Erin's Journals

Now, where were we on Tuesday? (Yes, I’m writing journals now twice a week – ordinarily Mondays and Thursdays, but this week, Labour Day meant an adjustment. See Tuesday’s journal for why I’ve made the change…and today’s quote for my strength to do so.) 
 
Rob was about to drop me off at a treatment centre about an hour from our BC home, so I could start to try to make sense of what it was that was wrong with me and hindering my efforts to live the fullest and most joyful life I possibly could.
 
Of course, you don’t have to have a medical degree to know the main cause of my troubles: having lost Lauren just 4 years ago (during a 10-year period of self-administered sobriety) and dealing with the reeling changes that came in the aftermath of that tragedy.
 
I left the job and city I loved, sold a house that was built with dreams in mind of family happiness for years to come, and moved to a place where I really knew only four people, all of them relatives.
 
But what went wrong between that time at the end of 2016 and summer of 2019?
 
It’s hard to pinpoint any one thing, but I can look back and know that I should have continued the counselling and therapy that I so cherished in our Toronto life. Instead, I isolated, hunkered down, wrote a book, did some freelance radio work and tried to build a new life without the solid foundation of a support network.
 
Yes, we would make two new friends, join Rotary to help serve the community – as we did last weekend calling Bingo at the fair all three days – and continue our efforts to maintain as much of a public profile as would ease the ache that I found accompanied leaving radio and Toronto.
 
And in many ways I was able to do that: the journal continues here – albeit with changes to its frequency – I had an exciting book launch and continued to be regularly interviewed about Mourning Has Broken, as well as being contracted to do keynote speeches and book signings. 
 
It all looked so good on the outside.
 
But on the inside, I sought comfort. Comfort, I realized as I delved back, that disappeared early: when I was but three years old, a woman I loved second only to my mom decided that since I was about to start senior kindergarten (yep, at age three) I was too old to keep my beloved blanket. So she burned it in the trash can outside.
 
Wounded but undeterred, I found a replacement. That blankie was burned by my grandmother, too. I know that my trauma doesn’t begin to compare with that suffered by so many who’ve turned to addiction and whose stories had me in tears while we were in treatment together.
 
There’s no comparing trauma, just as there’s no comparing grief. I wanted you to know that I recognize that.
 
The blanket incident (times two), I have learned, was when I first discovered that things – and later people – you love, can disappear without notice at any time. “Don’t make connections or close friends; they’ll either be gone without a trace or you’ll have to leave them. Nothing that gives you comfort will stay.” Those were the warnings I decided to live by to protect my heart from being hurt.
 
My marriage has proven that wrong, but losing Lauren just branded it into my heart more deeply than ever.
 
The fear of it happening again to Rob (and thus to me) kept at me, nagging, scraping open wounds again and again until the only comfort I could find came, not in the form of a blanket, but of a tall, misty-coloured bottle. It never judged me, nor disappointed or left me. But it was promising to do me a world of harm. 
 
I came to the decision that I needed to stop before it did harm me. Losing boundaries (like alarm clocks and people to answer to) meant losing perspective, losing caution and losing sight of what I was risking.
 
And so that scared woman walked with her husband, suitcase rumbling behind us, and committed to sobriety and recovery (and seeking reasons for what I had fallen into) like it was my job. And it was. It is.
 
My work continues with weekly meetings and counselling, both group and one-on-one, taking care to set new boundaries, saying “no” when I have to and being brutally honest with those who love me. Losing fear that people would judge me (which, of course, some have and will) and dropping the illusion that I have anything to prove to anyone anymore.
 
These are tall orders to fill and I’ll just do it – one day at a time. On Monday: life on the inside. What an experience!
 

I don’t even know where to begin, so I’ll start where I do each day: in a place of gratitude. And with news a few paragraphs down of changes to this journal’s scheduling. But first….
 
