International Women's Day

Still Running with the Wolves

Photo by T. Fitch / concept by G. Cornwall, September 2016

I couldn't have been more than seven or eight when I pulled a David Carradine and kung fu kicked the adult front tooth clean out of the mouth of a teenage neighbour boy for sneering at me and telling me I wasn't supposed to be playing in my own fenced-in backyard without a shirt on because I was a girl and girls, after all, were inappropriate at any age if they were found playing, shirtless.

I had already had enough of being made different by others for not doing what was expected of me and not looking as I was expected to look as a girl. Of course, by that age, I had already experienced numerous sexual assaults so I already had a "gloves off" attitude toward males by eight years old. Self-defence was my only recourse in that age of "don't tell" and I felt I would have been blamed and shamed had I told. The one time I did tell as a child, it did not serve me well. Admittedly, my violence toward this particular teenage boy stemmed out of my fear and frustration from previous attacks. He took the result of all of my pent up rage at being ridiculed for something so pure and simple as playing outside with the pleasure of the warmth of the summer sun on my child's chest.

Flash forward almost fifty years. The erosion, the constant wearing away and demeaning of my pure spirit, my strong and good woman's body, the body that still gets the once over on the days I wear my jeans and check shirt rather than one of my dresses or skirts and dare to enter the public restroom, is still happening. It never stopped happening. The barrage of comments and the threat I've been to others through my very existence persists. The insult of my way of being, felt by many males, keeps my existence under constant threat of violence and my behaviour checked for fear of repercussion.

I cannot count the number of times when I identified as a woman who loves women that I was told, "What a waste," the number of times I have told my truth of being flashed, beaten, intimidated and discriminated against and lost out on employment because of how I was born, only to be met with an eye roll or "You need to let go of it," or "Oh, just get over it," never having it acknowledged as unconscionable damage and trauma that needs a federal apology because we have not been treated with the common decency the human rights act should provide. Where is our damn apology let alone compensation for the price we have paid physically, emotionally, spiritually and financially?!

Is it better now?
Yeah, some. Is it perfect? Hell, no. Does it need to be made right with the truths told and heard and an apology made? Damn right it does!

 None of us are less than for the way we are made. We should be held up in our difference and loved for our unique way of seeing without having to mutilate our bodies and spirits to fit in.

Many colourful threads woven together make strong cloth.

Men, if a woman doesn't fit your idea of what a woman should be, get the hell over it. That should be your counselling bill, not hers. Get over your entitlement to every woman's body and way of being. It's 2017. We are neither your chattels nor your puppets. Learn. Grow. Challenge yourselves to be better and to do better.

Women. Do what you do for you. Don't buy into the BS. If we stand together, it will aid our freedom. Your beauty has its strength and truth in your spirit, not in the way you are viewed by men.

You are love, just as you are. You are equal to your power as life-bringers, protectors and teachers. The man behind the curtain with all of the perceived power is a brute, a liar and a coward.

The cost to me for a lack of basic human rights protections has been epic. So don't tell me, "oh, isn't it great now," because: a) it's not that great and b) there needs to be, at minimum, a national apology for the harm done. 

Even the act of writing this is another risk to my well-being and so many people will just say that we should be quiet and hide ourselves so no more bad happens, but it is just not true. Bad things will happen anyway, but healing cannot begin until the truth is spoken, heard and acknowledged by the perpetrators and that means everyone who stands by, unscathed and silent, complicit. 

I believe the stats indicate one in three women are victims of violence; however, I venture that, if one woman is harmed, we are all harmed. If you have been harmed, please reach out to professional resources near you. There are worldwide organizations and local groups run by women for women to assist you. Please do all you can to stay connected and to know that it is not your fault and that you are deserving of love, a life of freedom and respect. 

