Bullying: Scars of Soul

October is National Bullying Prevention Month. 

I want to share my story and insights on a BIG problem that's not only affected many lives throughout history but is still widespread today.

At around eight or nine years of age, I became a victim of bullying, commonly known as "teasing" back then.

The phrase "boys will be boys" was often used to excuse my bully's behavior. Did it mean boys were entitled to unacceptable behavior because they were boys? Did "boys will be boys" justify schoolyard bullying? 

In hindsight, I see a double standard: Depending on who you were, unacceptable behavior got swept under the rug, brushed off, and seen as "trivial." Consequently, the abuse continued at the expense of my positive school life experience and, no doubt, the lives of others who fell prey to bullying. 

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me." I'd recite this popular childhood rhyme to myself as I hurried past my tormentors in the schoolyard—the snickers of bystanders echoing behind me while "stink bomb, you're ugly, you're stupid" pierced through the air and landed blows that shook me to the core. 

What a myth I fed myself as a child—that sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me, a weak coping mechanism, at best, to likely lessen the sting of my bully's words. 

Hateful words hurt. They have power. They are forceful and convincing. They penetrate the heart, mind, and soul and have long-lasting effects.

While my bullies may not have hurt me physically by throwing sticks and stones, their horrific words oozed into my identity, leaving an indelible imprint on my soul and changing how I viewed myself and others. At the most tender and vulnerable time, my bullies' incessant name-calling stripped away my self-esteem.

Yet, I had the resolve and grit to rise above. And as an adult, I thought I'd done just that: rose above. I thought I'd dismissed the scars from my bully's name-calling. As far as I was concerned, bullying happened to me as a kid; therefore, it was just a part of growing up. 

Nothing could have been further from the truth.  

Years later, circumstances forced me to sift through the scar tissue of my youth. Although other factors played a part in my emotional wounds, addressing, acknowledging, and grieving the immense scars of the soul from my bullies contributed to a pivotal role in my healing journey.  

 

It stands to reason why condescending tones often sent off triggers, where I'd become that little girl back in the schoolyard again. Scared. Wounded. Angry. Hurt. Afraid.

It stands to reason why I became a people pleaser, perfectionist, and workaholic: to prove my worth.

You may be reading this thinking: This resonates with me. It's my story, too!

If so, please know this. Scars don't vanish. Wounds that don't get treated don't heal because we've moved on as adults. Healing can only begin when we face the scars and confront them for what they are. (Bear in mind that we may need professional help to face our deepest scares.) 

 

Bullies, and even bystanders, have no idea how bullying affects the victim. They have no idea the daily havoc their words and actions play on our psyche and influence our lives for years to come. 

Why do bullies bully? 

 

In my understanding, bullies bully because they act out of insecurity to gain personal power at the expense of the weaker and most vulnerable. Some bullies may have been victims of bullying themselves, so they feed off the power they get from their bystanders' laughter of approval. It's a short-lived adrenaline fix where the "bullier" thinks they've turned the tables on their own pain. 

Who is a target for bullying? 

Anyone can be a target of bullying, but more so for those who are different. In my case, living in a small town where everyone knew my family was poor, my bullies saw me as "less than," someone who didn't fit the "norm." An easy target to exploit. 

I'm not letting myself off the hook here. I've also hurt others with my words, often with a knee-jerk response because I felt attacked.

 "Hurting people hurt people," this I know. And I never want my grandkids to feel the pain that haunted me. 

But it's inevitable that my three grandsons (one with autism), raised by two moms, will be an easier target than most for bullying. The two oldest have already felt the bully's sting, and I fear it will only get worse, especially in this new politically charged environment of evolving distrust and hate.

By sharing my experience, I hope it will not only help others tell their story but also shed light on what's still so prevalent in our society/schools today: face-to-face bullying and cyberbullying. 

