Life is about CHOICES. Everyday our paths are thrown into a trajectory that either reaps blessings or incites woe.
This blog has been simmering for quite some time. However given my current state of poor health, memory loss and struggling for the right words, it has taken a significant amount of patience to compose.
In the
form of sleepless nights and anxiety, fears from my Strokes and a heart that
has been working overtime, at night I tend to reach out to people and those of
importance within our community. I feel in the quietude of the darkness to write from a place of revelation, is to remind myself of the short amount of clarity, which I have to do so. What helps is for me to read my Bible and Our Daily Bread.
I awoke one morning to a received reply that begins…
" I’m sorry Tonya to hear of your difficult year…."
And while I genuinely appreciate the kind words, I have to sit back and think…
"Wow! What did I say now...?
I reread my cluster of thoughts written from a mind of struggling from an Aneurysm and a Stroke.
Then it occurs to me: Am I the only one who has suffered, lost, had health issues and mounds of stress in 2020?
Because sometimes I believe I am an army of one, battling life's difficulties, all on my own!
I have reacted at times this way and made the mistake of thinking so. In my bubble of despair for many months, a quote found its way to me and as I read it, the
I think of the countless others in our world, who have died because of COVID-19. Those who are struggling with long term effects of the virus and all of a sudden, I knew adjustments had to be made, in many ways in my own life.
Some people do not believe they can change mid-life. Stuck in their ways, they feel it's too late.
I am living proof, it is never to late to own the wrongs, and be authentic and accountable.
Therefore, my retelling here, is to bring awareness of the seeds that have been planted properly... that long after I am gone, I pray will be blessed with a bountiful crop. Here lays the prospect of remaining hopeful.
While I am awaiting two major surgeries; time is spent reflecting on what a stroke mind can recall and most importantly....alleviating as much stress as possible. At 49 years, I've experienced several strokes over the past few months. Having a hole in my heart allows easy access for blood clots to make their way through to my brain. In my research and inquiries, it is called a PFO. Essentially a hole between the two chambers of your heart.
In making some important life decisions, I had to consider the bigger picture. What about the entire journey that has spanned over 7 years, of me residing on the Island?
Spending time alone, I have time to reflect on the passage I took to reside someplace that never wanted me.
I know when I chose to hide my scars from society, connected to an act of violence in May 2013, I didn't realize the monster I thought was shut out, I had actually let in.
So then, if my life lessons were to be scrutinized, what if the choices I made followed me and ended with the boomerang effect of malevolence?
I can backtrack a year ago and all the decisions I believed were wise ones; have unravelled or had devastating consequences. There is no need to take apart piece by piece what happened. I know with all my heart, I can pinpoint my tumble down the rabbit hole, from a faith course I took. One in which I was naïve and arrogant enough to believe that I had closed ALL doors to my past, including the enemy.
When you nail the names of those who have caused you offence to the cross and genuinely forgive them, one better be prepared for Satan to be riled.
Therefore during these challenging times, I have been known to pursue something toxic, that it nearly has killed me.
Truth is, an addiction I suffer from, was waiting in the dark
shadows to sink its claws into my spine and pull me back to a murky pit. Foolish was I, to assume I slayed all my dragons.
In other blogs and in my posts, I've already covered one of my other addictions~ Food, as a means of comfort (not all addictions are to be assumed as drugs or alcohol). Reality is, people can be addicted to many sources, however...this other one took me by surprise.
I needed some time for me to realize, the origin of some very poor decisions, required me to follow the thread... to the crevices that held the roots of my family. This
addiction has seen me twice rendered without a home, it has cost me stable
environments of shelter, warmth, and a sense of security.
This addiction is called “POVERTY.”
I grew up with a struggling single mom, who due to her addictions and deficiencies, wrestles with her own demons. I remember days of struggles, little food, picking up aluminum cans in ditches and wearing my brothers clothes to school. I recall cutting wood and stacking layers of birch to keep us warm throughout the ruthless, Okanagan winters. I learned to can goods at age twelve and in order to help as the breadwinner in our fragmented family, I cleaned alongside my mother.