March 8, 2017 is International Women's Day. #BeBoldForChange. Acknowledging this and using it as a day to learn, expand your views, challenge misogyny and inequality of the sexes (I will not say gender as that is just a social construct made up to enforce inequality). Use it as a launching point. Listen to women who have been harmed and acknowledge it without trying to wipe away the pain with a harmful phrase like "But isn't it better now?" Try using that phrase in your mind when you think of any systemic harm done. We MUST recognize what has come to pass for generations and own it in order to move forward in a good way. 

I hope you will use March 8 as a place from which to step forward in a good way - with recognition of what has happened and the harm it has done, what has changed, what we can do today to make positive change and what we want to do to make the future safer for every girl on her path to a healthy, strong, equal womanhood. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. March 5, 2017

Fathers and Family Memories

My father, my brother and me

Probably in The Muskokas, Ontario

Circa 1965-66

Every time I look at this picture, I laugh to myself. It evokes exactly what it was like when my brother and I were little kids. I have two older brothers as well, one of whom may have been taking this picture, or it could have been taken by my mother. In this image, my dad is probably taking us swimming at the lake. My parents both loved to swim and my youngest brother and I took instruction at the local pool and at the camp we attended from age 4 onward until we were sufficiently competent not to drown ourselves without great effort. My brother is being a ham. He loved to be a ham. I was likely being attacked by mosquitoes or blackflies; they thrived on my lily white complexion. 

The reason I put this picture up is that without these old photos and our home movies, which I recently watched with my girlfriend, who was seeing them for the first time, I would only remember the childhood hardships I faced. I wouldn't remember that my family had two sides. Not only were there epic battles, difficulties, inherited patterns of abuse and ineptitude in dealing with the cycle of abuse, there were also huge efforts put in by both my parents and my eldest brother Chris (RIP) to give us two youngest kids the time of our lives. We had great vacation adventures throughout Ontario, the eastern United States and in England - the homeland of my family.

Without watching these home movies now with people who love me, I wouldn't see my childhood through their eyes. Granted, it's not like we filmed the bad times - that would have been totally weird, but it really makes a difference to see the gargantuan effort my mum put into birthdays and Christmases. My girlfriend pointed out how many cakes were made by my mum, with four children having birthdays and Christmas cakes and puddings made every year - taking weeks and weeks to prepare and plan parties and buy presents. Every summer, they took us away with them to cottages and on road trips - sometimes on business trips during the summer as well. They both worked - running their own company from the time they returned from England for the second time in 1961, with my mother heavily pregnant with me, entertaining the husband and wife of the parent company in England until mere weeks before she was to give birth. We were always impeccably dressed, heading to camp, riding lessons, theatre productions, restaurant experiences, day trips to different gardens and on trips through North America and England. They did a HUGE amount for us and included us in many unique learning experiences. I am endlessly grateful for the cultural experiences they provided. It must have been exhausting with four kids and a business.

My father supported my leisure pursuits. He took me to every soccer practice and game - shared tips and laughed at my tenacity in the net. I remember the time I dove for the ball to prevent a goal just as the player was going to kick, taking the kick to my mouth, leaving my teeth slightly chipped and my gums bleeding. My coach came over and told me not to be a baby. I lost it and told him to "f*** off" - which did not please him very well. My father tried to be upset but was also holding back laughter as his eight or nine year old daughter was behaving like an FCUK player already. He did make me go to my coach's house that night to apologize so I could learn a lesson in team spirit and so I could keep my place on the team. He said it was probably best not to mention the incident to my mum if I wanted to continue to play. I never told her.

He was the one who would have bought me the stellar Pearl red sparkle surf drum set I coveted in the window of the Richmond Hill Drum Shop. My mum ...well, not so keen as it wasn't "a very lady-like instrument" to  play. I still think I could have been a rock star and did in fact build a set in the basement out of pots and pans and buckets and tin pie plates - needs must.