Because even though there's much more awareness than when I was a kid, bullying isn't limited to schoolyards. At least when the school bell rang to end my day, I could escape from my bullies. 

Today, internet technology has fostered an environment that has given birth to cyberbullying, extending bullying beyond the schoolyard 24/7. 

Cyberbullying (in many ways) is even scarier than face-to-face bullying since it's the most well-hidden way for a bully to sit behind a screen and taunt others with their words, mainly affecting young youth and adolescents, making them feel alone and unworthy. Sadly, some even take their own life. 

Bottom line: We need to be fully present, fully invested, in our children and not dismiss bullying as "just a part of growing up" because—whether it was back in my day or the present day—bullying isn't a natural part of childhood; bullying is a painful and traumatic experience, with long-lasting scars that can affect the victim's development, learning skills, and self-esteem, leading to anxiety, depression, and feelings of shame. (Teasing isn't teasing if it causes harm.)

As a society, let's stand together and be a voice for the voiceless. Despite our views and differences, let's treat others how we want to be treated. 

If we can do this, I have faith that the environment promoting bullying will begin to lift like fog, and our children will have a more inclusive, brighter future. 

Thank you. 

COVID-19 Related Grief/Thanksgiving

We've been living in a time of extreme uncertainty and loss, with varying degrees of COVID-related restrictions, pausing life as we know it.

More than a year and a half later, many of us are now fully vaccinated. Yet while some sense of balance has returned, a new variant always seems to loom on the horizon, spiking anxiety and fear, causing hope to diminish once again.

There is a common thread that's bound us together throughout COVID: it's called grief. We have all been touched by it in some capacity or another. Whether we realize it or not, we have all experienced collective grief due to losses. 

While losing a loved one is an irreplaceable, incomparable kind of loss, there have been intangible losses in the pandemic that may have also triggered grief, such as the loss of a job, the loss of a business, the loss of human touch, the loss of wedding plans, the loss of freedom, the loss of hope ... any loss that's valuable to you, needs to also be recognized and acknowledge and mourned in its own unique way.  

But perhaps you have felt (or others have made you feel) that your loss or losses seemed minor or insignificant compared to what others have endured, so you retreated your feelings, you soldiered on and downplayed them because you felt that they weren't grief-worthy, that they weren't valid.

When we sold our Ontario home (in July 2020) and moved to New Brunswick, it brought much change, and those who know me know that I don't adapt well to change. So there were days when my anxiety was heightened, days when I'd cry because I missed my family and friends, days when I just felt concerned about the future. And, let's face it, COVID wasn't a time to socialize and meet new people(and it still isn't).

Consequently, I held back from expressing myself because I felt selfish. I thought: What right do I have to complain when the world is reeling in so much pain and sorrow, when people are losing loved ones, Every. Single. Day. 

Yes, what I was feeling was minor compared to what others were experiencing, but my point is: it doesn't mean my feelings were invalid. 

Nor are your feelings invalid. 

The fact remains: It's been a challenging year and a half. We have all (including the children) been changed by this pandemic in some way or another. On any given day, it has gripped us with fear, anxiety, loneliness, depression, sadness... leaving many forever scarred and likely in mourning for years to come. 

Even though not foolproof, being vaccinated has undoubtedly given some of us a new sense of normalcy, but let's not take for granted what COVID has (and still is) taking from us and that grief is real and personal.

"Give thanks in all circumstances." The Apostle Paul's profound words have never been more crucial as we struggle through pandemic fatigue. So my question is, entering into the fourth wave, with our second Thanksgiving in upheaval, can we find it in our hearts to give thanks? Are we able to go around our table at Thanksgiving, even amid our difficult circumstances, even in the deep agonizing grief and anxiety and fear that we may be feeling, and find something to give thanks for? 

I am thankful to be in a family that supports one another through life's struggles. But as I reflect on the last year and a half, my heart floods with thankfulness for the community family of essential workers who have worked tirelessly to provide the best possible support and care for us. 

