The
time...
Interviews by KIM PITTAWAY
...I PUNCHED
MYSELF IN
THE HEAD
Marie Smith* | 41 | Toronto
“This is crazy. I’m not doing this
anymore.”
That’s what I thought as I stood
in the bathroom of the house I
shared with my boyfriend. I was
furious — and I’d just finished
punching myself in the head, hard,
four or five times. It wasn’t the
first time I’d done this: It had
started one day in the shower as
I cried in frustration. Then, over
the past few months, I’d done it
a number of times, each time
when I felt my boyfriend wasn’t
C.J. BURTON
In a culture that celebrates firsts —
first kiss, first love, first child — we don’t
often talk about lasts: those moments
when you say to yourself, “I am never
doing this again.” Those words may be
spoken with defiant confidence — as in,
“I’m just not taking this anymore” — or
with quiet sadness, as you realize that this
(whatever “this” is) is something that
belongs to a younger you and a different
time. Here, women share their lasts, some
celebratory, some tinged with regret, but
all moments of self-discovery, of being
true to the you that you are now.
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“My frustration would just get so
extreme, and what started as a
spontaneous reaction became one of
the only ways I had of letting
that frustration out.”
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The last time...
“
The police officer ticketed me for
not wearing my seat belt. I tried to
explain, but he wasn’t interested
in the details of my hot flash.
hearing me, wouldn’t listen to me,
didn’t care about my feelings. I
know it sounds crazy, but my frustration would just get so extreme,
and what started as a spontaneous reaction became one of the
only ways I had of letting that
frustration out.
This time, a call from one of his
former girlfriends (he prided himself on staying “friends” with them
all) had been the prompt: I’d told
him in the past how much her
frequent calls irked me, and he’d
said he had talked to her and
asked her not to call. Then, in
the middle of a television show
they always used to watch together, she phoned. And he sat
next to me on the couch, chatting
with her through the rest of the
show as if I weren’t there. It was a
double whammy: He’d lied about
talking to her and he didn’t take
it seriously enough to cut it short
when she did call. And I was
caught in a double bind: When
we talked rationally about our
problems, he’d promise to make
changes but then wouldn’t follow
through. When I reacted by getting angry, he’d say he wasn’t
going to talk to me when I was
“irrational.” So, talking it out didn’t
work, and I wasn’t allowed to get
angry. And I wanted this relationship to work — even though it
was becoming clearer that it
wouldn’t. I felt trapped. So there
I was in the bathroom, punching
myself in the head.
I stood there. And I thought,
I’m not going to punch myself in
the head over a couple of idiots.
That was the beginning of me
checking out of that relationship.
We saw a couples counsellor for
a while, and when I told her about
the hitting, her response was,
“There are worse things you could
do.” And while in one way, she
was right, in another way, she was
wrong: The worst thing I could do
was stay in a place, in a situation,
where hitting myself in the head
became “normal.” It’s not normal.
I’m single right now. And that’s
okay: It’s better than being with
someone who doesn’t care enough
to hear you when you’re hurt.
”
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...I USED THE
MENOPAUSE
DEFENCE
PHOTOS, OPPOSITE PAGE: PAUL ORENSTEIN. HAIR AND MAKEUP: ERYN SHANNON FOR PLUTINO GROUP. THIS PAGE: C.J. BURTON
K. Jill Rigby | 53 | Toronto
I never expected to end up in court
— or to resort to using menopause as
my defence when I did!
It was a sub-zero late autumn day,
and as I left home to go shopping, I
put on a heavy sheepskin coat that
I usually reserve for mid-winter,
along with hat and gloves. When I’d
finished shopping, I headed home in
my car. Just as I was about to make
a right-hand turn, I began to experience a physiological change the likes
of which I had never felt before.
Droplets of water formed beneath
my hair, threatening to run into my
eyes. My feet, hands, underarms and
abdomen began to perspire, covering me in a warm wash of moisture.
I thought I might faint from the
heat. I pulled off my hat and gloves.
It didn’t help. I unbuttoned my coat.