I still think my mum had the hardest role. She lost the love of her life in the war and married my father afterward. They look pretty happy in the beginning and when we were young but things kind of went pear shaped for them after that. It had to be so hard for her - losing her first love, giving up any idea of being independent in the late 1940s, getting married, having kids and working full time while trying to maintain a household and half of the family business. I was pretty happy when they finally split up and home was fairly quiet again. I didn't actually want to live with either of them but never said anything as I was aware that would have hurt their feelings. My dad didn't offer to take us so we went with my mum. She did her best and raised us well as a single mum with a small stipend of child support. 

The thing is, when we were little - there were good days and bad. Both my parents brought there own history of abuse into the relationship and the subsequent family. People back then didn't really do therapy and even when women started to look to it for survival and recovery, men did not so much. Generations of history told them to "man up" and get over it. Don't cry. Don't complain. Laugh it off ...and strike out, often in abhorrent ways as a result of suppression of emotions and pain.

It makes me sad that in this day and age, many men around the world still shun their hearts. You are allowed to feel, you do get to reach out for help and you do have a chance to stop the hurt. 

My wish for every single male out there on this Fathers' Day is that you can stop and reflect on the beliefs that you carry about yourself as a male and think of your place in society. Think about the ways you hurt and the ways you may have hurt others and find healthy, positive ways to move forward with a peaceful heart and spirit. Perhaps some of you have suffered at the hands of your own fathers or wish you could express your feelings in a safe and peaceful way. Give yourself permission to do so. You will benefit from letting go of what is not working for you in your life.

I'm not a male bodied person and I do not subscribe to gender roles so maybe I'm the last person in the world who should be taking about this. I only know what I have seen in my own family. I believe the males with whom I grew up had so much potential, but the harms they experienced, passed on from one generation to the next, perhaps as sons of warriors, left them hurt and ill-equipped to deal with those hurts. This means that their hurts held them back and manifested in behaviours which held them back even more. They are intelligent and talented; however, a large amount energy goes into trying to find ways to cope with their individual hurts without healthy expression and assistance in processing. 

As a woman, I "allowed" myself to go to counselling and bore the thousands of dollars of cost to keep myself from being a complete emotional right-off as an adult and I am still a work in progress, so I can't imagine what it would be like to disallow myself the healing path I took and still be an okay, non-violent person. I feel sad that some men won't allow themselves the space for healing - not only for them but for everyone they encounter thereafter because the dis-function leaks. It comes out and not in good ways: spurts of anger, violence, self-harm, addiction... the list goes on. 

The fact is, if you aren't processing the harm in some way, it will manifest in illness, violence and harm - to self or others; therefore, now, when I think of the term, "man-up", I think of it as dealing with your history, processing your pain, crying, and feeling what it is you have experienced - both good and bad. I wish this gift for everyone on this fathers' day. 

For my part, I'm grateful for the kind and loving things my father did and I am frustrated by the unkind, abusive things he did and the impact of those acts - it didn't have to be that way and it is up to this generation to stop the cycle. I've done my best to end it and pass on to the young people in my life the lessons I have learned. May we all do our best to love, learn and recover. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. June 19, 2016

A family vacation in England (the homeland)

Photo - BF Cornwall, c. 1966

Enough

My mother - E.A. Jay - warrior woman

Photographer unknown, likely 1943

One of the many strange symptoms arising from PTSD, and there are many, is the memory of previous traumas re-lived emotionally as though they are occurring again in this moment. One night this past week, I remembered, in full detail, the evening my mother passed away, even though she died 34 years ago in June when I was just 20 years old.

My eldest brother and I had both been visiting her - a rare occurrence as we generally took turns so we needn't be there every night. We had taken her outside to take in the late spring evening air where she likely had a cigarette. We took her to the cafeteria for a yogurt and back up to her room where we waited on the bench outside her room while the nurses readied her for bed before we came in to say goodnight.

Suddenly, one of the nurses came out and spoke calmly yet urgently, "You need to come in now. It's happening." ...Or something to that effect. I remember not understanding her. What was happening? What was all the fuss about? We were just sitting with her and chatting, even though it was difficult to understand her words because the ALS had affected her speech.

