it does." ....mistake one.

I felt like I knew better (more like, I really had this gut feeling something was wrong as I felt I presented the underlying mastitis symptoms) so I went to the doctor on Friday. The worst that was going to happen was he was going to say the same thing the nurse told me and say that it was just bruised tissue from working the clog. This was a walk in clinic. The doctor carefully listened to my symptoms and agreed with me that it was mastitis. He did not examine me, but did prescribe some heavy antibiotics. He said if I did not feel better in 2 days, to come back because it may have abscessed.

I struggled through the weekend and all of a sudden, it hit me like a wall of bricks. A fiery red breast, a MASSIVE lump, a high fever, the chills, I couldn't hold Hanley without crying, and nothing I did helped the pain. No amount of advil/tylenol/showers/cabbage. It was bad.

Monday rolls around and I'm still feeling like garbage. The pain and symptoms had not lessened or stayed the same. They had gotten wors. It had been more than 2 full days of antibiotics so I went back to the walk in clinic. That doctor did an examination and immediately believed it had abscessed. He said he wanted to call the surgeon at Fort Saskatchewan and send me there. I told him that my babe was at home with Grandma (thank you!), yet again and the wait at Grey Nuns was only about an hour. He wrote me a referral letter to help speed things up, which included a high fever, that I was on antibiotics, and a high pulse.

I called my mum in tears. I (finally) asked her to meet me at the hospital. I went and gave the note to the triage nurse and also explained that I would likely need to pump as I was leaking on the floor. She told me I could just breastfeed my baby there. I explained the baby wasn't there (ew) and that we only pumped. She was a little less than enthused and said they would bring it out for me. Meltdown 1 ensued. I was NOT going to pump in a waiting room of an ER. I bawled in the corner. I was at an EASY 6 out of 10 and now this. A half hour passed and no pump. I went back to the nurse and she apologized profusely, told me to wait for 5 minutes and she would get me to a room. She did. I started pumping, mum showed up, I cried again. A nurse came in and said how bad it looked and it was probably abscessed. The doctor, however, had a different take. She came in, saw the fiery redness, the massive lump that was taking up more than half my breast, and listened to me explain that the symptoms and pain had not lessened or stayed the Same. They had gotten WORSE. I fought through tears as I explained I could no longer hold my child without excruciating pain. She felt my burning red breast (I wish I was exaggerating, but it was SO hot and SO red) and said "you're doing everything you can, you really just haven't given the medicine a chance to work." I looked at my mum because I knew that if I looked at her I wouldn't throttle the doctor. I was in agony. I didn't want painkillers, I can't have them - I wanted to hold my little girl. I wanted my breast to not be on fire. I wanted to stop smelling like cabbage. I wanted this fixed. I looked back at her and said something along the lines of "seriously? The doctor told me I'd be feeling better by now and I feel WORSE. This is all you can do?" She then responded by asking if I wanted painkillers. I said what is noted above. I cried. I was in pain and I wanted to hold my girl. She then (begrudgingly, I might add) said she would order an ultrasound "just to see where we are at." Lady, we are half way up mastitis mountain. We are half way to a complaint because you are brushing off a LIFE THREATENING disease. We are half way to the peace officers down the hall being called because you are NOT LISTENING TO ME.

Let me also note that I have more than 1 person in my family and network who works in Healthcare and/or has had mastitis. Even IF the medicine "hadn't kicked in" (lies), I should not have felt WORSE.

They called on Tuesday and said I had an ultrasound that afternoon. Another agyernoon without H, not that I could hold her anyways, which was devastating and torturous. The ultrasound tech basically didn't even have the wand on me and just said "Oh my." She had to get a bigger camera because the mass didn't fit on this one. We chatted and she tried to keep my mind off how much it hurt to have any kind of touch on me. She casually mentioned the doctor at the ultrasound clinic would probably send me back to the ER. Sure enough the doctor came in and said that the mass was 7x4x3cm (if you've been lucky enough to see me in real life ... you know how big that is on me) and it was infected and inflamed tissue with a small abscess forming. He told me to go directly back to the ER and his report would be there. He also mentioned that he believed me and I must be in incredible pain. That helped.

I cried again out of sheer frustration. I knew it was bad. I went BACK to the ER. The doc I was "lucky" enough to see said his report didn't make sense because it mentioned aspiration but a massive mass. I told him what the doctor at the ultrasound clinic said. He tossed the report and said "well he is giving conflicting information. What do YOU want to do?" ....of the family and friends in health care, the closest I get is having watched every episode of ER multiple times, Watchung Grey's, cool YouTube videos, and a couple classes in university. I told him what I told the doctor I saw the day before. I want this over. He said "well ill get you a dose of IV antibiotics then." He walked me to a new waiting room and left.