And also for the vaccine researchers who have worked long, grueling hours to give us another layer of protection. Because of your diligence, after two long years of being apart, Derick and I were able to safely spend time in Newfoundland visiting family this summer. 

Understandably, many feel despair in turbulent times like these, but we must keep hope alive.

Happy Thanksgiving. 

May God bless you and keep you safe. 

The Power of Holding Space for Ourselves and Others

Many of us have done the painstaking work of "holding space," without even being familiar with its term. We have walked beside others in their pain without judgment, without trying to fix or change their situation. Instead, we've allowed them to be seen, heard, and acknowledged exactly as they are. And it's the most powerful gift we could have given them in my books. 

You may be thinking, "Holding space seems like a big undertaking, one that may be difficult for me to do." Yes, it isn't always easy to set aside our own emotions and give someone our undivided attention because most of us are hardwired to fix things. So rather than to just "let someone be in pain," our natural instinct is to swoop in and try and lessen the pain, to provide some kind of relief from it, or offer a solution to their problem.

However, the thing I've learned through my own self-care journey is this: Even with all of our good intentions — even with our kind and compassionate heart, we can't heal someone from emotional pain by rescuing them from it. Inner pain can only be healed when it has a safe space to be expressed and held. 

Why is it so much easier to hold space for others rather than for ourselves, though? Because I believe that to sustain and hold space effectively, we first need to learn how to hold space for ourselves and be vulnerable with our emotions, lest we risk emptying our own empathy tank.

For years, I lost myself in meeting the needs of others. Yet, to be vulnerable was something I was unwilling to do. I feared intimacy, which was intertwined with my fear of vulnerability. To be vulnerable meant allowing people into my world. Nevertheless, at the root of it all, what I feared the most was rejection and abandonment.

Let me take you back to my childhood, if you will. I was just five years old when my nine-year-old brother died. I recall how, night after night, I'd lay in bed, afraid to fall asleep for fear of dying. No one acknowledged my fears back then, nor was I given the space to express them. I say this not to place blame on anyone. But growing up in an era where grief was hush-hush, where children were considered too young to know about death, I did the only thing I knew to do: I froze my emotions, and, in turn, my five-year-old self became trapped in a traumatic time capsule.

I evolved as an adult. I married a wonderful man, raised two beautiful children, had a great career. But I'd this internal struggle, a restlessness, a deep inner void that I couldn't quite put my finger on. So I immersed myself in meeting the needs of others because, for one, it gave me a sense of love and belonging; and two, it made me feel worthy and valued.

I learned in therapy some years ago that, even though I'd evolved as an adult, the five-year-old child (me) remained stuck in my subconscious mind. Consequently, I'd gone through much of my adult life protecting and sheltering her from being hurt again. 

Essentially my emotional healing involved opening a time capsule of emotions to set my inner child free, a slow process of nurturing and holding a safe space for her to acknowledge and process her emotions. This life-changing, cathartic experience has given me a more profound sense of compassion and empathy to hold space not only for myself but for others as well.

How Grief Almost Destroyed Our Marriage —Thirty-Four Years Later

Grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly steals from us; it governs our lives in unexpected ways — especially in the death of loved ones. But whether it's a divorce, an illness, a job loss, a betrayal, injustice ... every loss we experience has some form of death attached to it.

August 25, 1987, is a day I will never forget. It's the day my mother suddenly died. It's the day life threw me a massive curveball, shattering my world into a million pieces as shock and numbness and disbelief engulfed my body.

In the aftermath of my mother's passing, it was as if time had stood still. I didn't shed the tears that grief required. I was too consumed with the what-ifs, the should-haves, the going back and forth between anger, blame, and guilt: angry because my mother had left me, guilty for not spending more time with her, and blame for not seeing the warning signs that she was ill.