Nonetheless, we dutifully followed the nurse back into my mum's private room where I immediately gained understanding of what was happening. There she lay, struggling for breath and speaking words that sounded to me like, "Hold me up. Hold me up." Over and over and over she repeated it and so we did it. Chris and I on either side, we held her in a sitting position in her bed. Wherever she was going, she wasn't wanting to go there lying down. That wouldn't have been her style. 

We come from a long line of warriors. She was tough, my mum, tough but refined as well. Fine clothes, fine wine, a love of the arts. She was something, but that evening, she was my mum and I, her 20 year old daughter. She didn't know I was gay - well, she knew but it hadn't been discussed. It showed in her obvious disappointment in me and my lack of femininity. I felt as though I were a bear in a tutu when forced into a dress.

Chris and I, both gay - 2 children out of 4. That seemed perfect to me but not to her.

That night I felt so much anger, frustration, disbelief and terror as we telephoned overseas to tell her sister and her mother, her niece and nephew, and everyone here - "She is gone."

It was horrifying and right to be there as she passed away. Horrifying, because I was so young and I didn't know what to do or how to be. We'd been caring for her, Chris and I, for two and a half years, but I don't suppose you are never prepared - even for an inevitable death. I felt as though she didn't know me very well nor did she appear to approve of the woman I was becoming, but she did love me fiercely, the child she had brought into this world and it was right for me to be there that night, if for no other reason than that. 

I went off the rails after she died. I developed full-blown agoraphobia and was lucky enough to get into a treatment program at the very hospital in which my mum had spent her last year. It took me years and epic amounts of counselling to get myself back on track.

By the mid 1980s, I had already been beaten on the streets of Toronto for looking and being different, been sexually abused as a child, sexually assaulted as a young woman, harassed in my workplaces and shamed in my college - to name a few of the crimes and indignities.

The PTSD has been building as a result of these experiences. I work with good medical professionals and I have worked on and off with the same psychologist in Victoria for the past 20 years - and many before her. Sometimes I've had extended health benefits and sometimes I haven't, but I've paid thousands (not an exaggeration) in order to be a functioning and, at times, exceptional being.

It's so sad to me that all this has been triggered by a method of information sharing. I think we can do better together. We can be kind and careful with people when causing upheaval.

We are delicate beings who want to do well. Let us support each other in doing so. Let us come together in strength, diligence and the desire to care for one another. Let us move away from fear - fear of difficult conversations, fear of trusting one another, fear of everything. Let us bring all of our individual threads together to make strong cloth.

I didn't do this to myself. I have done nothing wrong to be sick like this. I am not a pariah. I deserve love and support and wellness. I am doing everything in my power to be kind and true, strong and well.  I will give these things to myself because I deserve them. I share my story here in the hope that others will feel less alone if undergoing similar experiences and because I want to be seen and heard.

I have had to be very busy while I have been laid off. There is an enormous amount to figure out and do - even answering the enquiries of the kind people who want to know what happened and what I am going to do and how I am and if I have yet done this, that and the other. Please know that I am grateful for the concern and care.

Even without the triggering of the PTSD, the entire situation is stressful and painful. With the PTSD, it has taken every ounce of my energy and strength to get up and get through each day.

I ask myself why I am writing this, sharing such personal stories: probably like everyone, I just want to know, "Can you see me? Can you hear me?" And "Does what I say mean anything to you?"  (paraphrased from Oprah)

I just want you to say "yes" to these three questions and mean it. I want you to acknowledge the path has been difficult and continues to be difficult, that I have survived and often thrived despite significant harms. Acknowledge that at every workplace I have had two jobs: the one I was hired to do and the one of fighting to get to the same starting line as everyone else because of my lack of gender and my sexual orientation. I don't need to hear "Isn't it better now?" and "I can't believe that happened!" Oh, it all happened alright and more - more that I may never mention in a public forum and, yes, it is better now (here anyway), but that does not negate the brutal history and harm done to the lesbian and gay community. 