A nurse came and put the IV in my hand. Ow. Then she said it would be there for 3 days. I burst into tears and asked if there was any other way because I wouldn't be able to do anything with my girl. She said no but did look sympathetic. She gave me my dose through a syringe and told me to report to the IV clinic the next day at 2. Another day away from H.

Went to the clinic expecting to be hooked up to a drip. Nope, straight through a syringe, so that was a pleasant surprise. The nurse at one point said "you didn't cause this. It's not your fault." I nearly cried. In all the googling and doctors it DOES feel like your fault. You didn't get a good latch, you didn't feed often enough, you didn't pump long enough, you missed a pump session ... YOU did this. The other contributors? Stress, fatigue, poor diet, having boobs etc ... aka being a mum. Ironically, one of the best "fixes" for mastitis is "frequent feeding" and "rest" ... those are not compatible with each other in my world.

However, I did have a great support in T's mum, who was staying. She took care of H, let me cry on her shoulder, and let me sleep.

T's mum flew home on Wednesday morning (day 2 of IV) and I was hopeful it would be out the next day. Grandma J stepped in on Thursday and Friday to watch H and I went to what I thought was my last IV appointment (Friday). I was still in pain, but the redness was going down, so I was really hopeful the IV would come out. The nurse examined me after my dose and before I went BACK to the ER for reassessment. She said it would likely be in longer as it was still pretty firm. I started to ugly cry in the room. I just wanted to hold my baby without fear of her moving her head and me bursting into tears. I wanted to be done pumping (no such luck when you have mastitis). I wanted this to be over.

This time at the ER, I had a compassionate doctor. He asked me how I waited so long to come in. I explained everything, health link, oral meds, and the doctor that sent me home. He seemed surprised a doctor there would do that. He did the exam and said "I'm thinking another 2 days of IV meds and another ultrasound." I started to cry a little bit but said I understood. He was empathetic and said he would rather give the extra dose or two so that it didn't come back, or at least there would be a smaller chance that it would come back once I was on oral meds. I agreed, but still cried. I went home and cried to J. The ultrasound lady called and said to go to the ER at 1015 on Monday morning then on ultrasound. Cool.

I did my next 2 days of IV meds, Saturday and Sunday and T hung out with babe. The doc did another exam, was very empathetic and said that I could go on oral meds now. I nearly cried in excitement that the IV was coming out. He said he was hopeful that it was coming to a close but the ultrasound would help and to be sure to keep a close eye on it as mastitis can rear it's ugly ass head at any time ... despite what you do.

After a complete clusterfuck regarding the ultrasound on Monday (and a VERY apologetic call to my bestie about the lack of communication at the hospital) my ultrasound got moved to the afternoon. I took babe and got it done. The ultrasound tech saw the previous scan and again asked me why I waited. I explained again that doctors didn't believe how much pain I was in and that it had gotten so much worse by the time they decided to do something (or actually until I decided to do something, since that doc asked ME what I wanted to do). She said "how did they not believe you?! YOU CAN STILL SEE THE LUMP FROM HERE!" I was yet again grateful that someone else listened and got it. She explained that the mass was still the same size, 7x4x3cm, but - the texture had changed. She told me to keep doing what I'm doing - rest (hahahaha), lots of hot showers (lol), pump often, and finish the meds. Next ultrasound is 4-6 weeks.

I don't tell this story for you to feel bad for me. Don't. Or do. Whatever. Mastitis fucking blows, plain and simple. I tell this because our system is so broken. The ER doctors need a lesson in empathy, compassion, and believing their patients. Doing an actual exam and hearing their patients out. Communicating with each other.

Post partum help needs to be better. There's a sign in emergency at admitting that says "If you are over 20 weeks pregnant, stand in this line" - they straight admit you and take you upstairs. It needs to include up to 4 months post partum. It should. That's when your file is closed. There is such a gap in care for mums, especially because you get kicked out of the hospital so fast. I know I wanted to leave, but there needs to be more support. You are quite literally alone from 2 days to 14 days and from then until your first OB check up. For me, that's a 6 week gap. Yes, I have a great support system and I'm grateful, but Healthcare needs to be involved. It needs to do better. Yes, the babies are important - I know mine is incredibly important to me ... but they HAVE to take care of mamas. It's just like the mask on the airplane - you  Have to put yours on first before you put on anyone else's. Our families, parents, and kids deserve better. What would have happened if I was a single parent? Or a parent who's spouse worked out of town? Or a parent who's family didn't happen to be here/live nearby. That's the reality for MANY parents. That's daily trips to a dirty ER/clinic with a 7 week old. That's trying to take care of a 7 week old while you have blinding pain. That's not being able to hold your baby, but having no one else to do it for you. The system needs work. 