The tension between Derick and me gradually began to crumble our five-year marriage. I'd put barriers around the world that once made sense, a world that left me shattered and confused. And as grief continued to sap my energy, solitude became my best friend. Yet, I somehow found the strength to get out of bed each day and care for our two children, then ages four years and five months.

It'd been over a year since my mother's death the night one of our BIG fights broke out — the straw that broke the camel's back in our marriage. "Joyce, If you don't seek help, I am leaving you. I can't handle your anger and mood swings anymore. You aren't the same person I married," my husband said through welled-up eyes. 

I was dumbstruck by Derick's words. I shouldn't have been. I mean, we'd stopped communicating. I didn't even consider that he, too, was grieving my mother's loss, compounded with the loss of our relationship. Nor did I realized how much grief was changing me. The only thing I knew was that I was in deep emotional pain, and when Derick couldn't soothe that pain (and believe me, he tried), I'd lash out at him for not caring, for not understanding. 

In short: Derick's words jarred me into seeking help to mourn my mother's loss that fateful night, and in turn, our marriage began to heal. But my understanding of grief and loss back then was only a "skim over" compared to the deep inner work I've done on grief and loss in the last ten years.

Grief is a personal journey. We all grieve differently because we all experience things differently. And while grief isn't linear or tied to a specific timeline, my experiences have taught me that, for our bodies to heal, grief does need to be heard; grief does need to be felt.

Having grown up in an era where crying was a sign of weakness, where culturally we were taught to be strong, to keep our emotions private, I was ill-equipped to allow grief in or even know how to process the pain of losing my mother because I was still trying to be that strong little girl of my youth.

Still today, there appears to be a gloominess associated with grief and loss in our culture, a clumsiness that causes us to turn away from our emotional pain, forcing us to squash it down as if it doesn't exist rather than embracing the discomfort of it. Until it becomes intolerable, that is. Until it begins to wreak havoc on our well-being and blocks our ability to fully embrace life. 

I am not saying that we ever have to be okay with the curveballs this life throws at us. Life is terrible and unfair sometimes. What I am saying is this: The transformation that comes from being present with our pain, from transforming our grief into growth, far outweighs the repercussions of remaining stuck in grief, of closing our heart off to it. 

Rest assured, if we do this, if we allow grief to have its way with us, we will find peace again, we find joy again, we find laughter again, and we will find a way to live away from our "old normal" and live into our "new normal," with our loved ones forever embedded in our heart. 

On April 10th, Derick and I celebrated our thirty-ninth anniversary! It seems inconceivable now that, thirty-four years ago, unresolved grief and emotional pain were the driving forces that almost wrecked our marriage because grief (like a thief in the night) unknowingly stole from me and governed my life in unexpected ways. I shudder to think what my life would have looked like had I not chosen to  heal.

Does Time Heal All Wounds?

"Grief changes us the pain sculpts us into someone who understands more deeply hurts more often appreciates more quickly cries more easily hopes more desperately loves more openly." –Author Unknown 

I am not an expert on grief and loss by any means. My greatest teacher has been my own life experiences, and with the help of online courses and through much self-awareness, the main takeaway for me now is this: grief has to be endured; loss has to be mourned, not cured.

We live in a fast-paced, quick-fix society that (by its very nature) prompts us to survive and press on after a loss, to put grief on a time schedule, but grief calls us to sit in the ebbs and flow of our wound, to surrender to it, to feel sad or angry or confused or guilty... 

I think most of us feel a certain level of discomfort and awkwardness when face-to-face with a bereaved person. As well-meaning people, we feel the need to at least say something, and so we pull out the old adage "time heals all wounds" in hopes of offering some support and comfort or in hopes of filling the silent void. 

But rarely does "time heals all wounds" have the intended outcome, especially in the rawness of grief, when one's life is so hazy. Saying I am sorry for your loss or simply being there with a reassuring hug or a listening ear is often enough to show we care. 