...But could you just say this anyway: 

"Over the years, you got the short end of the stick. I've made errant assumptions and made thoughtless comments and you have been held back from opportunities because of who you are and people have isolated you because you are a woman who doesn't subscribe to gender assumptions and expectations that do not fit. I acknowledge the harm..."

I could keep going with a script, but I can't. I'm sick of, and sick from, asking for the acknowledgement that I have been treated as "less than." I know you're sick of hearing me ask for it. I just need to find a way around it. This mountain ain't moving in my lifetime. 

I can no longer take the punishments that having a voice around gender and sexual orientation have brought. I just want to do a good job in a quiet space and hope and pray I will be left alone to feel safer in my life than I have before.

It's 2016. This lesbian is stopping her fight. I need and want a quiet and peaceful life. 

I will continue to write and I will continue to post on this blog, but no more about this for now. I am weary and I need to heal.

I'm off to the ocean to watch the waves make sand of rocks upon the shore.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. April 24, 2016

Lana'i, Hawaii

Gillian Cornwall, c. December 2012

The Power of Care

Riding the British Railway and Minding My Gaps

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

Blood

The quiet, persistent strength of my English cousin

Personal power without apology

and so it should be.

Greater than the works of Blake 

or any art that man can make.

She breathes on through storms

bigger than The Tempest born

with peaceful, treasured moments

after hurricanes and all the harms

oft this world has deemed the norm.

The Power of Care is an immeasurable thing and not one I would choose to drift by without mention. Before I left for the UK, I was a depleted soul - eroded by the tides of time and the "thousand natural (and unnatural) shocks that flesh is heir to".... I wrote to my cousin saying that I needed to come home, to be with my blood, to restore myself in a safe and peaceful place. She provided all of that for me and more. Some time had passed since I was able to simply be, to let go, to not have to take care of anything and to have the space created where someone took care of me.

The healing that can take place when someone is caring for your basic needs: clean clothes, food, transportation ....wine :-) - it's astounding. It really gives you time to be, to recover. I think a big part is being able to let go and feel safe in doing so. My cousin restored this art work that is my life, my being, and for that I am eternally grateful. 

I don't think we HAVE to go away to allow ourselves this space for healing and restoration, though it is an asset and a privilege of which I am completely aware. For me, breaking with routine in time, place and people was essential to the shifting of thought and the remapping of a way forward. Additionally, it was mildly terrifying because flying half way around the world to be with someone I hadn't seen for three decades, others I had never met - and to completely break with routine - well, it takes a bit of letting go. 

...and it was good. 

I want to say too, that there were many others on this journey who aided in my healing - some of you may not even realize it. From Gabby and the team at the Contini Cannonball Restaurant in Edinburgh who made me feel so incredibly special on the evening of my dinner there, to the teams at The Roxburghe Hotel in Edinburgh and The Royal York Hotel in York who made my stays beyond comfortable and into the realm of epic, lifetime memories, to my friends in the Cotswolds who included me in their family reunion in order to give me the chance to learn about Richard, my mum's wartime fiance, to my dear friend, talented artist and best selling author, Sheila Jeffries who has an unfathomable healing capacity through her extraordinary ability to love and share her heart and mind. Thanks to Battels Arts Cafe for buying us our tea after hearing the story my cousin and I shared. Thanks to Marc for the use of his amazing condo in Canary Wharf. Thanks to the river boat captain on the Thames who shared the history of the river from his heart with such humour and passion. Thanks to Trish and Susannah for inviting me into their hearts and homes. Thanks to all the kind and friendly, hard-working folks on the Transport for London system who helped me find my way around and the fellow at the Canadian Embassy who took time, just to have a chat. Huge thanks to April and Trich who invited me to their homes in Ireland even though I didn't make it to see you this time. I am so deeply moved by your generosity. To everyone whose path I crossed on my own healing path, I am grateful and certain that you have healed me through your kindness. 