And sometimes this is why you make a mountain out of a molehill.

May you NEVER trek mastitis mountain in your travels and at FIRST sight of a molehill - mastitis related or not, seek treatment. Quickly. You will have to fight for some things, but stand tall and trust your gut.

Fitness Journey & Why I Hate the Word SKINNY.

Pants.

I look at the last time I posted and it is well over a year since I posted last.

So much has changed ... for the better.

That isn't even the reason why I came on here. I'll post an update in a later post, but things should start to come full circle here.

Last year, at this time, I was starting to tip the scale quite far in the wrong direction. It isn't where I wanted to be. Alas, I was fighting some major depression (even though I had just graduated) and things were not good. I was working nights and days at the same time, trying to save money to get to Europe (I fell in love instead), and "trying" to lose weight. I figured that wishing my weight away was going to get me there. That works, doesn't it? I wasn't sleeping and what I was eating wasn't healthy, but it was fast, cheap, and easy. (That sounds dirty ...)

Fast forward one year.

I am an Independent Beachbody Coach. I get to HELP people for a living. (Which, for you Choices folks, is my purpose.) For you non-choices folks - I got to put words to what I already do in my life this past February. With the help of my family, and my Just Hug It group, I learned that I am a worthy woman, teaching others to love themselves. I get to do that every single day as a Beachbody Coach. I get to help people love who they are, who they're about to become, and really fall in love with themselves. I get people to love who they are RIGHT now and love who they're going to become. Wave your freak flag, friends. I wave mine every. single. day.

I wrote in a post, probably about a year and a bit ago, where Tyson told me that I needed to love and appreciate my body NOW, not just wish for the goals and dreams. My body still holds me up (and it held a lot more of me up then), it still breathes for me, it still moves for me, it still dances for me. Yet, I couldn't be happy with it. It wasn't until I learned to appreciate myself as a whole person and let go of nearly 27 years of what was probably some minor body dysmorphia, some depression, an addiction to the scale, and a lot of depression about my shape in general that I actually began to get the body I want.

You want to know why I started working out seriously?

The program was cheaper than buying new pants. That's it. I didn't sign up to be a coach, I was unsure, I was hesitant, and I was skeptical ... but it was cheaper than buying myself a pair of new pants that I so desperately needed. I was at the point where I could not afford to buy new pants; I needed to fit into what I already owned.

I didn't sign up to do this for the money or for the rewards. I signed up because I couldn't fit into the clothes I had (I have an obscene amount - ask Tory)

I have struggled with negative body image for as long as I can remember. Two memories have always stuck out in my head that started the ball rolling with this. I will share one of them with you - I was probably about 8 years old. I saw myself as some kind of blimp-8-year-old, but looking at pictures I really wasn't. I was just an average kid. Anyways, I was at someone's house and we were going to go into the hot tub. So, I put on my brand new two piece, wrapped my towel around myself, and waited for my friends. We were watching a show on TV and we were going to finish it. I was sitting down on the floor with my knees up and my towel on the ground. Someone looked at me and said the words "Aww, look at your rolls!"

That has messed with me so much in the last 20 years that it is probably worth some therapy. For real. That started the reason that I am obsessive about the scale, why when I work out I take it too seriously and count every single calorie and don't allow myself to have anything and I workout 3 times a day.

For those reasons, I was also scared of doing my Beachbody program - which, may I say, was the easiest nutrition plan I have ever followed and 2.5 months later I still use it and still think to myself "oh, that's gonna be 1 red, 1 orange, 1 yellow."

When I graduated high school, I weighed 160 pounds & I promise you that it was a very different 160 than I weight right now. Then, I decided drugs would be a grand plan (they're not) and all of a sudden I weighed about 115. (Also not a good look for me) I bounced around from 130-145 for a while and then in my last two  years of university I made the steady climb all the way to 175. One hundred seventy-five pounds. Not a great look for me. That seemed to be the threshold where people started to really believe me when I said what I weighed. That was it. 175.