It didn’t help. I tried to pull off my
coat, but my seat belt got in the way,
so as I was stopped at the intersection, I quickly unfastened my belt
and pulled my coat off my shoulders. Relief! I used one hand to pull
my seat belt back into place as I
made my right turn.
I’d barely rounded the corner
when a police officer bounded out
into the street in front of me and
waved me over, clearly agitated. I
stopped in the middle of refastening
my seat belt and pulled over — and
he ticketed me for not wearing my
seat belt. I tried to explain, but he
wasn’t interested in my hot flash.
Six months later, my case finally
made it to court. My lawyer and I
were prepared: We were going to try
the menopause defence. In the end
we didn’t have to: The officer didn’t
show up. Maybe he’d heard it was
unwise to tangle with a menopausal
woman, never mind her lawyer.
...I looked into my
daughter’s eyes
Joan Wiley | 53 | Niagara, Ont.
Five years ago, my 18-year-old daughter looked into my eyes and told me
that she was actually my son. In that moment, it didn’t matter whether they
were my daughter’s eyes or my son’s eyes — they were my child’s eyes, and
they were pleading with me to understand while at the same time courageously telling me that this was the way it was.
My husband and I had always thought our daughter was somewhere on the
rainbow, but we thought she was behind closet door number one. It turned
out she was in a closet we’d never even considered: transsexual. And in the
moment she told us, her eyes were not the ones that changed: Ours were. My
eyes were opened up to entirely new possibilities.
I am so grateful to my son for inviting me on this journey. Especially in
those first few months, there were a lot of ups and downs, moments when
I’d be mourning the loss of my daughter and then in the next moment realizing that finally things just made so much sense. I felt a lot of guilt, for not
somehow knowing what he was going through. Using the correct pronouns
was a constant struggle.
My husband and I supported each other; we both just wanted our child to be
happy. And when we started to tell friends and family, they were for the most
part supportive. We did lose some people, but we’re keeping the doors open.
Two years ago, I marched in a Pride parade with PFLAG, holding up a handlettered sign that said “I Love My Trans Son.” From the sidelines, a young man
jabbed his finger toward his chest, indicating that he too was someone’s trans
son. I waded into the crowd to give this stranger a hug. We embraced for a long
time and then he whispered, “I wish my mom had been as understanding as
you.” The aching sadness and despair in his voice was undeniable and my heart
broke. By the end of the parade, I had made up my mind: It was time to form
TransParent [transparentcanada.ca] to coax parents out of their closets, to help
them celebrate their children’s journey to authenticity. It’s quite a voyage, one
that we’re going to be on all of our lives. But it’s a really good voyage.
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The last time...
...I PERFORMED
Debra Brown | 52 | Montreal
It was 10 years ago and I was in the
back seat of a taxi going over the
Rosemont bridge in Montreal. I was
42, a retired gymnast, and a choreographer and dancer with Cirque
du Soleil. That year, I’d performed
on the trampoline at the Super
Bowl party for NFL players in New
Orleans. I didn’t know it then, but
that would be my last performance.
That day in the cab, the roads
were slippery. Suddenly, the cab
was rear-ended by a truck: I flew
forward and hit my hip, then flew
backwards and hit the window, and
got a concussion.
At first, I thought I’d be okay. My
hip was sore, but I was in denial. I
saw doctors, but I didn’t tell people
about it. I just gradually stopped
moving. I tried performing again,
but the pain made it too difficult. It
got to the point where I couldn’t
even carry a purse or walk very far.
It sounds awful, and in many
ways it was, but at the same time,
my injury became my greatest
teacher. I’d always been someone
who moved a lot. Now, I was forced
to be still, to observe instead of act.
I continued to choreograph, but
instead of showing the acrobats
what to do, I had to describe it to
them. In losing the ability to move,
I sharpened my vision. I learned
to go still inside myself as well, to
listen to my intuition. I learned
to love that quiet time.
Last year, I finally had a hip replacement operation. Now, I’m
learning to balance my body again
after limping for so long. I bought a
bike, and I love the feeling of freedom that comes from flying on my
bike. It’s wonderful to move again.
But I haven’t forgotten that it’s in
that quiet space inside us where
the real treasures are.
