#griefdiaries

[lyndacheldelinfell-blog]

Why the Movie Industry Shouldn’t Villainize Mental Illness

In 1973, when the book "Sybil" was released, the world was captivated by a patient diagnosed with dissociative identity disorder (DID), known back then as multiple personalities. The story was so strange and unique that it was made into a television movie in 1976, and again in 2007. The good news is that Sybil opened the dialogue on a little understood mental illness. The bad news is that decades later, the portrayal remains the same: misunderstood and sometimes villainized.

Fast forward to 2015. I first met Sunshine when she registered under the name Denise Purcell to share her story about losing a daughter in Grief Diaries. Although her story was sad, I was struck by her writing. Between the lines I found a lovely, compassionate, and extremely talented soul. We bonded immediately. Months later, Sunshine shared with me that there are multiple alters—seventeen parts—who reside within Denise. I knew her condition stemmed from childhood trauma, but that was all and I left it at that. To me, Sunshine hadn’t changed since revealing her condition. She was still Sunshine, and I adored her.

It’s been decades since Sybil was released, and yet those who live with DID continue to face deep societal stigma. They’re often accused of being crazy or fake, or just downright feared. I hope today's Grief Diaries release will change that.

Now available on Amazon, Grief Diaries: Through the Eyes of DID features the stories of 17 men and women who live with dissociative identity disorder. Each one has faced tremendous challenges throughout life with little support and sparse resources, yet each courageously bares all in the book in the hopes of helping others like them feel less alone, and for the rest of us to better understand.

In light of the new movie coming out next week featuring a guy with 23 personalities who terrorizes 3 girls, the writers understand that bravely sharing their private stories puts them at risk for more judgment, and yet they share anyway to help make a difference.

The book also highlights that although DID is an illness caused by severe trauma, people who live with DID are so much more than just their diagnosis. One writer is an award-winning musician. One is the artist who designed the book's cover, has had her work shown in galleries, and has her own adult coloring book coming out next week. Two host their own episodes on YouTube. Two are published authors, and many are writers.

Many might say that next week's movie is just that: a movie. Nothing more. But the truth is that villainizing any mental illness keeps societal beliefs firmly rooted in falsehood. The damage done is invisible yet vast. I worked with the writers for a year on this book; did I fear them at any point? No. I fear sane people with guns far more. Are the mentally ill insane? No again. They are people like you and me who live with a highly misunderstood and deeply stigmatized condition, and far too few resources at their fingertips.

Just when they think they're finding their footing, the media once again villainizes them.

"My name is Sunshine, my birth name is Denise. I have dissociative identity disorder. We are seventeen personalities living in one body. There is sadness and a lot of love in this book." -Sunshine Purcell

A big shout-out goes to the 17 writers who courageously shared their stories and what it's like to live with multiple alters, parts, identities and personalities sharing one body. May this book bring comfort to all who walk your path and wear your shoes, and help the rest of us to open our hearts to your journeys.

http://a.co/0ufodPs

[gradstudentdrone]

What grief has taught me: we are more than work

I returned to work on Friday and was hit with an avalanche of emails. While I was dreading opening my inbox, after awhile, I realized two things: first, that while there are emails that require your attention, they almost always get resolved without you responding and second, there are matters that do require your attention, but aren't as urgent as they appear. This has led me to reach the following epiphanies:

Our importance within institutions (academic or otherwise) is over-stated-- institutions will continue without us, even in the face of death;

"Urgency" in academic contexts is, in many ways, misplaced.

The people at work who I (we all) should hold close are those who step up in ways that matter.

The latter, I think, is what I need to remember. Sincere emails of condolence are kind and much appreciated (more on this below). But you know who truly have your back, those who you should keep close in your inner circle? Your work friends/colleagues (frolleagues?) who make sure that when you get back from leave that they've actually reduced your work load so you won't have to deal with it, people who get how excruciatingly hard it is some days to even wake up and try go on as 'normal' (whatever that means) and tell you, after you check in to ask about a specific task, "we've got this. Don't even think about it." While I've long since understood just how corrosive institutions are, it is people who have your back that make these institutions humane because they know, as well as I do, that when the time comes when they are facing horrific shit, I will also have their backs.

What I also appreciate is sincerity. I can smell from a mile away folks who are emailing to "check in" with me, but are really trying to see whether I'm "okay" now so they can line me up to do tasks for them. Such is the uncaring nature of neoliberal capitalist institutions: people within them have been so used to seeing each other instrumentally that "check ins" are equated not with actual care and compassion, but are a way to surmise whether the person can be tasked with yet one more thing.