In class, I sat on my hands due to my embarrassment, I would hide the mess of them scoured from cleaners and covered up bruises- as I know many others suffered the same. Ever so filled with anxiety, I
wondered if the invisible stains left by childhood abuse, could be seen by others?
When classmates spoke of the fun had on their weekends, I
remained silent.
Later in life, I promised myself that I would never continue
on the poverty that consumed my family.
Yet in years advanced and relationships to follow, the
natural order came to be struggle after struggle, which bills to pay and what to
go without, all became poor options. Now added to the equation were three children,
(one of my own), there were medical issues, soccer uniforms and school
supplies. This added to the many layers of poverty and a promise once made- was to be broken.
One day, out tending to my 12- plot garden, I felt a
heaviness upon me. Sitting amongst my tomato plants, rows of corn and sunflower
patch, was the sinking feeling that another generation was growing up in the
throes of POVERTY.
Only years later, I would be relieved to see how all three
children strived to DO Better, BE Better and LIVE Better.
Following the end of my marriage, I set out on a new
adventure. I fell in love, with someone who I helped immigrant from Britain.
After helping him secure his job, several years of moves, which infiltrated
income, masses of paperwork and the tragic, unexpected death of my daughter Shayla dying— all the stress and fighting
drained resources. What he lacked in not standing up for me as a partner of 10
years, he made up for in assisting me to go to someplace I had dreamed of- relocating to Vancouver Island.
My major move, in which I sought independence- was to the Island. What I had not reckoned (only one week in visiting Victoria), was a poor choice I made in wanting to celebrate my newfound rental. This would lead to me being the survivor of a horrific crime when I encountered a stranger, who I thought was kindly offering a celebratory drink to toast. This chance meet and decision to drink (unknowingly- a heavily laden drink full of drugs), ended with me becoming a Statistic.
I now was labelled a Rape Survivor, among the two Mental Health diagnosis’s; the worse of which is my Post Traumatic Stress Disorder I incurred, due to my daughter's unexpected death.
Layer by layer, I was adding to the cloak of shame and distortion, I've carried.
However, once living on the Island, I’ve met many poor souls who are being sexually trafficked on a continual basis. I've held the hands of someone
who has come back from being bought and violated. In seeing them again, I was witness to their fresh cut marks on their wrists, trying to release their inner pain.
I know there is a bonding to their anguish. It's a gathering of vanquished souls that sees us connect rather than condemn.
Seven years later, on the Island, I’ve been rendered “home-free” twice. Each instance came to loss of shelter and me living out of my car.
During each experience, I’ve taken dearest friends of mine - some willing, while others
un-willingly- and strapped them into the passenger seat of my life. In my displacement they helped, supported, funded, and carried me
through the mountain of desolation where at the summit, was once again Poverty.
During my bouts of being home free there also was a local church, who helped me twice in resounding ways of assistance~ by following the words they live by 6:8 Act JUSTLY, Love MERCY and Walk HUMBLY.
Later, I would be entrusted to lead the faith-based bereavement group GriefShare, at Saanich Baptist church. Doing so, was one of the most positive and freeing experiences. Even though the course linked me to other people's loved ones passing...it was a constant reminder for the 5 1/2 months of being a leader that helped me to understand that I was not alone in my grief.
One night, after the group had ended, I could not sleep and went to the local convenience store. There I met a man, shivering outside in mid November, with
not even a jacket on. He had tucked himself into a shrub for warmth and covering. His long, raven
hair was in dark contrast contrast to my white peach, flesh. After grabbing a coffee for us both
and a blanket from my car, I sat with this gentleman. He spoke through lips
that had both tasted his drug of choice and now a hot beverage. He confided of parents who are survivors of the
residential schools. They had endured such horrendous abuse and suffering, no
amount of payment can resolve the torrents of flashbacks from the generational
sufferings. Impulsively, I reached out to his hands to pray and thought for a moment what that entailed. He nudged me and smiled saying: "Go ahead...it was never you that hurt me."
Having spent time with many on the street, I feel a kinship of brokenness. Therefore, when I found myself home free for the second time, I thought I would be able to convey my story to the press, without incidence. I could not have been more wrong and would learn the hard way~ Never let another person write about your own pain.