I am PROUD of who I am, I am PROUD of the body that I have built. I didn't build it for you, I didn't build it for Tory, I didn't even build it for ME at first ... I built it for PANTS. 

I'm doing a Combat program right now (Beachbody, of course) and they say 

"We don't use machines, we BUILD them."

Don't get yourself wrong - I am not a robot. I still bif it here and there (usually in the form of a Big Mac or a Poutine), I miss workouts, I sleep in, I'm not always super positive. However, I don't beat myself up anymore. If I know I'm not going to get a workout in between driving 1000km a week (I did that for 6 weeks), boyfriend time, life time, sleep time, etc., I still throw in some squats, or pushups, or a walk. Know the weird thing? I get EXCITED about working out now. I can't sit and watch TV all night or day anymore. I get excited about finding new recipes and nailing my nutrition plan.

Point is - I'm happy with myself in the IN BETWEEN part now. I learned to love myself at 175 pounds, I love myself at 160, and I'm still shooting for all of my goal weights & measurements. I love myself now.

I didn't start working out because I was in a place where I hated myself anymore ... I started working out for my pants.

Not even remotely serious ...

I have so many words to say, but I can't right now ... it's 0418 in the morning and I'm at work. My brain is a little bit frazzled right now! I'll post about my graduation this week sometime, I hope.

Until then .... I've always loved this song & I played it a couple times in the studio tonight. It always makes me giggle when I hear it and sing along (in true country girl fashion).

Never Done It Like This -- Steven Lee Olsen

You've been swimming in a river in the daylight that's for sure, sat up on a tailgate and rode shotgun before, but trust me when I
tell you girl there's so much more you missed,... cause you ain't never done it like this

Getting down in a truck bed, skinny dipping making the moon turn red, fogging up the windows with the midnight kiss, 

one night in
the country with me honey I can guarantee you ain't never done it like this, 

done it like this

Now ill tell you all my secrets if you tell me yours, maybe I can show you what the hood is for, you've pushed the limit, tasted
honey on your lips, but you ain't never done it like this,.....

Course
Getting down in a truck bed, skinny dipping making the moon turn red, fogging up the windows with the midnight kiss, one night in
the country with me honey,

 I can guarantee you ain't never done it like this, 
never done it like this
come on

Getting down in a truck bed, skinny dipping making the moon turn red, fogging up the windows with the midnight kiss, one night in
the country with me honey I can guarantee that you ain't never done it like 

Getting down in a truck bed, skinny dipping making the moon blush red, fogging up the windows with the midnight kiss, one night in
the country with me honey I can guarantee that you ain't never done it like this, never done it like,.... this

Heartache. Friendship. Loving Yourself.

It has been quite some time since I have posted last and I need to write.

My heart aches, my head aches, my body aches.

My heart aching is an understatement. It fucking hurts. End of story. It hurts. It has taken a beating the last few weeks and it hurts.

This week, I stepped on the scale after my vacation, saw the number, and started bawling. I have never seen a number so high on a scale I was standing on ... ever. I vowed that I would never get that high again and started to take healthy eating steps and figuring out my life at that moment. I spoke to a few friends about my "need to lose weight" situation and I realized that it wasn't even the number I hated: it was myself. My friend Tyson (@TBagLenz) said the words "no amount of exercise is going to make you love yourself, Steph." That struck a chord. Yes, working out will help me feel better in a literal sense, but it really isn't going to make me love myself. My weight is a number; a number I have struggled with for the majority of 25 years. My issue isn't my weight, my issue is me. I need to find a place where I'm okay with myself first. Everything will fall into place after that (words of wisdom from Mama Buhler.)

In my talk with Tyson, I realized partly why I wasn't okay with loving myself at this weight. I feel like I'm cheating if I love myself like this. That if I say those words "you know, I really love myself today," that I'm telling myself "oh, it's okay that you've gained this much weight." In my eyes, it is not okay. No, people can't guess what I weight and I'm grateful that I carry my weight a lot better than I did 10 years ago, but I still know it.

So ... I'm taking steps to love myself. I'm trying. I really am.