All of these epiphanies are making me realize, again and again (and again and again and again) what I've known: that we are more than work. That we have value beyond what we give our employers. That we matter because of who we are, not because of what we can produce.

Having these epiphanies have been monumentally helpful in guiding me to recalibrate my expectations about work and my presence: that, at the end of the day, what matters is who we love and who love us in turn, and that getting caught up again in the academic arms race of publishing, emailing, grant-applying and grant-receiving means prioritizing work over self, work over life.

One regret that I have is that even as I have tried so hard to reorient myself away from the academic arms race - documented in Academic Aunties - I relapse and forget to find an identity outside work. There have been multiple times in my life when I prioritized work over living. The one that still haunts me is opting to finish the academic term and fulfill my teaching commitments in 2013 despite receiving news that my grandma - my lola Pining - was diagnosed at 89 with pancreatic cancer. When I got the news, it was November, and I thought, foolishly in hindsight, that I would finish out the term and head back as soon as December break started, especially since the doctor's prognosis was that my grandma had a "few more months." Yet my grandma died weeks after this diagnosis which meant I wasn't able to see her one last time. Here is a blog post I wrote in her honor.

Another memory that haunts me is my assumption that my dad and I still have a lot of time together. As we prepare for his 40th day death anniversary, which my community celebrates because it signifies the deceased's transition into the afterlife, I am haunted by how much I took my dad's presence for granted. One decision I wish I could undo was in the summer of 2008. Rather than heading back to see my parents in Vancouver, I opted to stay in Toronto so I could keep studying for my PhD comprehensive exams. I had the option of writing the exam in May, which all of the professors teaching the class encouraged us to do. They were telling us not to worry, that we would all very likely pass. But because I was caught up in the academic arms race, I opted to write the exam in August so I could spend an extra two months studying. Our professors pretty much told us that we would pass, but I didn't believe them, and so spent most of the summer in the library rereading Robert Bates and James Scott. Why didn't I just write the exam in May? Why did I have to try to not just know the material but try to master it? Who was I trying to impress?

I wish I knew then how finite life was. I wish I'd decided to spend an entire summer with my dad and mom in Vancouver. I wish we had taken more family trips. I wish I had treasured evenings spent going with my family to the Richmond night market, doing day trip drives to Seattle, hanging out at home and chatting. Even though my family, like many, has had its share of turmoil, my mom, dad, brother and I - pictured above, in my high school graduation - actually like each other's company. We know each other's quirks and tendencies. There's a comfort with knowing that in our family, we can be who we are, because there is unconditional acceptance.

As I enter the academic year, I will endeavour to remember that what I value is my family, my friends, my community. That email doesn't need to be sent. That paper can wait. That meeting can really be an email. Don't waste my fucking time. Because the time we have left is so limited.

[lyndacheldelinfell-blog]

Finding the Sunrise After Loss - Step 3

[lyndacheldelinfell-blog]

Finding the Sunrise After Loss - Step 2

[lyndacheldelinfell-blog]

Finding the Sunrise After Loss - Step 1

[lyndacheldelinfell-blog]

THE 12 NIGHTS OF CHRISTMAS

T’was the first night of Christmas and all through your house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

Except suddenly one little soul did appear.

It’s your Little Elf, and he brings holiday cheer!

Tonight it’s a partridge for your pear tree.

And tomorrow, who knows, You must wait and see

So turn on your porch light each evening with care

And know that your gift soon will be there

But don’t try to catch him or he’ll disappear!

Have you heard of The 12 Nights of Christmas? Also known as Secret Santa, I came across this concept years ago while reading "In Search of the Real Spirit of Christmas" by Dan Schaeffer. In the back was a chapter describing his family tradition modeled after the 12 days of Christmas. Beginning on December 13 and ending on Christmas Eve, the family left a treat along with a cute poem on a neighbor's porch. The whole idea was to teach kids that giving was just as fun as receiving.

Twelve nights sneaking around the neighborhood playing ding dong ditch? How fun! I especially loved the idea of helping my kids learn the joys of giving at such an impressionable age. And so that December gave birth to a new Fell Family tradition.

Now our oldest daughter was away at college and our teenage son was busy with high school activities, so that left our two youngest as my santas. As I explained what we were embarking on and why, they were thrilled with the idea of sneaking around the neighborhood for any reason. At age 10, our daughter much preferred to be an elf as she was female and Santa was, well, male. But with her 8-year-old brother as Santa, an elf's superior, that wouldn't do either. To keep the peace in our new family tradition, we became elves instead of Santas.