In the seven-plus weeks since last I posted a journal, I’ve received so much kindness and support from readers, Facebook visitors and Twitter followers alike, wishing me well and offering support as I headed off to seek wellness. So I want to start by thanking each and every person who took time to do that, and those who just kept me in their thoughts or heart for even a moment and held off writing as I asked. That certainly counts, too, and I’m filled to the brim with thanks for every word, thought and prayer.
 
Where else to begin? With July 10. Although I posted up until July 12 two journals I had ready to go, July 10 was the day that Rob took a trembling, frightened woman to begin a program that was to wipe the slate clean of a persistent and growing dependency I’d developed on my friend Grey Goose vodka (with its pal Pinot Gris wine) to help deal with feelings that I’d pounded down deep and hard, in order to keep functioning in our post-Lauren life. To write about. To talk about it.
 
As I said when I left here all those days ago, I stand by every word, every paragraph of my book, which is about love, loss and reclaiming joy. Those words came from my heart and soul and I sit here humbled and grateful for the resonance that they had with so very many.
 
But in helping people to deal with their grief – which I heard about in countless touching emails – my own was starting to become more active; the bubbling magma preparing to surface threatened to burn me alive in its lava form if I didn’t do something to address my deep emotions over what had happened to us, our plans and our dreams for the future.
 
It turns out I did have some fury down there, red and angry about the unfairness of life: how you can try to build up good karma, to do good and be good (well, mostly), but you can still be eviscerated with one powerful slash – one that takes you out at the knees and leaves you to bleed to death.
 
From the days of May 2015 when we were upended like a small boat of happy sailors suddenly finding themselves in the midst of a hurricane, I refused to let the grief take me under. I sought help and comfort in meditation and medication and in the consolation of a few close friends. But except for a very few that I let in, my existence – with and without Rob – was extremely isolated. And isolation is the perfect warm, dark and fetid fertilization for a previously dormant addiction to rise up and say, “Really, why not?”
 
On Thursday, I’ll share with you stories of treatment: 38 days that have changed my life, my outlook and my future. 
 
Yes, Thursday. Part of my commitment to taking better care of myself has to include cutting back on the frequency of my journals. I’ll be writing two days a week: Mondays and Thursdays, except weeks like this one where Monday is a holiday and it will be Tuesday and Thursday. I have to do this and I am so sorry if I have disappointed you after all of our years together, but I think it’s time. I hope you can understand, and thank you once again.
 
Happy New Year. The day after Labour Day is always a place for a fresh start and I have a few resolutions that I’ll be telling you about here, too, in days to come. But first, let’s get through this day of “back to” everything and I wish you a gentle Tuesday. We can do this. I’ll be back Thursday.
 

This is good-bye for a little while. I’ll ask you to read to the end to understand why and then we’ll reconnect soon (I hope).
 
I’ve been struggling.
 
First, I will tell you that if you haven’t seen Brené Brown’s amazing Netflix special The Call to Courage, I urge you to take an hour and watch it. This woman, who specializes in shame (of all things), has so much wisdom in one hour that I had to watch it twice to get even half of the messages. If you see it, you’ll understand what I mean. Part stand-up comedy and a whole lot of inspiration, this special truly lives up to its name. Special.
 
It’s taken quite a bit of something like courage on my part, if I can say that, to take a step and write those three words above the previous paragraph. I always prided myself (ah, pride…) on having broad shoulders and being able to take on whatever the world placed there. Whether it was struggling at work decades ago (it’s in the book…) or navigating the worst grief that a parent can imagine, I always felt “I can handle this.” Hell, I even wrote a book about it, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, LOL. And I stand by every single word in it, especially the ones about “Reclaiming Joy.” It’s all true.
 
I can’t let my pride about keeping up a strong outer appearance and veneer hurt my health any more. To be clear, I never struggled with talking openly and honestly in public about our love, our loss and our Lauren. Quite the contrary: I found a certain catharsis in being in a position to help other people, who also suffer, to understand that there is hope. In talking about her, I kept Lauren’s memory alive and hopefully encouraged others to talk about their loved ones, too.
 