After the sudden loss of my mother thirty-three years ago, to say that I was in the throes of grief is an understatement. At the age of twenty-eight, a mother to two young children then ages four years and six months, my mother's death not only left an indelible mark on my psyche, but it forever changed me. I'd no roadmap or guidebook to help me figure out how to put my life back together for my children. I just got up each day and put one foot in front of the other.

"Time heals all wounds, Joyce," I was repeatedly told. And even though I believed the sentiment to be true because — if nothing else — it gave me hope that my grief would dissipate with time, that time would heal the gigantic hole in my heart, time didn't hold up its end of the bargain. 

Time passed, and days turned into weeks and months and even years, but instead of feeling better, instead of "time" healing me, I often found myself cast adrift in a sea of grief, kicking with all my might to stay afloat, as the waves steadily tried to devour me. 

  

In retrospect, time isn't meant to be an antidote for grief. Time is merely a "mourning period" to help navigate the choppy waters ahead, allowing us to find the inner strength to live within our new reality, with life forever altered.

In essence, time didn't heal me, but it did lead me to a healing God and my truest self.

However, the answer to the question, "Does time heal all wounds?" truly lies in the heart of the bereaved. Why? Because just as we are ALL unique, so too is our grief journey.

Forgiveness —The Recycleable Approach

The Earth, through God's immaculate creativity, is designed to recycle and sustain itself. All we have to do is look around to see evidence of this process.

Take the forest, for example. When the leaves drop—or deadfall trees and plants litter the forest floor—micro-organisms act as nature's recyclers and, in turn, put nutrients back into the soil to help produce new growth.

So up to a point, the Earth is very forgiving, right? But humanity needs to do a better job of protecting it, and one way to do this is by recycling our junk. 

For us here in Canada, one of the standard recycling options is a blue box program. Yet what became apparent for Derick and me during our east coast trip this past summer was that the rules for acceptable recycle materials (depending on the municipality) differed. We never did quite get it all sorted out and even got ribbed by relatives along the way. In each case, however, the common recycle goal was always geared towards helping the environment. 

Most of us would agree that looking after the environment is an essential part of sustaining Canada's beauty for generations to come. After all, it's our legacy to our children and grandchildren, and dealing with garbage in a throwaway society is becoming a real challenge; therefore, anything that can be recycled is a common-sense approach.

But what about our internal environment? How do we sort out what's trash and what's recyclable? How do we sustain our inner beauty?

Consider the phycological effects of being bullied or abused in some other way, especially in childhood. These hurts don't just disappear. They lay dormant in the recesses of our psyche, triggering harmful effects such as misunderstood anger and resentment and bitterness, in part, due to the inability to forgive and heal—not a pleasant place to find oneself in.

How do I know?

Because there were deep hurts that I'd thrown in the trash heap, hurts that I'd closed the lid on, but I forgot to take the bin to the curb (so to speak). And in the absence of forgiveness and healing, these hurts continued to fester, (slowly) releasing toxic waste into my character, resulting in the lid to burst off later in life.

Bottom line: Forgiving others and starting the healing process wasn't possible for me until I was first able to forgive myself, to feed myself compassion and love for the hurts that I'd caused others with my words and actions. It's no wonder I get emotional when praying, "Forgive us our sins, as we have forgiven those who sin against us." 

  

Quoting also—when Peter asked Jesus, "Lord, how many times am I to forgive my brother who sins against me? "Is seven enough?" Jesus reiterated, "I do not say to you up to seven times, but seventy times seven." Essentially, Jesus is saying we forgive as many times as necessary. 

What these two biblical references (as well as many others) signify is that forgiveness is one of the most critical aspects of the Christian faith, an on-going process that we must do over and over again. Why? Because God wants to heal our wounds, not just for ourselves but also for the people who have hurt us. 