“
In losing the
ability to move,
I sharpened my
vision. I learned
to go still inside
myself, to listen
to myself and
to my intuition,
because I didn’t
have movement
to distract me.
”
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PHOTOS, OPPOSITE PAGE: JULIE DUROCHER. HAIR AND MAKEUP: PASCALE JONES. THIS PAGE: PAUL ORENSTEIN. HAIR AND MAKEUP: CATHYANN CUTHBERT FOR ARTISTGROUPLIMITED.COM
”
...I wore a bikini
Charlotte McMorrow | 49 | Oshawa, Ont.
The weather was hot, hot, hot, as the song goes, the steel drums were playing, the music was infectious — and I was dancing down the middle of Lakeshore Blvd. in a shiny gold bikini, half-naked
for the world to see, and having the time of my life.
If you’d asked me a few months earlier to picture myself doing this, I’d have said you were crazy.
I was 44. I weighed in the neighbourhood of 180 pounds, give or take a few pounds. Okay, more give
than take: I was 191 pounds. And I’d had an awful year. My only child, my 18-year-old boy, Michael,
had died of colon cancer in January.
I’d taken Michael to Caribana, a parade and celebration of Caribbean culture in Toronto, from the
time he was a baby. I was a single parent and I would travel into Toronto from Oshawa to hook up with
my aunt and cousins to go see the parade. I’d always wondered what it would be like to wear one of
those vividly coloured costumes and dance in the parade, but I’d never worked up the courage to do it.
Then, the spring after Michael died, my sister-in-law invited me to join her, my cousin and a girlfriend to dance with a group her friend belonged to. It took a lot of badgering and cajoling, but I finally agreed to do it. The rest of my family thought we were crazy, but I thought, hey, you only live once.
I was fine — until I saw the costume: a shiny gold bikini with a lot of beadwork and dangly bits
and feathers that barely covered my treasured parts, topped off with a colourful headpiece. I pulled
my bikini on — and looked like a beach ball with two gold stripes and a large brown bulge in the
middle. I was embarrassed, but it was too late to back out.
The next day was showtime. And despite everything, I had the time of my life. I felt free.
That feeling lasted until I got home — and saw myself on the news dancing down the middle
of Lakeshore Blvd. with it all hanging out. In that moment, I knew that would be my last time in a
bikini: I wasn’t 22 anymore, and the only folks who have any business parading down the street
in skimpy costumes are the “young ’uns.”
A lot has happened since then. I met a wonderful man. I realized I was using food as armour to
wrap around my pain over Michael’s loss. I let go of some of that armour and I lost 86 pounds. And
I’ve become a facilitator to help other bereaved mothers deal with losing a child. There may not be
any gold bikinis in my future, but there is peace of mind and some fond memories of my life with
my sweet son and the summers we spent watching the Caribana parade.
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The last time...
...I talked
to my twin
Nina Farrow* | 54 | Toronto
...I DIDN’T TAKE CREDIT FOR MY WORK
Kelly Juhasz | 41 | Toronto
I run a consulting business that specializes in professional development and
training for big corporations. My work involves a lot of web and multimedia
production. In bids for new work, I often partnered as an equal to or as the
expert with other consultants. Even as my business grew, I continued to take
a back seat to these partners, letting them work directly with the client while
I stayed more in the background — often doing much of the specialized work
but, in the spirit of being a team player, generally not taking the credit for it.
My “no more” moment came on a project on which I’d partnered with
someone I had known for almost a year. After getting the quarter-million-dollar
contract, I realized that none of the other team members had as much experience or knowledge as I did — especially my so-called partner. It was clear that
we had won the contract because of my track record. Still, the other consultant
was the one who now assumed the lead role, liaising with the client. As the work
progressed, my contributions formed the backbone of the project, but the team
leader (maybe out of insecurity, I’m not sure) started scapegoating me to the
client. Every missed deadline — I was blamed. Every problem — I was blamed.
When I spoke up, the other consultant told me we weren’t “partners;” I was
“just a project employee.” Finally, it got so bad that I hired a lawyer and quit.