I myself, over 25 years of reporting have made the same blunder. In all fairness though, it was not as if the new story did not speak of the truth, it simply was a distortion of it which I further speak about....
Yes that IS me in the most terrible photograph and yes I AM without a home. Yet what I had set out to do, was heavily muddled, with the best of my intentions.
“Be careful what you think, because your thoughts run your life.” ~ Proverbs 4:23
A chance to share my story had the opposite effect of what I had hoped to communicate. While I am about to own my words, I will share that having suffered a stroke, brain bleed and with a hole in my heart, I did not chose the best time to be trying to relay my message of poverty, with the local press.
Furthermore, the basic truth is my story was never meant to illicit funds, nor evoke a level of sympathy. If such were the case, I would not have turned away money I was offered by some readers and also the suggestion of a Go Fund Me. This summer, I also made the decision to turn down the chance to have my story featured, in a more prominent manner.
Furthermore, in the midst of my displacement, my 22-year-old nephew had died suddenly and a genuine GO Fund Me was established, one in which I made a donation. In no way, did I want my situation to take away from his sudden, tragic, death.
In seeking my story to be told, no one had appointed me the new spokesperson for homelessness. If anything, most of my 7 years spent on the Island, I have had food, shelter and employment. What I hoped my message readers would potentially read, would be of all the individuals I had met that were being affected by COVID-19. Families displaced and living crammed into a small van, parents choosing which one would leave the home in fear of bringing the pandemic to their brood, Farmers I met, who were taking their horses to be sold an leaving their farmland. I was but a piece of a bigger picture where a new shift of homelessness was being formed out of the virus. The angle was, to say a new face of COVID-19 was emerging related to homelessness and to bring about awareness. Upon seeing my story in print, I realized I could not have messed up more my genuine intentions! Although some assumed, upon seeing my vehicle in the photograph that I own it, the truth is- my car is financed and like many others during this time- its only one or two payments away from being seized.
I also felt for the Reporter who wrote my story. At first, I was confused and it took sometime to realize in them recording my own story; I failed in offering the correct opinion I wanted to share.
Every time I look at the person being showcased on the front pages or on-line, it is only a fragment of who I am.
The same face you see as being homeless is the very same face you can Google to see the pain of a mother who saw her daughter last in the morgue and came to join in the fight for Safety Changes on McKinley Landing. The result: a 1/2 Million dollars awarded to ensure safety for others. Only years later, that same face welcomed others in bereavement in a 5 month course called GriefShare that I was a leader in. It is the same person that is also an Advocate for the homeless for the past 20 years. That smile knows of mental illness, as a woman of positive change who has given presentations on her own Bipolar and PSTD and led a course on Mental Wellness. Yet not one of these faces can ultimately define me. For we all have written chapters and unfinished stories.
Choosing to define and judge me by only 10 days of my life that rendered me without a home this March- when I was served by my former Landlords- is to have you the reader take a look into the mirror and I ask, would it be fair for me to judge you on the darkest moments of your life?
During these moments of disparity, when I feel overwhelmed, I turn to Our Daily Bread as I can always find a solid source of encouragement, for the soul.
This year, I travelled back to the Reservoir- where my 21 year old Shayla passed away in 2011. I took the Build- a- Bear she had created for me before she died, the one in a dancer's outfit. I set it upon one of many concrete barricades that are now in place because of her. It was only a small testament to the safety changes brought to McKinley Landing. God holds the bigger story~ the one of Eternity. The news story does not speak of me walking a mile in some one else’s shoes; rather it thrust me in a place I had no right being part of. I cannot continue to live in both worlds and expect understanding.
Due to the nature of my news story and My choice to share it, I have been turned down for housing several times as someone sees the news photo and when reading my story, it erases a chance to start over yet again and get out of storage, my things and my daughters ( what's left).
Most importantly, it has added to my poor health as winter looms and surgeries are delayed.
I began to send beforehand, to potential places, various references from six years of house and pet sitting, character and personal references, I've worked hard to acquire.
Recently, I had someone in a coffee shop ask me if I was "that homeless woman in the newspaper?"
I replied honestly: "I am her and so much more!"
That was the end of the conversation.