Fast forward to the next day, when someone used the cover of a computer screen to insult me and really shake me. In February, I did a boudoir photo shoot. I was unbelievably proud of myself for doing the shoot and it really did help myself feel better. The person used that photo (posted at the end of March) to call me ugly. Ugly. While my confidence is not at it's highest, I have never used the word "ugly" to describe myself. I am not ugly. My soul isn't ugly. His comments shook me though, and again, I leaned on my friends for help and a shoulder to cry on. I tried to understand the cruelty behind his words, but I don't. I love people & I want all people to have an equal shot at being the best they can be. I look for the best in everyone (which has gotten me into trouble), I cheer for people to succeed, and I cry when people are hurting, so I simply don't understand how someone could be so cruel.

This is the photo he used to call me ugly. 

I spoke to a co-worker about the weight issue & I'm not actually sure how it came up, but it did. I mentioned my weight and he actually looked stunned at the number. I said that I had gained weight in the 4 years that I've worked here. He said "the only thing I've noticed is that you've gotten 'hippier.'" It was the first time in a long time that I felt like those words weren't condescending, that they weren't meant to hurt or shame or be mean ... that it was an honest "I like the shape you are." "Hippier" was not a synonym for "fat" and it was the first time that my brain actually recognized that. So, Scotty, thank-you. Thank-you for reminding me that hourglassy-hippy-curvy is okay. That it isn't a synonym for fat. Thank-you for saying "hippier" in such a way, whether you meant it or not, that I took it as a wonderful thing.

Fast forward one more day.

My boyfriend and I broke up. In an odd circumstance, which doesn't need to be detailed, it happened. I felt my self-worth drop even further, even though we are taking steps to being friends and making that work. I bawled like a baby for a while and again, ran to my friends. I'm not sure I would have gotten through my day without my friends. I went to a friends house for a hug and ended up laying on the couch while he told me it was going to be okay and that he was there for me. For that, I'm forever grateful. For Sheena (@Arbitral) ... I have no words for you. You are simply amazing and have graciously gotten me through the past few days with your kindness.

I guess what I'm saying ... is that I'm a work in progress. It's okay to be a work in progress. While I may not be confident in my exterior, it is coming. I am confident in my heart and soul though. I have a big heart, a gracious heart, and a kind heart. I have friends that constantly remind me of this on a daily basis. To the people that have been there the past few days of crazy-town and tears ... I love you.

Sheena, Chelsea, Mum, Chase, & Tyson: you guys have been my rock and support. You remind me every day that I'm worth it, that it's okay to cry, and you help me dust myself off when I fall down. You all remind me that I have a beautiful heart AND a beautiful exterior.

This smile gets me more compliments than any other feature. I'm proud of this smile. I'm proud of the fact I have a big heart and genuine soul. 

Do what you can

The past few weeks have been absolutely insane. My last semester at school started again, depression set in yet again, I met new people, I let people go.

I really thought that making some positive changes in my life would almost be like an instant fix. I remained open and honest in my relationships with people and tried really hard to separate my emotions from my words. I tried to remain compassionate and empathetic to others' struggles, all the while feeling like I was crumbling.

Then, I did crumble. I lost it. It built up over a few days straight of little/no sleep, relationship problems, personal struggles, health issues, and school. I crumbled. I was added to a group on facebook to help deal with depression and stuff, and they helped slow the crumbling (to all of you, I am indebted to you), but the crumble was inevitable.

On Friday, I stayed home. I didn't leave my bed for a while and I just sobbed my way to sleep. I couldn't figure out why I wasn't happy. I had let go of toxic people, I had a wonderful support system, school was going well, I was learning to become happier with myself, I was working on my self-esteem, and then I crumbled.

Saturday was a drunken blur. I went to the Alberta Country Music Awards with Steph (there's 2 of us) and had a blast. Drinks were flowing, and so were my thoughts. I distracted myself with more booze & meeting lots of people. I was my regular drunken self, yet if for a moment, I stopped talking or drinking, I almost lost it. I surprisingly remember most of the night and wasn't feeling too bad on Sunday

Sunday, I realized that I'm a walking disaster. A true walking-disaster of self-destruction. I realized that it's going to take more than pretty pictures and a happy smile to feel better, although it is a start. I realized that I can't just smile and expect things to get better because I'm smiling. I realized that I have start the genuine smiling & the genuine confidence to gain any sort of traction with my life.

Today, I sat down while cat-sitting and wrote out my thoughts. Then I sent them to the person that they needed to be sent to. While writing down a huge ramble of thoughts that was eventually going to be sent to this person, I realized that .... I can't count on an answer from them & I could only do what I could. I could only be honest with myself and with that person about my feelings.

