Imagination Isn't Just Child's Play

I’m a dreamer, always have been and ever will be, and as such, I have a very active imagination.  This can sometimes be a curse, especially when you are imagining the worst possible thing that could happen, but it can also be a blessing, and as a writer, I find it is more often a blessing than a curse. 

In my younger years, when I was shy and withdrawn, I would spend hours on end in the privacy of my room, pretending to be anyone or anything else.  Not that there was too much wrong with who I was and with my life in general, but somehow I wanted more and my imagination brought it to me.  I felt more comfortable living in my imagination than living in my humdrum life and got more pleasure from imaginary friends than from the real ones I had.

Things have changed since then, I grew up and my imagination got silenced for a short period of time as I went about living in the serious world of a grown-up man, but I never totally shelved my imagination, I kept parts of it handy, almost as a security blanket.  I’m glad I did because as a writer, it has become my greatest asset.

There is something amazing about being able to immerse me, at will, into the lives of a newly developed character, to think as he/she thinks, and to vicariously live the story through them.  Most of my short stories were play-acted by me before they were written, and good, bad, or indifferent, I am invested in each of those stories like a father is invested in the lives of his children.

Now, it’s not only in writing that my imagination serves me well, it is also an asset when reading.  I find that I can easily immerse myself into any story I read, with exceptions when it comes to bad stories, and it is like I’m a participant in the story, and the world the other has created.  I am not unique in this way, many of the readers I speak to can do the same, and are grateful for the imagination to do so.

Imagination isn’t just child’s play, and it isn’t to be feared, it serves a fantastic purpose in each of our lives.  It has applications outside of reading and writing as well, it allows us to assess and re-evaluate any situation we find ourselves in, and to dream up a constructive solution; it helps us to survive dull, boring moments; and it fills us with hope.  Of all the blessings I have been given, I am most thankful for my imagination.  Long live my imagination.

Dare To Sleep With Me

I am looking forward to a great sleep tonight, and I know it’s going to come.  I haven’t had a great sleep in so long that I forget what it feels like to wake up rested and alert, but tomorrow morning is the day I find out again.

I’ve been battling insomnia for well over a month now and most of the time I’ve been feeling sluggish throughout the day.  I spoke to my doctor yesterday and we came up with a plan of action for me to follow, a plan that just might reignite the spark that seems to have been lost on me.  I am ready, so, so ready!

Now, my doctor has tweaked my medication and that should help but the thing that has me most excited is a podcast that my doctor also prescribed, a podcast called, Sleep With Me”.  I tried it after my night shift this morning and it worked well, and I have no reason to doubt that it will work equally well tonight.

The point of, Sleep With Me, is to help you fall asleep and it does so by relating stories in a monotone voice, but it’s not your typical story, there is a lot of repetition, some stuttering, and rambling on about senseless things.  Each podcast lasts about an hour but chances are you will never make it to the end, awake.

I wish I would have known about this podcast a month ago, it would have saved me a lot of grief and frustration but I know about it now and I want to share it with you, go to http://www.sleepwithmepodcast.com/ and treat yourself to a good night’s sleep, you’ll be glad that you did.

Wasn't That A Nightmare

As I write this, I have an incredible urge for a cigarette, just one I tell myself, and then I will give away the pack, but I know from experience that there is no such thing as just one cigarette, one is one too many and a thousand is not enough, just like it is with alcohol which I quit on August 8^th, 1991.

Addicts like me are overly intelligent people, sort of, because we can rationalize our behaviors in many elaborate ways, we are wired that way, why else does an addict keep using when their whole life has turned upside down.  Then, there are the using dreams, dreams that seem so real that they can sometimes lead to the addict picking up again because of the emotional turmoil they leave us in.  I’ve had more than my share of those dreams since I quit smoking, much more than I had when I quit drinking.

There is one dream however which reinforced my resolve to quit drinking and it is that dream that I wish to relate because it scared the hell out of me.  The way that an addict thinks, it is a very plausible scenario, one which I have no desire to experience.

It is early evening and I want a cigarette, just one I promise myself, I will have one and ditch the pack.  There is a problem though, I live in a small town and everyone knows me, they know that I have quit smoking and if I walk into a local convenience store to buy cigarettes, I will be recognized.

A brilliant idea strikes me, if I walk across town there is less chance that I will be recognized, so I travel to the farthest extreme of my hometown. Once I arrive there, I get a rational thought, it’s not that big of a town so someone might recognize me there as well.  Where to go so I won’t be recognized, a thought strikes me, there is a bar next door and I haven’t drunk in years so chances are nobody will recognize me there so I go in.

I walk up to the bar and ask to buy a pack of cigarettes but the bartender shakes her head and tells me that she is not a convenience store and that unless I buy a drink, she can’t sell me a pack of cigarettes.  I turn around and start walking away but a crazy thought enters my mind, I really, really want a cigarette so I turn around and march back to the bar, order a drink and cigarettes and without even thinking about it I sit down to enjoy both.  As time goes by, I have another drink, and then another one and my demeanor started to change.