Upon gathering my things, a quote popped up on my cell phone screen, as I love to receive quotes...the following hit home for me:
"I have experienced firsthand, a continuous cycle of half- successes and total failures." - Billy Graham
Later it had me thinking about a Netflix show I use to watch Titled: “The Kindness Diaries.”
In a world where we are being reminded to "Be Kind" ...my own life has seen an outpouring of it.
I thought about all of those who have seen me be the receiver of compassion from various places: The Pharmacists (Dave, Troy and Rike) and Staff ( Gurdy and Sue) at Broadmead who have treated me with care and support. The many individuals at Gateway Baptist Church (Pastor Aaron Dyck), Isabella, Ted, Kinza and Darcy, who shared their serving heart, offered me a place of refuge and the kind words. I will never forget my positive interactions with the staff at the local Saanich Pool; the lady who always acknowledges me by sharing the value of treating me as a human being, with simply offering a shower.
One day after I had left the showers, I drove to the Pharmacy to see the Pharmacists. Upon leaving, I saw a stand that had keys inscribed with words.
It reminded me of my novel... my unfinished book, Under the Sitka Tree, as I have a skeleton key which is prominent in the story line.
This also reminded me of my visit to the Okanagan, where another wonderful friend gifted me her skills and fortitude in helping me fill out some important paperwork. I was prompted to send a card, a token of my gratitude and a note about “The Giving Keys” https://www.thegivingkeys.com/
I thought how wonderful it would be to become a part of something connected to homelessness in such a profound, beautiful way!
Later, in my Prayer Journal, I thought of the two ladies, dear friends who last year knew I was heading on a road of destruction. One warned me, each prayed and in the end I could see some of the seeds I had planted, had withered, and died amongst the rocks.
To understand the relapse of Poverty that took place is to
revisit this spring. After 12 days of being late with my March rent, I was in
financial trouble. I sat down and made some important decisions (before all of my strokes, and six hospital visits).
Typing now, I think of the dramatic irony in all of this.
There are changes that I made back then. When things started
to go awry with my job offer not working out and (COVID-19) had begun. It was vital as ever… On one of many packed boxes, I
got out my laptop and readdressed one of the addictions and monsters in my life ~ Poverty.
When my Insurance Policy was first obtained, my sole
beneficiary was my late daughter. When she died in a horrible car wreck, I
needed to reassess where and who the money would be given to?
I wanted
to give where it would matter and also be connected to my daughter and myself. One
of her passions was dancing and I was able to donate to The Vancouver Dance
Center.
Throughout my years of volunteering with those in need, I
have been the one who is blessed by instances of what giving of oneself truly means.
Recently, I read a passage that spoke to me:
“After a lot of trial and error, God, I think I’ve learned
something about Your will in my life. And the key is so simple. So often I have
stubbornly knocked and banged my head against a door of decision or opportunity
I wanted to push open. And so often nothing happened. The door just wouldn’t
budge. At other times when You and I were tuned into the same channel, I barely
touched the latch and the door swung open. Everything poured out: Happiness,
opportunities for creativity, spiritual gifts, deepened relationship with
friends and when the timing was right, a chance to share Your love with
someone…Your guidance kind of snowballs God, from relying on You for dozens of
little actions and decisions, we learn to seek Your guidance in times of big
events, and even tragedies, in our lives. Gradually we begin to rely on YOU in
everything we do, no matter how insignificant.” (From Struggles of a Sinner-
Saint by Lucille Lavender).
I also prayed over my decision of my Residential Tenancy
Claim against my former Landlords. The whole notion of forgiveness is to find
freedom from disgrace! With being home free, I had taken on the role of Poverty,
as a cloak of shame in my life. In the former suite I rented, I granted
Forgiveness. It would take a few more months before I made the vital decision
to completely withdraw my $10,000 claim and simply turn it all over to Jesus.
You see, it doesn’t matter of your perception of a situation or the judgement doled out…the reality is no matter what your circumstance, there will always be someone else worse off than yourself!
In giving to certain people and organizations, plus withdrawing my RTB Claim, I’ve learned the best way in overcoming poverty, is to cut it off the root of sympathy for oneself-from where it sprang. Instead...to lay claim, in the choices made...to bring yourself there.
By TL Alton
