Today I feel like "ugh". I know this doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but that is exactly how I feel. I woke up around 9:30, which was pretty satisfactory, and lay in bed for while. I was wrapped up in my comforter, a down blanket, and a was snuggling my Spongebob. Yah. You read right, I snuggle with Spongebob at night. Anyways. I was laying there, snug as a bug, fighting with myself about getting up. The air around my face was cold, and my body did not want to be subjected to that. I hunkered down deeper in my blankets, trying to convince myself that it was alright to just lay around. However, being my father's daughter, I couldn't justify doing nothing, so I reluctantly hauled myself out of bed and into the bathroom.
I've got a strict morning routine. I always shuffle into the bathroom and turn on the shower. That's the first order of business, no matter where I am. Then, while the water is warming up, I pee. Always. It's like all the fluids I drank the previous night waited patiently while I slept, and as soon as they hear the trickle of water come out of the shower head, they want to violently burst forth. So I let them. Then, when the bathroom is starting to get nice and steamy, I get into the shower. I think one of my favourite things on earth is to be in the shower. It's such a relaxing experience. At the same time, it re-invigorates me; wakes me up. I need to have a shower in the morning, otherwise I function at half levels. I got myself nice and wet, then reached for my shampoo. As I was lathering up, the smell of the shampoo cascaded over me. I breathed it in, and my brain was bombarded with the word "Thunder Bay". I paused for a moment, letting this thought sink in. Could a smell really signal a place to me? I thought about this for a bit, and realized that, yes, smells do really signal time and place for me. I realized, when I was in Tillsonburg, that the smell of Dove shampoo reminds me of first year. When I contemplated as to why this was, I realized that all through first year I used (almost exclusively) Dove shampoo and conditioner. Similarly, whenever I smell Garnier Fruitcus (however the hell you spell that) shampoo it reminds me of second year (for the same reasons as previously stated). I couldn't think of what shampoo I associated with third or fourth year, but I know that whenever I smell Bed Head by Tigi it will remind me of this summer, because that's primarily what I used. And now, I realized, Infusium23will always remind me of Thunder Bay. Weird how that happens.
I also know that certain perfumes remind me of certain time periods in my life as well. Whenever I smell Ralph by Raplh Lauren, Eternity Moment by Calvin Klein, or Swiss Army I am reminded of my time with Adam. Hypnose by Lancolm reminds me of fourth year, as does my bottle of Hot Couture (Givency). I've got Armani Mania to remind me of Thunder Bay. I find that smells will trigger memories in my more than anything else. In fact, even seeing something familiar doesn't trigger memories as easily as smell.
I'm reminded of a moment in my life that I care to forget, but is one that will forever be tied to me, in the form of smell. When I was in grade 4, my Grandma Carson died from stomach cancer. Being only 10 years old, her death didn't hit me as hard as it would now. It hit my Dad, however, very hard. It triggered his depression, and he lapsed into a very severe bought of it. For two or three years, he was extremely moody and cranky. It was a hard period for my family, because it seemed like he was always mad. It was never really discussed that my Dad had a disease, so I had no idea what was going on. When I was in grade 6, things got really bad. Christmas had become my Dad's most hated time of the year, probably because he missed his mother. Whatever, the causes, he was miserable to be around. He openly said he hated Christmas, and refused to be involved in anything. He really withdrew, the Christmas of 1996...it was a little upsetting for me at the time, but I was getting used to his moods. Anyways, Christmas passed with little incidence....then around New Years, we decided to go visit some family friends in Simcoe. They just got a puppy, so we decided to let them borrow our dog cage, for the puppy to sleep in. For some reason, we had difficulty fitting it into our van (which baffles me now, since it was a VAN), and this really upset my Dad. He started screaming and yelling, and my Mom and him got into a huge fight. The whole time, my sister, brother and I were sitting in the van, ready to go. My brother started to cry, and then my sister. Soon, I was telling them to stop fighting, and I too broke into tears. Finally, my Dad stormed off, saying he wasn't going to come. My Mom slammed the cage into the back of the van, got into the car, and peeled out of the driveway. The three of us were still crying in the back. My Mom, in her nicest, softest voice, told us to stop crying. She said Daddy was just cranky, and that when we got back he'd be all better. So we stopped crying, and enjoyed the car ride, and the subsequent visit to our friends.
When we got home that night, Dad wasn't home. We walked into the kitchen, and Mom told me the set the table for dinner. We were going to have Western Omelettewhich is basically scrambled eggs with onions and green peppers, that you put on toast and eat like a sandwich. I notice that she's reading a piece of paper on the counter. She's crying. I ask her whats wrong, and she says "Nothing, finish setting the table". She beats the eggs, and fries the onions and green peppers, before mixing them all together. The smell of the onions, peppers, and eggs cooking floats around the kitchen.
Once dinner is ready,we all sit down to eat. Someone, I can't remember who, asks where Daddy is. "Your Dad decided he needed some time away" was along the lines of what she said. She said this with some contempt in her voice. I'm not exactly sure what was going through her head, and I've never had the guts to ask her. Anyways, as I'm chewing on my first bite I notice red and blue flashing lights outside the window. I point them out to my mother, who puts her sandwich down on her plate and sits perfectly still. A moment later the doorbell rings. My Mom gets up, and in a choked voice tells us to go into the family room. We all put our sandwiches down, barely started, and go into the family room. I shut the door behind us.
After a few moments, my Mom opens the door to the family room. She's crying. We're all seating in the middle of the floor, I don't know what we are doing. I just remember being there. My Mom kneels down on the floor, and tells us that the police were here to tell us that Daddy is very sick, and he tried to kill himself. We all burst into tears. Being the oldest, I'm sure I am the only one with a clear grasp, at the time, of what this meant. I remember wondering how he tried to do it, and where. I'm the one who asks if he is alright. Mom says he's at the hospital, which is just down the street from our house. I ask how long he will be there, and she says "Until he gets better". We're all crying, and hugging. I'm not hungry anymore, and I doubt anyone else is either. All I can think of is my Dad, and all I can smell is those dreaded Western Omelet.e's
To this day, whenever someone makes a Western Omelette's I refuse to eat them. The very smell of them brings back a rush of emotion. I feel like I am 12 years old again, being told that my Dad tried to kill himself. The very smell of them makes me feel weak, powerless, and unloved. I know now that my Dad didn't try to do it because he didn't love me; he did it because he was a very sick man. He was so depressed that he thought his existence was negatively impacting everyone around him. Suicide is a very selfish act, but at the same time it's a desperate cry for help. My Dad needed help, and he got it. While that period of my life was probably the hardest thing I have ever had to go through, it made me a stronger person. It also opened my eyes up to the devastating illness that is Depression. While I can sometimes see signs of it in myself, I know that I won't ever let myself get that bad.
In case you were wondering, my Dad got the help that he needed. He was away, in hospitals, most of the year that I was 12, but I would rather have him be gone for that year and return the man he is now, than have him gone from my life forever. I'd like to say they cured my Dad, but there really is no cure for depression. However, when he finally came home, he was no longer the moody, angry Dad that I had grown to know; he was back to his playful self, the Dad that had existed prior to my Grandma Carson dying. He's still that Dad, and I love him more than anything.
Anyways. I totally didn't intend for this post to be this personal, or this sad. However, once I get started down a certain path, it's hard for me to stop. I guess it's probably better that you read about this part of my life, because it really shaped who I am as a person. I'm a strong person because I could withstand that, and I can withstand a hell of a lot more.
The only thing I can't stand, is the smell of Western Omelette. Keep those away from me, hee hee.
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