When people ask me "What was the favourite part of your trip?," I've tried to pick a place, but all the places were amazing and incomparable. The truth of it is, it was the people and the interactions that stood out as much or more than the places. Even within the great cathedrals of St Paul and York Minster, my awe stands with those who put their life's work into the art and building of the places. It is inevitably the people that bring the places to life, from The Shambles in York to the River Thames, to the Tower of London, to Brighton Pier. 

Hearts. Caring. Giving what we have to freely give of ourselves to one another in order to increase the light of the world - that's the stuff of healing. That is where I am doing my best to live now. It feels like a pretty good place to be and I hope to see you here. 

With gratitude and love to all of you who hold up a light for me when my path grows dim and gratitude for all of you who have the courage to share your difficulties and truth with me. With every action and interaction we form our own future - let us do our best to do it with kindness and compassion.

With love to my cousin for her strength, candour and healing ways. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. November 1, 2015

The Armour of the Heart

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

My PRIDE

Pride Steps

Gillian Cornwall, c July 2014

Ultimately, we all become the victim of our own oppressive practices. Your best bet has always been to start, stay and finish with kindness.

In the face of your greatest fears, keep your kindness close, for in your kindness you will plant the seeds of reason.

I just entered a contest in which I had to say of whom I am most proud, and why, in order to win a box of chocolates. If I do win, I will have only one or two and give away the rest as I struggle to become a less large version of my current physical self! 

I had no idea what I would write for this contest as I started but, in light of everything I have been going through recently and in light of it being PRIDE season around the world, here is what I said:

"I am most proud of myself for making it through 35 years of LGBT* advocacy - making it through the street beatings, the jeers, the never feeling safe, the glacially-paced social, employment and political change, for being proud of myself when my family wasn't, for advocating for me and the LGBT* population everywhere I have been, despite the pain, the cost and the loss. I am proud that I have stayed this long, despite my sadness and weariness, realizing this is no longer my baggage to carry alone. I will hold it up and say, "This is what it has cost and more. Never forget." I am proud of who I have become and to know that our stories are worth hearing and acknowledging - that they must be heard so that those of us who have fought so hard for equality and those of us who still fight so hard, can heal. I am proud to know that we are powerful and our words are so much more valuable  than a box of chocolates. Thank you for this opportunity."

One of my next projects will be collecting the stories of people who have been oppressed, to ensure they are heard and acknowledged, to ensure that there is opportunity to heal so we can move forward with an understanding of what has passed. It is not truly healing without recognizing the past and where we want to go in light of it: who we have been, who we are now and who we would like to be - both as individuals and as a society of loving, caring, peaceful beings. 

This PRIDE season, I respectfully request that you ask someone, who has been fighting the good fight for awhile, what it was like and how they are. Listen to the stories and grow to understand the importance behind the rainbow. 

With love and respect and a wish for all of us to walk our healing paths.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. June 28, 2015

Self Portrait

June 2015

Father's Day

The Cornwalls - circa 1964

Photographer Unknown

Ah, the joy of family photos -particularly those with small kids. I do not look happy. I can't recall this moment but I recall the feeling. 

There is Chris in the back left - he was a great brother and a dutiful son. I miss him. My dad was probably trying to make some kind of joke to get us all to be happy and laughing. Phil, my youngest brother on the bottom left was probably being imaginative and pretending he was launching us all into space or something.... My mum was likely being very proper and trying to simply get a nice family photo for our wall. As I said, I was probably sitting there bawling because, Bruce, my middle brother to my left in the picture was likely bugging me in some way or I was just cranky and tired. Who knows but, valiant effort photographer, valiant effort. 

