Sugar Packets by Tammy Storey

Sugar Packets

by Tammy Storey

Content Warning: Mention of Suicide, Drug Use

I’ve definitely got it all figured out, what it will look like when we can all safely gather again, our family of ten. There will be three generations under one roof.  The patriarch, my father-in-law, will lean back in his worn, sagging recliner, sipping straight Talisker with a drop of water. I will be observing him, wondering if he’s got his psychiatrist glasses on. The two toddlers will learn how to be patient as we each take turns doling out huge hugs, and we will bask in warm and fuzzies. My husband and I, both in our early thirties, will partake in the ritual celebration of singing along to Dolly Parton or Dylan or Queen, on repeat, until one of us goes insane. I will convince someone to play Scrabble with me, in between the ongoing Crokinole tournament, and my opponent will be in pain due to the dreaded “Crokinole finger.” If you are hoping for quiet and serene, this is not the place for you. The dog will convince someone that she hasn’t, in fact, gobbled umpteen biscuits from the closet in the laundry room, and I will find her near the baby grand piano, crumbs of evidence on the soft carpet, paws together while she munches away contentedly. She is old and I have given up, and I just want her to be happy.  Dusty vintage pastel building blocks will be dumped onto our legs, and we will forget and stumble over them. The matriarch, my mother-in-law, will go overboard as usual with rich cooking, and we will not eat in moderation, and instead pour two ladles of perfect gravy onto our plates now and suffer gastrointestinal distress later. We recognize this as her labour of love, and this is what makes her heart swell. And when you read this, you may think, “this is what a happy family should look like,” and I want to assure you that we often are. But for my part, I often lament that our familial tie, particularly with my father-in-law, is not as strong as I wish it could be. I’ve been reminding myself, particularly this year, that he is trying his best and is only human, his actions only ever come from a place of alleviating anguish, and I also need to work on my inability to trust. 

There’s a particular memory that resurfaces in my mind: I am nine, and my mother has just committed suicide. Numerous coping strategies are being deployed on my behalf. I’m being made to sit in a bare room on a cold industrial chair. The chair backing is pressing against my bare skin. I’m wearing my favourite t-shirt, with a cracked smiley face print, and it keeps rising and I’m tugging it down hopelessly. The drabness is engulfing, and the colour scheme makes me look physically unhealthy. I’m being encouraged to colour my feelings. I’m silent, for I am newly orphaned. I have met way too many new people in the past two weeks and am too tired to express that this is not what I need, I just want my mom. 

“Sometimes, we can’t properly communicate our grief, so this is a safe way to release your bottled-up pain. Release, now. Use the purple crayon, dear.” 

This isn’t grief I’m feeling though – I won’t even begin to feel an onslaught of that intense emotion until a decade later, when I am finally safe with my husband. But I know the therapist means well. I acquiesce to her request, and dutifully colour the flower. I am rewarded with a comment from my foster mom that evening. 

“The art therapist believes you’re not fully processing your mother’s death. You’ve got to try harder.” 

I’ve been given myriad suggestions on how to handle the trauma of my mom’s passing; you may have found these options helpful if you’ve ever experienced a similar loss, and for that I am genuinely glad. To me, every suggestion was a stark reminder of being implicitly judged, and not truly known, and I was left with either receiving the suggestion with grace (a strength I am thankful for as it prevented me from bitterness) or slapping the doctor for subjecting me to ignorance and rushing out of the room. I’m not trying to paint myself as a hero here. I did restrain myself from the latter, in case you’re wondering.  

“So, have you tried a Zen garden?”

“Have you tried therapy?”

“Have you tried cognitive behaviour therapy?”

“Have you tried DBT, CBD?”

“Do you just want to escape?”

“Have you tried group therapy?”

“Have you tried a rock garden?” 

“Do you meditate?”

“Do you eat magnesium and calcium?”

“Do you take melatonin?”

“You’re on the wrong medication.”

“You shouldn’t be on medication.”

“You should just keep trying all the different cocktails of medication.”

“You’re not processing.”

I have also internalized my trepidation around the practice of psychiatry, as I would routinely meet with numerous doctors duly equipped with the typical tools of their trade – therapy, medication, psychological assessments. Also, lots of hemming and umhmm’s and chicken scratch notetaking. I don’t recommend that any nine-year-old spend their free time here, but alas, I didn’t really have a say. This all-knowing and formulaic world ran antithetical to the mass swirl of unanswered questions and uncertainty that rudely barged into my world. I was also fighting with a lowered propensity to trust others. How could I be vulnerable again, when loss was such a grim reality in life, and I was suffering and couldn’t seem to find the comfort of understanding?  Also, weren’t these questions universal, and why was everyone trying to distract me from finding the answers? Hello, I am on a mission here!

 I often wondered if such acknowledgement from the doctors on the inability to answer these existential questions would mean the loss of the illusion of authority and control, and when I am feeling quite sour, I smarmily refer to this stage of tumultuous life as “sugar-packet” guiding. There always seemed to be a little more knowledge to impart, but never quite enough wisdom to share.  I look back on that little girl and I feel compassion for her, because she will have to grow up faster than most of her peers, and profound grief will eventually become her constant companion. Most kids her age just wanted a Tamagotchi. She wasn’t trying to be difficult, and she wasn’t trying to be oppositional.  

And so, I recognize it is not going to be a sprint, but more like a marathon to get over this deep-seated confusion and pain. 