I think I was naive. I expected everyone to behave well. Since that project,
my approach has changed. Now, I work directly with the client: That relationship is mine to manage. I check into other team members to find out what kind
of reputations they have, to make sure they’re able to deliver. And I make sure
my company name is front and centre, that my expertise is visible. I take responsibility for the end product and share the credit with the team — but I lead.
When I said goodbye to my sister, I
didn’t know it would be the last time I
talked to her. It was an awful December
day, the kind of day where the snow is
coming down horizontally. My family
and I had spent the day helping my twin
sister move into her new apartment. For
the last few years, she’d been living in
my parents’ home, but after my father
died, the house had to be sold.
My sister is very smart. She has two
master’s degrees. But she had a breakdown in her twenties and has never kept
a job. Because of her situation, my siblings and I signed over our share of our
parents’ estate to a trust so she would
have the income from the sale of the
house. What we saw as a gesture of
love, she saw as yet another slight to
her dignity. She wanted to manage the
cash herself, and she hated us for setting up the trust.
I’d always felt guilty because we
weren’t like twins were supposed to be:
Though we’d slept in the same bed until
we were 17, we didn’t crave each other
like a missing limb. My every success
was interpreted as her loss. Still, I stood
up for her, made excuses for her, tried to
protect her. But I didn’t realize I was just
feeding her resentment. I had no idea.
When we put the house up for sale,
she sent me an email full of hatred. She
hurled comments at me like rocks at my
head. It was as if she’d been keeping
a shopping list for 40 years, of all the
things she’d done for me and all the
things I hadn’t done for her.
That day of the move, as I hugged her
goodbye, it was like hugging a birdcage:
My arms were around her bones but it
was like she was hollow. She met my
eyes and looked really deep into them
and I thought, Maybe this will work out.
But now I realize that for her, they were
really saying, Get out of my life.
That was almost three years ago. I
called and emailed her for a while afterwards, but she never responded. We
haven’t spoken or seen each other since.
I really think her hatred gives her something to focus on, that it’s her life force.
Someday, when she needs me, she’ll
reach out to me. And I’ll be there for her,
even if she’s acting out of self-interest.
I’ll never believe her like I used to. But
I’ll help her because she’s my sister.
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...I KISSED
MY BOSS’S ASS
PHOTOS, OPPOSITE PAGE: LIAM SHARP. HAIR AND MAKEUP: KELLY MEREDITH FOR JUDY INC. THIS PAGE: C.J. BURTON
Mona Roy* | 45 | Moncton, N.B.
“
He was the kind of guy who made
people cry. More than once I’d seen
co-workers in tears because he’d
made them this month’s scapegoat.
”
You know how when you’ve worked
with someone for a long time, you
don’t always realize that how they’re
behaving isn’t right? That’s what it
was like with my boss. He was the
kind of guy who made people cry:
More than once I’d seen co-workers
in tears because he’d made them this
month’s scapegoat. To be honest, I’m
not sure why we put up with it. Partly, it was because he wasn’t all bad.
He could joke with you and things
would be okay. But then he’d get in
a mood, and things would be awful.
Eventually, I filed a complaint
about his behaviour. I thought it
would ultimately make things better.
It didn’t. It took months for the complaint to be investigated, and even
though managers and other employees were supporting me behind the
scenes, in the end, the investigator
ruled my complaint unfounded.
It would be easy to see this as a
failure. But it wasn’t. I stood up to
a bully, and even though the system
didn’t support me, I saw who else in
that system could be counted on to
help me and who couldn’t. Sometimes
support came from people I barely
knew, who stopped me to say they understood why I was doing this. And
through it all I realized that my job is
not my life. My family and friends are
way more important than any job.
Do I wish the ruling had gone my
way? Of course I do. But the fact that
it didn’t doesn’t change that I stood
up, that I said “This isn’t right.”
Standing up mattered.
I’ve since moved to another department. I have a better boss. And I
sleep a whole lot better at night. M
*Names changed by request
When was the last time you...lied about your age...put yourself last…said “yes” when you meant “no”...or any
other “last” that was meaningful to you. Send your “never again” moments to [email protected], and
we’ll share a selection of them in an upcoming issue.
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