Now that I am 53, I think back on my past in a different light than I did in my twenties and thirties and forties. Gad, I am aging - but that's better than the alternative! At times, I still feel like the wild child I was at 19 ...other days, not so much.

Anyway, I think of my family life as a child differently now. Not just because I have had years and thousands and thousands of dollars of counselling but also because distance from my own childhood loans a different light to it all. My family life was tempestuous and brutal at times. Bad s--t happened. My dad and mum had issues that they both brought into the relationship long before we were twinkles in their eyes. They were folks with difficult pasts and little resource to resolve their own childhood traumas. I wish they had found the kind of amazing counselling that I managed to find for myself along the way. I would like to believe they did their best - even if some days their best was less than optimal. 

My father was abusive in different ways throughout his life. He grew up at the hands of an abuser and so the cycle carried on through him. I do not mean to say he was awful all the time. This is where, now, the child Gillian has healed somewhat - though the scars still ache some days. I can remember the good days too. My dad was the guy who drove me to soccer every week and stayed silent to my mum after I was kicked in the teeth or dinged my head off the goal post. He knew I could tough it out and he didn't want her to stop me from playing. He saw my potential in sports and arts and supported my efforts and abilities. He didn't seem to want me to be a different person than that who I was (and who I am to this day in many ways).

He was the one who supported me when I wanted the drum set for Christmas - though my mum put the kibosh on that one. Apparently drums weren't a ladylike choice of instrument in the sixties... He drove us all over North America on family vacations. He bought us treats. He got to be the good guy when my mum was mad at us. 

He did his best despite the errors he made in raising us on our paths to adulthood. I can't say that I've totally let it go because I know my potential and that of my brothers, as adults, was impacted by the abuse. It takes something away from a person and it takes a very long time, if ever, to restore that sense of self-pride and ability. For many victims of abuse, you never get it back fully. You simply learn to be an advocate for goodness and understanding. You educate. You watch for it in younger folks and help them along their paths if you can. You show your scars and explain the road you have travelled. You use the lesson of your parents lives as your greatest inheritance. This is how the cycle is broken. This is how you learn to understand and, perhaps, forgive. You needn't forget. Remember your path. Remember the road you have travelled. Remember the good and the bad in the people who raised you. Allow yourself the time and the space required to heal. Forgive, if you can. 

The pain carried and doled out by others is not yours to carry forward through time. It's okay to put it down. You deserve to be joyful. If you have good memories of people who did bad things, that's okay. There are acts of kindness in each life. If you have not yet dealt with parental issues or abuse, please get help for yourself. You deserve to be unburdened and to find a life of joy. There are many resources available and your path is your path. You do not need to follow a prescribed path to wellness. Be kind and gentle with yourself. 

I wish I could travel back through time, to England, to the houses of my grandparents, or their parents before them, to provide a healing energy on those homes. I wish I could unravel that painful history and give my parents a better life. I'm grateful for the life they have given me and the opportunity to sit here today, to write this piece and to share it with you. I hope they can see from beyond and know that I am sorry for their pain, that I understand and that I am still well enough to walk my own path. 

Love heals. I breathe in the healing love of the world and return it to the world with my own breath exhaled. We are one. We are connected and together; we have all we need to heal and live well. 

On this Father's Day, I remember the guy who did his best and let him know, in the great beyond, that I am well. I am strong. I am grateful for my life. Thanks Dad.

-Gillian Cornwall, c.June 15, 2014

Edited June 21, 2915

Summer in Ontario 

at one of the many lake resorts we were lucky enough to visit

Me, Phil and our Dad

circa 1966.

If you are being hurt by someone, there are resources to help you:

Victoria: 

Victoria Sexual Assault Centre: http://vsac.ca/

Canada:

Kids Help Phone: http://www.kidshelpphone.ca/teens/home/splash.aspx

Worldwide:

RAINN: https://rainn.org/get-help/sexual-assault-and-rape-international-resources

WHO: http://www.who.int/entity/en/