But I also am doing everyone, including my husband and me, a disservice if I don’t take better care of myself. 
 
Recently I’ve been in group therapy for some of the effects of the grief that struck us in May of 2015. Having taken a month off at that time to plan Lauren’s funerals, I hopped back on the air in June. And continued to show, by example, that life could go on in meaningful and joyful ways, after the loss of your only child.
 
But here’s the thing: I haven’t been taking care of myself the way that I should. As I mentioned in the book, I gave up the sobriety of which I was so proud in November 2016, the week that: a) Donald Trump was elected US President (don’t laugh: many psychotherapists say their offices are filled with people who are suffering because of what’s going on in DC), b) I had announced I was leaving radio and the station and city I loved, and c) a flight attendant gave me a Caesar instead of a virgin Caesar. The difference, vodka, was everything. And I was out of reasons not to drink. Of course, I later stopped again. Then started. Then stopped and on and on….
 
Not having boundaries or reasons for rules has not been a good thing for me. I’m addressing that seriously through AA (which is wonderful!) and treatment. But now, at the urging of those handling my care, I’m going way deeper. I’m attending an inpatient program where I’ll learn more about my grief and, in so doing, about yours, too. I want to be in a place of much more wisdom and information when people who struggle with great loss reach out to me. By the time you read this, I will already have started on this journey. 
 
I need to get better and I need your help, so I’m asking you please to hold off writing to me. Rob has custody of my computer and cell phone for the next while and, believe me, with my anxiety over current affairs, that is a GOOD thing! But I’ve made him promise that if Trump is ousted, he’ll let me know during one of his weekly visits. Yeah, fat orange chance! 
 
If it’s a matter concerning the AMAWaterways riverboat cruise (an ad on CHFI will be directing listeners to erin@erindavis.com) Rob will make sure people get the info they need.
 
But please understand I won’t be in touch for a while. Not on email, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or through my journal. This website is also getting a facelift while I’m gone (while I am not, dammit!). I promise to return to this place the Tuesday after Labour Day. That will be the longest I’ve ever been away from here, but I have to do this. 
 
When I return, I will be healed and ready to help others to heal again. The honour that has come with being helpful to those who suffer is not one I take lightly, but I need to be the best, the strongest I can be. I’m working on that, my own Call to Courage.
 
Be well and thank you for understanding. I’ll be back soon.
 

Imagine a lavender farm on a mild Vancouver Island Saturday – skies dotted with clouds but a comfortable 20C. Now picture goats – little ones, bigger ones – running freely. And now, add yoga. That’s exactly what my pal Nancy did last weekend. I wish I’d gone, but since I didn’t, I asked her a whole bunch of questions about “goat yoga” so we could share the experience together. Here we go!
 
Some 20 yoga enthusiasts (most of whom were probably just there for the goats, if they were honest) gathered, as many do every Saturday from May to September at a lavender farm up island a bit. Seems to me that “Going to yoga at the lavender farm” sounds like a euphemism for being put out to pasture…or worse! But oh, no, it’s not (although it would seem to be like heaven).
 
The women, one teen and one man, laid their mats down ever so carefully amid the little Cocoa Puffs that the goats had left behind. (Our family raised a pair of goats that we named Starsky and Hutch. Yes, it was the 70s. But we also knew what goat droppings looked like: that chocolatey cereal.)
 
The price, $25, is a little steep for yoga, but the reward is the time with goats, big and small – as tiny as this fella, who was one of four siblings and won everyone’s hearts! He was one third of a kilogram when he was born. Imagine!
 

 
How did Nancy and her pal feel about the whole experience? Johanna says, “There’s something very relaxing and soothing about being in the country fresh air with your yoga mat, surrounded by adorable goats and getting your Zen on, while feeling like the chosen one and throwing your ‘downward goat’ position out the window if a goat or two should wander your way looking for a scratch and cuddle.”
 