Someone insults me and I throw a punch, several punches follow and before I know it the police have been called and I am taken away in handcuffs.  I spend the night in jail all because I wanted one cigarette.

Now those of you who have no addiction will likely dismiss this story as cute, perhaps funny, but for an addict, this type of thinking leads to this type of behavior, and this story in different forms repeats itself almost nightly.  Addicts are powerless over their substance, whether it be alcohol, cocaine, or even just a cigarette, I am powerless over alcohol and cigarettes.

I woke up from this dream sweaty, and quite upset.  It felt so real, and it could easily have been.  Since then I remember this dream every time I get a craving and amazingly, my craving passes.  There, I feel better now, pass me the bowl of trail mix and I will be okay. 

Out With The Block, In With The Flow

For as long as I can remember, I’ve always had pen and paper in hand, and a passion for writing.  From the moment I learned the art of composition, I’d say it was probably circa grade one, I fell in love with the concept of living through my imagination, and that for me is exactly what writing is.  My ability to imagine has diminished over the years but I’ve always managed to save some, and somehow it usually kicks in when I want to write.  Usually, but not always.

Like any other writer, I have periods where writing is a challenge, writer’s block if you want to call it that, and those periods are very frustrating for me because I tend to get worked up over them and my mood starts to change.  I’ve been experiencing that a lot lately, so much so that I’ve decided it was time to take a good look at it and to figure out a way to deal with it once and for all.  To do this, I needed a tool and the best tool I found, one that was gifted to me by my depression, is CBT, or Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.

CBT is about changing your thoughts and behaviors by assessing them, challenging them, and then replacing them with more empowering ones.  It is a therapy of choice for addressing mental health issues as well as some physical health issues, but I’ve learned that it has so many more applications in my life and to paraphrase the commercial, I put that s*** on everything.

What I discovered through the CBT process was that my block had a psychological basis to it, I felt that I needed to write a perfect story or blog post at first try, that I needed to be dazzling and brilliant, and that failure to do so indicated my failure as a writer, no wonder I got so messed up when I couldn’t produce.  I had to convince myself of the truth that most writers need multiple drafts before they get things right, that rewriting was not a failure but a necessity, and that the goal of a good writer is not to be brilliant and dazzling but to be entertaining. To assert these truths, I read writing books, lots and lots of writing books and biographies, and although I still struggle with writing sometimes, all I need is a quick dose of reality and the creative juices start to flow.

I would highly recommend Cognitive Behavioral Therapy to anyone who is facing any kind of crisis, whether it be physical, psychological, or even motivational.  While the internet is a valuable source of information on CBT, I would highly recommend consulting a CBT Therapist for more severe problems.  There is no shame in admitting defeat or asking for help, the true shame is in continuing to struggle on your own.

Love you all!

Luc

Death Becomes Me, NOT!

Death is highly overrated, I did it once, and I don’t particularly care ever to do it again.  It has a way of sneaking up on you, of knocking your socks off, and convincing you that life is nothing more than a prelude to your eventual demise and if truth be known, it wasn’t even the slightest bit dramatic.  I saw no bright light, no bridge or tunnel to cross, no fanfare whatsoever, I was alive and then I wasn’t, that’s it.  How disappointing!

Death stalked me, and found me on November 30^th, 2007, the night of our city’s annual Santa Claus Parade.  I don’t remember that day at all, and any details I could or would supply would be second or third-hand information so I’m going to limit my discussion to only the critical information.  Fact, I was clinically dead for five to seven minutes, long enough to suffer major brain damage (the verdict is still out, but I don’t think I did), and thanks to a few of my coworkers, John Warner and Walter Tidd and their nonstop application of CPR until the ambulance could navigate the parade route, I was resuscitated and kept alive long enough to reach the hospital.  I survived the ordeal.

My sudden death was caused by a possibly genetic problem with the electrical system of my heart, more commonly referred to as an arrhythmia.  There are different types of arrhythmias, but the type that I am more prone to is called ventricular fibrillation, a condition where the heart just flutters and is unable to pump blood, leading to death.  This is when the doctor rubs the magical paddles together, yells “clear,” and then sends the body bouncing off the table in grand fashion.  I’m not sure how many times I was “paddled” that night, but I know it was more than once.

Because of my erratic heartbeat, and the possibility of future incidents, I was implanted with what is known as an ICD (Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator), and after twenty-four days in hospital I was released on Christmas Eve and got to spend Christmas with my family.  All went well until January 18^th, 2018 when my ICD malfunctioned, giving my heart five shocks it did not need, which sent it into a tailspin and led to another few weeks of hospitalization and a replacement ICD, and that is when my mood started to change.