I can only do what I can, in that moment to feel better. I can't sit and wonder why my life didn't pan out the way I thought it was going to by the time I reached the quarter-century milestone. Yes, I get it, I have time. However, in my head, this isn't where I was going to be, and that's a huge part of my depression. Now, get this, I simultaneously think that I wouldn't change anything. I'm proud of my accomplishments & I'm proud of what I've done, even if I took the REALLY long way around to get there. However, I have a hard time shaking the thoughts that I had in my head. Where I thought I was going to be.

Now I sit here rambling on with no real purpose for this post. I guess to remain thankful for the people that have stood by me for this mess. To the people that pick up on my depression when I don't even notice it. To the people in the facebook group - you have no idea what it means to me to be a part of it and be able to be honest with people that just want to help lift me up.

To the person I wrote the letter to...That's all I can do, really.

To Steph - thanks for being a good drunk best friend - we really did have a lot of fun.

To everyone else - thank-you for being here for me and making it all the way to the bottom of this rambling piece of work, it's admirable.

Do what you can. Right now. That's all you, and anyone else, can ask for. I promise.

My scary moment ...

Well,
It's no real secret that I am an addict. I have spoke openly and honestly about it for 6.5 years (or at least for most of those years.) However, I have never spoken in front of a big group of people I didn't know ... until this week. To be clear, I have talked hundreds of times one-on-one, or to a small group, or doing this ... behind a computer screen.

Here's the back story...

On Halloween, my Sociology of Law class went to the court houses to see some cases. I didn't go because I was working. During class on Tuesday, class was mentioning some of the cases they saw and we got into a debate. One case was basically this:

• A lady was being sentenced/reprimanded for breaking her parole. She had spent two nights/days in the Remand Centre.
• This lady was approximately 25 years old, Native American, had 4 children, with one on the way.
• All four of her children are wards of the state, currently.
• She has a 6th grade education.
• She is a crack cocaine addict
• Her breach of probation was doing drugs
• The judge decided that the two days was enough for a probation breach and sent her on her way.

This is where the debate started. M (my professor) asked whether this is really the place to be dealing with this kind of issue. Would it be better in the specialized drug courts? Is she safe right now? Will she be back in the Remand again soon? 

I sat silently and was already uncomfortable with the topic as I had been debating the Rob Ford debacle on twitter an hour previously. (That's a post for another day) When I realized how naive people were regarding drug use, I started to get fired up. People started saying things like "well, if she really wanted to stop, she just would." These are university-educated, mid-twenties+ people. I was dumbfounded by the naivety of my classmates but held my tongue because I was getting more and more upset as the conversation went on.

The conversation turned to a girl who made a crass comment about this lady; that she should be able to change at will, with no help, and that if she REALLY wanted to make the change, she would just do it.

This was the point where I calmly raised my hand. M called on me. (Also, I don't normally raise my hand, especially in a debate like this - none of us do.) I took a deep breath and said "I am a crack addict & I have been clean for 6.5 years. Sometimes, it is not just simply 'get better' or 'if she wants to, she will.' I struggled and had a wonderful support system behind me (even though I didn't think so at the time) and that is part of the reason I am where I am. This young woman has no one & this is probably all she knows."

There was a stunned silence across the room, and people stared at me. M knew that I was nervous, I was visibly holding back some tears and shaking from nerves. I texted two people right after I did that and was able to breathe again. I was told that I was strong & a super hero. I didn't see it, I felt like I just opened a huge can of worms and openly let 40 strangers judge me. I know that judgement comes with the territory, and that's okay, but I've never openly said that to this many people before. Never in 6.5 years.

I was going to talk to M the next day to apologize for making it so intense in the class & for blurting it out. I knew that it made some people uncomfortable. Unbeknownst to me .... I went to class the next day and went to talk to M about something totally unrelated, he looked at me and said, "thank you for sharing what you did yesterday, it was so powerful." I told him that I was going to apologize and he looked at me and said "no, it was so powerful. Other students came to me afterwords and told me how powerful it was. Also, I'm proud to say that given all your circumstances, you're in the top of both of my classes." I replied with a thank-you and wandered back to my seat.

I still don't really know how to take it. I'm proud of myself. I'm proud that I was able to empower other students and hopefully break some stereotypes they had about addiction. Hopefully they saw that it CAN be overcome and that you can be successful afterwords. I hope they heard the passion in my voice and the shaking in my voice. I hope that they realized that it isn't a simple problem.

Speak up. Let people hear your story. Let people hear you roar. It will be the scariest thing of your life, but I can promise you that it will be worth it.

xo