 
How wonderful is that? Now I know there are some reading this who’d rather do anything than get “up close” with a farm animal. One woman responded to my picture on the weekend with “I just don’t get the goat thing!” and, you know, I understand that. Hey, as someone wise once said, if everyone liked the same things, there’d be long lineups for everything, right?
 
These little goats are very sociable, super curious and love to be cuddled. Nancy tells me that one woman had two plunk down on her mat for the whole yoga session! There’s also the added wrinkle that goats, as you know, love to nibble: hats, laces, pant legs. I’m sure it was hard to hold a pose while giggling over the goats’ antics. One poor fellow in shorts had three goats all trying to get into any opening they could find! Yikes! But despite that, the whole thing (not the hole thing) sounds wonderful. Here’s their FB page if you want to learn more.
 
If I have time after my upcoming retreat, I’ll be sure to try to fit it in on a Saturday morning. What retreat, you ask? I’ll fill you in tomorrow. And thank you for being here. 
 

Happy JULIO Day! It’s July 10 (Jul 10, thus “Julio”) and although it hasn’t caught on like MARIO day (Mar 10 – you guessed it) who knows? Maybe it will – or has done in countries where Julio is a more common name than here in the Great White North. Or maybe I’m the only person in the world crazy enough to look at numbers and letters and come up with words. That’s how this brain of mine works, for better or for worse!
 
More importantly than any JULIO, this is a special day for us because one Brooke Russell Shirakawa is marking her 26th birthday. I’m using this space to tell you a little more about our “daughter-in-law” Brooke than you already know because it’s her day. And with a baby arriving in early October (another Libra like Colin and me – yay!) she’ll have little time to soak up moments that are just for her. And goodness knows she deserves them, which is why we do spa days when I get to Ottawa.
 
I mention in my book Rob’s and my vast appreciation for Brooke. She came into Phil’s and Colin’s lives when it seemed that the sun would never shine on this tightly-knit duo again. But there she was. A blend of strength and vulnerability, confidence and questioning, she has brought joy, love and stability into all of our lives.
 
I love the conversations we have that go for hours as Brooke shares what’s in her heart and listens to what’s in mine. She’s put up with the crazier aspects of my life (so much tamer than it used to be, but still very public) as she read comments on Facebook about her pregnancy and had to smile through suggestions that her own baby bear the name or middle name of her husband’s late first wife, our Lauren. I mean, how much shadow does a gal have to step out of, she must have wondered. And I agreed.
 
Brooke has come to a place of understanding the vast kindness that people have shared towards our little family and that it now includes her. It’s not a situation everyone understands, but still, she tries and I appreciate that. 
 
She’s had to learn to adapt to the often not-so-gentle dance of family dynamics as her marriage expands to not the usual two families and sets of parents, but three (which, thankfully, includes us). And as always, she adapts.
 
Now, here she is ready to add to their own little trio – with a baby girl due in two-and-a-half months. I know she’ll be a great momma to the sweet pea who’s arriving in a bit; she’s already proven that again and again with Colin. She’s patient and funny, strict but soft. Thanks to both of his parents, Colin is learning manners and boundaries, but always the rules are imbedded in logic and a sense that the child understands what it is that’s being asked of him, and why. They’re not “those” parents who let their child run wild or act out. And every Sunday we get to spend FaceTime with Colin, all the while catching up with Brooke.
 

 
When people, such as the women I spoke with in a FaceTime book club this past Monday, mention how they marvel at my relationship with Brooke, I give her all of the credit. She had to open her heart – mine had already been blown open by grief – and accept this woman who might, by logic, resent her being there. Nothing was further from the truth, despite little voices whispering in her ear that that would be the case. Luckily, she and I found out who each other really was (thanks in part, ironically, to talking about the NBC show This is Us) and we’ve grown from there.
 
How lucky Rob and I are to have this young woman in our lives! I hope we tell her often enough, but really, is there such a thing?
 
Take good care and enjoy this Wednesday. Going to combine babies and lavender and…goats here tomorrow. Talk to you then!