As a family of six, we were on a budget so armed with a shopping list taken from the book, my first stop was our local Dollar Store. Thankfully, this was our only stop—everything we needed was there. Taking home our supplies, we got to work printing the poems and preparing the bags while the kids giggled at the notion of 12 nights of mischief over Christmas vacation.

Already December, the first night was fast approaching. Fairly new to the neighborhood, we discussed who should receive the nightly treats. A couple months earlier, I heard that Neighbor Tom had just lost his wife to cancer. She was well loved by all who knew her, and I couldn’t imagine what the holidays must be like for Tom and their two children. To my mind, it was clear that Tom’s home could use small doses of nightly cheer. The kids quickly agreed.

On the evening of December 13, my two elves giggled nervously as we bundled up and headed out into the night. Sneaking through the quiet snow-filled streets of our neighborhood with a flashlight was as magical for the kids as it was for me; I treasured the memories we were creating. Who knew this could be so much fun?!

Caught in the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, I also hadn't realized just how quiet—and beautiful—the cold streets were at night. It was like another world waited for us each evening, a peaceful, enchanting winter wonderland that could only be experienced on foot. The magic was heightened when the kids giggled over my clumsiness in the dark. Note to self: Get more flashlights. Returning home from our adventure each evening, we warmed our hands around a mug of hot cocoa and warmed our hearts around the notion that our nightly surprises might bring cheer to Tom's family.

The next eleven nights flew by and soon it was Christmas Eve, the 12th day when we had to reveal our identity. I suddenly became nervous. I had never met Tom, and worried that maybe our nightly gifts had been a bit too much for the family's fragile emotions. But there was no backing down now; we had to finish.

That afternoon we arranged a dozen homemade treats on a small holiday plate, covered it with red plastic wrap, taped the final poem to the top and—not trusting my children to walk two blocks with a plate of goodies—we drove to Tom’s house. We climbed out of the car, assembled on his front porch, and I nervously rang the doorbell. When Tom opened the door, we nervously started singing: 

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas

We wish you a merry Christmas,and a happy new year!

Well, I sang by myself because Instead of joining me in the cheery rendition as planned, my elves stood with mouths frozen. Realizing I was on my own and because my children say I’m tone deaf, I quickly decided that one verse was more than enough for this poor family.

Oh dear, as soon as I stopped singing I realized that Tom and his two children had tears in their eyes! Was it my terrible singing, or did we fail miserably in our mission?

Quickly, I decided the best way to handle this was to explain that we were the Little Elves responsible for the nightly treats, and then leave the poor family alone. After all, it was Christmas Eve and here we were intruding on their fragile emotions. But I soon discovered that I had nothing to fear at all: they were crying because of how much they loved the little gifts, and now it was coming to an end!

It turns out that Tom and his children not only enjoyed the element of surprise, but the nightly anticipation was a wonderful respite from the constant sadness, and lifted their spirits. Mission accomplished!

That first year proved a wonderful experience and we continued the tradition, choosing a different neighbor each year, until tragedy struck our own family. In 2009, my 15-year-old elf, Aly, died in a car accident while coming home from a swim meet. Caught in my own fog of grief, I had no reserve left in my tank to carry on our family fun with our youngest. With a broken heart, our once beloved tradition came to an unexpected end.

In the years since losing Aly, in fits and starts our family has learned to laugh and feel joy again but I’ve never forgotten how bleak those first holidays felt. I’ve also learned that helping others helps my own heart to heal.

Now that our grandson is 9—the perfect age to become an elf—reinstating the old family tradition will offer both giver and receiver a nightly dose of good cheer, and enrich our holidays in magical ways just as it did in years past. I already know who this year's neighbor will be, and our gift bags are assembled and ready for delivery starting December 13.

Project Little Elf was inspired by that first year with Tom and his children. Having faced loss since then, I now fully understand how the holidays can feel less than cheery, and how a little kindness can go a long way. And nobody needs it more than the bereaved facing their first holidays.

If you too would like to teach your children how to be givers of kindness and learn the joys of giving, all the instructions and printables to begin your own family tradition can be found at www.GriefDiaries.com.

Above all, the nightly trips to a neighbor’s porch is more than just a little fun. It holds the promise of magical memories for children of all ages while teaching them to be givers of kindness, and gives the bereaved the priceless gift of a heart full of cheer they’ll treasure all year.

Happy holidays!

[lyndacheldelinfell-blog]

Thank you, SheScribes! Much appreciated. 

[embracingthespectrum]

Through the Eyes of an Eating Disorder: My Story http://bit.ly/2eZZKhP

Through the Eyes of an Eating Disorder: My Story

Sometimes it's hard to take care of yourself when you are taking care of someone else. I think all moms can relate to that. As an autism mom, without adequate support, it becomes even harder …