It is important that you know my father-in-law has never treated me like a patient, never tried to fix me, never told me how I should feel, never offered worn out platitudes. But despite this awareness, I can never let myself fully relax around him. He graciously replaced my bike when it was stolen, but in a particular time of distress did not address the emotional pain I was in. I paid rent for a year, and he unexpectedly returned the money back in full. He volunteered to teach me how to drive, but also informed me that I may have a visual spatial processing disorder, something that is sorely misunderstood in the medical world, and this advice was unsolicited and added to another pile of problems with no solutions that I was dealing with at the time. Sometimes, I play badminton in the yard, and I wonder if he is evaluating the severity of my disorder with every missed swing, and then I have to stop and question the accuracy of my thoughts. In darker moments, I’ve wondered if his aim was to rebuild or to destroy my psyche. In time, I am able to see clearly again, and realize I need to check my prejudice.

I can’t pinpoint the exact turning point when I realized that many assumptions that had been made on my part needed to be challenged, but I know my husband was instrumental in helping me. We often have evening chats; he’s hands down the better cook in the family, and I help by sprawling out on the floor, legs splayed apart, rubbing the dog’s tummy while he faithfully chops the veggies. He is hardworking and stoic, an all-around better person than me. He’s put up with my crap for thirteen years, making him one of the most understanding and patient people I’ve ever known. My daily dose of complicated grief faithfully arrives on schedule around midday. It usually pervades my whole being until early eve.  When I am prostrate with grief, my husband, who deserves a medal for valour, tries to help me navigate this disorienting and confusing state. I also like to dip into the same topic pool that I’ve used for only over a decade now. 

“What the hell is the point of going meta on grieving if it keeps returning, I just watch it returning, but I can’t make it go away or make it be less painful or less exhausting or make you less exhausted or stop talking about myself when it’s here?” 

This is a new thing I’m trying; maybe if I rant with sheer force, I’ll process through the grief faster and as a bonus my husband will get to listen to his podcast for 5 minutes. Nope, not working. The dog is trying a new thing where she rests a paw on my knee while she gets her belly scratched. My husband is trying a new thing with his fancy Wüsthof knife; he glides the blade through the tomatoes, and every slice is parallel perfection. Everyone is moving forward, and I am stuck in the past. He admires his handiwork for a little while before he answers.

“It’s a cocktail of problems to sift through though, isn’t it?  Trauma, the lack of trust, wanting a familial connection which in this case includes a psychiatrist, which terrifies you, but who is also actively trying to help,” says my husband, who always has a way of putting things succinctly and making me chew on life. As if aware he’s been given a moment’s reprieve, so that I can just stare at a trashbin and process, he puts his headphones on and continues chopping. 

I lean against the kitchen cabinet for a while, lost in thought while rolling soft and silvery doggy fluff between my fingers, contented sounds of grunting emanating from the derpiest expression known to man. She also has majestic butt floof, and no matter how bad I feel this animal always makes me smile. 

When I was young, the people who were supposed to know everything failed in sitting with me and acknowledging that the pain might never go away, but life will just keep happening. I wish someone had told me these things; sometimes it will feel like life doesn’t care, the weather doesn’t care, and many people won’t care. Sometimes you will trip over your own feet, and you will split your face open and bawl like a baby and wonder why the universe hates you. Eventually you will recognize it’s hard to move forward with the rest of the throng when sometimes you have a slightly slower processing speed, and you pay close attention to detail. But every now and then, people will enter your life, and they may not show love in the way you are hoping for, but they might give you the love that you need, if you’re willing to let them in. I’ve met so many people in my life, and the gift of all these interactions is that I’ve learned that those who try to reciprocate in their own way are the ones worth keeping around. And if I had to go through hell to understand that, then it is what it is. 

My husband and I are realistically discussing Christmas plans, what we will do to keep our spirits up since we are not visiting family this year. We live in a moderately sized apartment in Toronto, and worry we are germ-infested cesspools of disease, that we do not wish to gift my aging in-laws or siblings with young children. I suggest re-instating our midnight holiday dinner tradition, started for fun when we were young and poor, and working terrible hours. I will string an obnoxious amount of Christmas lights around the apartment, this box we never leave anymore, and drink a generous amount of whiskey and port. My brother-in-law has been sending photos of missed events; today, we received photos of a socially distanced birthday party for my niece, as she has just turned one. Her hair is long and blonde, and I am shocked at her transformation and her growth, I no longer recognize her. The orchid my mother-in-law bought for me is grieving the loss of natural light, and at the first warning sign of wilt I hurriedly snap a photo to save and send for posterity. I haven’t heard from my sister-in-law in months; her hands are full of a busy toddler and school and the mundanity of everyday life. My father-in-law has worked throughout pandemic era; doctors are essential and patients still need him, so he’s the mastered the artform of removing his work garb upon arrival in the garage, throwing the soiled clothing in the washer, and streaking upstairs to shower and refresh before coming downstairs to say hello. The first rule of a doctor is to do no harm, after all, and I know he takes this to heart. Due to the ample amount of time for reflection this year, my perspective has changed on a lot of things. I look forward to when we are all together, and I can sit across from him, fill my tumbler with the scent of smoke and the taste of peat and sea, resolve to make peace with the past as best I can, and silently toast to the future. 

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Tammy Storey is a Creative Writing and Publishing student at Sheridan College.