Let's face it, though; forgiveness isn't as clear-cut as it sounds. On the contrary, it's hard work. I know when someone hurts my family or me, the last thing I want to do is forgive that person(s). It takes prayer to change my heart. Years ago, my tactic would've been to try and get even, to demand an apology, to hold that person captive in my heart. But Christ has fostered a new self-awareness in me; a calmness that has helped me grasps the notion that the power of forgiveness is the only true path to spiritual peace. 

Why then do the misconceptions surrounding forgiveness tend to give many a wide berth to it? Partly, perhaps, because (and I've been here too) of not understanding what forgiveness isn't: forgiveness isn't forgetting what happened or condoning the offense or letting the other person off the hook—forgiveness isn't necessarily reconciliation.

Instead, forgiveness, in a healing sense, is a gift God prompts us to give to ourselves, a conscious choice to "let go" and reclaim our life, usually through the evolution process of dissecting and then releasing our wounds. Wounds that, for some, are so egregious that it can take years of deep soul-searching, of connecting with the most profound and rawest parts of who they are, of continuing to forgive over and over again until they can experience the fullness of healing.

In truth, no one can force you to forgive. Forgiveness is a process where only you know when you are ready to move into a "more in-depth" understanding and acceptance of your pain. Because the thing is: when your wounds are still raw and bleeding, it's a natural response to throw your fists in the air and want to fight with a vengeance. And you have the right to feel what you feel, but at some point, you will need to let it go, in other words, you will need to forgive. If not, you will remain tethered to your pain, causing havoc on your emotional, physical, and spiritual well-being. 

In hindsight, I can tell you that holding on to past hurts had far more consequences for me than opening up my heart to forgiveness—the anger, resentment, and bitterness not only kept me chained to my past, but it blocked my emotional healing as well. Forgiveness, on the other hand, moved me into a brighter future, a future made possible through Christ's recyclable approach to forgiveness.

Finding the Rainbow in Grief

Just as the many faces of grief represent some of life's darkest hours, for me, a rainbow is a symbolic reminder of how God's light pierces through the darkness and offers hope beyond the storm.

Do you know there are ultraviolet and infrared light/colors present in a rainbow? But the naked eye can only pick up the seven colors of the spectrum: Red, Orange, Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, and Violet.

Let's assume the vibrant colors of the rainbow symbolically express the layers of beauty life has to offer, and the colors not seen represent the segments of adversity we face. After all, life isn't always beautiful. There are periods of time when it can be cruel and littered with hardships, and losing a loved one is one such hardship.

Those of us who have walked (or who are walking) through the valley of grief, know it's impossible to see anything colorful in the rawness of grief. We find it hard to believe there will be better days, brighter days ahead.

And while there's no timeline for grief—life, however, cannot go forward until the storm within us begins to subside. Only then will the rainbows vibrant colors slowly filter back into our lives. No doubt we will see them in a different light, but through perseverance and God's guidance, the hurtful memories will fade, and we will find a pot of gold within the treasured memories of our loved one.

I know this to be true in my own life. I will never forget the dreaded phone call that forever changed me. Losing my mom of 56 years to a massive heart attack (in August of 1987) plunged me into a dark place, where grief virtually took me down an unhealthy road toward a mental breakdown.

I couldn't see the beauty of the rainbow anymore. I was being sucked into, what felt like, a whirling vortex, void of color. I tried each day to kick into survival mode, to put one foot in front of the other for my four-year-old daughter and five-month-old son, leaving me little time to give attention to what was, indeed, happening inside my body. There was no checklist to help me navigate through grief, no access to grief resources like we have today. Besides, it was as if grief and depression carried a greater stigma back then—an awkwardness—you might say, which made it even harder to admit that I needed help.

But with hindsight comes perspective: My near breakdown was a breakthrough into the window of my grief, the beginning of my healing process.

In our unique way, we will forever mourn our loved ones. There will always be a part of us that feels sadness over their loss. Having said that, though, as they continue to live on in our heart, we will be able to enjoy the beauty of the rainbow once again—through the many memories we'd shared together.