I received the very best Cardiac Care throughout my ordeal, and I will forever be grateful for that, what I didn’t receive was any type of mental health care, no counselling, no coaching although to be fair that may have been included in the outpatient Cardiac Rehab they offered me a couple of hours away from my home, which I chose to skip for economic and accessibility reasons.  The heart had been taken care of but my mind, now a mess, was starting to sink into some kind of abyss, and the more I wanted to talk about my ordeal or about how I was feeling, the more I was shut down and reminded that I should be grateful that I made it through, and move on!

The following year I practically lived in the emergency room of our local hospital.  Any twitch, spasm, or heartburn sent me running to the ER and because of my recent history, they would connect me to monitors and settle me in for the night, I could sleep then because I knew that I was in a safe place.  At home, my mind would run incessantly and convince me that death was waiting in the shadows for me, that it felt cheated and would claim me very soon to complete its cycle.  I didn’t want to die; I wanted to live, damn it!

About a year into my recovery I met a doctor who wasn’t about to coddle me and tell me how it was always a safe bet to come to the hospital whenever I had any sign or symptom that could even be remotely connected to my heart, this is what the other doctors did, no, Dr. Groh, she was different.  She was firm but kind when she told me that there was absolutely nothing wrong with my heart, but if I continued to act as if I was going to die, it would eventually lead to heart troubles.  She prescribed a ten-day supply of Ativan and ordered me to speak to my family doctor about it.  By the time I got my appointment with Dr. Britton-Foster he already knew I was coming, Dr. Groh had written to him, and we talked about some of the issues I was facing, he prescribed an anti-depressant that was also good for anxiety and my mood started to change, a little bit.

There would eventually be a Cognitive Assessment, a Psychiatric Assessment and a diagnosis of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder from the day that my ICD malfunctioned, as well as a consensus by medical professionals that I was majorly depressed.  My medication was adjusted, counseling was suggested, and I was on my way.  I did attend counseling, but just for a short period of time, I had convinced my counselor that I was doing what I needed to do and that I felt great, and the therapeutic relationship was considered successfully completed.

There were episodes over the next several years but only one major one, in January of 2011, when my heart stopped a few times, resulting in further hospitalization.  Until now I had been faking it until I made it, acting as if everything was great in my world and apart from the decline in the condition of my home, things really did seem to be going well for me.

After the episode, my mind relapsed into my old thinking patterns, and I convinced myself that I was going to die.  I stopped caring about my appearance, about my home, and about life in general.  I honestly believed that death was imminent and would literally get upset because it was taking its sweet time to claim me.  Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t suicidal, I didn’t want to die, I just knew I was going to, and if I was going to, then there was no use prolonging the agony.

In February of 2016, I finally reached out for help.  I had had enough of pretending that my life was perfect when it wasn’t, and I knew that the mess my life was in would only get worst unless I took certain steps to change myself.  I let go of all shame and opened up to people about how I was feeling, how messed up I had allowed my life to get and was determined to do whatever it took to get well.

I agreed to a course of counseling in the form of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), to another Psychiatric Assessment, and to a medication adjustment, and decided that I couldn’t hide behind the stigma anymore.  My only chance at true recovery is to make sure that the people close to me are kept informed of what is happening in my mind, in my life, and in my home.  It’s a long and tedious process, but I am doing what I need to do, and slowly but surely my life is becoming a wonderful experience, and I can honestly say that today when I say that I am doing great, I truly am.  I won’t hesitate to tell you if I’m not. 

Love you all very much!

Luc

Margaret Trudeau, I Love You!

Confession time (bait), if truth be known (set), I am in love with Margaret Trudeau (hook).  See how easy that was to get your undivided attention, that’s how a writer reels in his audience, and it works every time.  Now, the hook has to be relevant to the story, and in this case it is, but it’s also a little deceptive because I go on to tell you that my love for Margaret Trudeau is not a romantic kind of love, although she is quite an attractive and personable woman, more of a platonic kind of love.  What I am in love with is her brutal and candid honesty, her ability to speak so easily about moments others would hold private, and her openness to discussing her own mental illness to motivate and help others.  I love her for all those things.

I’ve had the pleasure of hearing Margaret speak on two different occasions, the first was a few years back, just after I had been diagnosed with a major depressive illness myself, and then more recently a little over a week ago, a year after my depression and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder decimated parts of my own life.  Those audiences weren’t planned, they just happened at an opportune time.  My higher power meant for me to be there, of that I am certain.  Of course, I knew in advance that she would be the keynote speaker at the conference I was attending, but I knew I was participating in the conference long before I knew she would be there.  As they say, when the student is ready, the teacher appears, and this student was ready.

My foray into mental illness took a different path then Margaret Trudeau’s and expressed itself much differently.  I didn’t get the mania, just the depression; I didn’t do wild and crazy things that I would eventually be able to laugh at, no my depression took me to a place where I had convinced myself that I was going to die no matter what so I just gave up.  In public, I put on a brave face, acted as if everything was fine, and quoted all kinds of positive quotes, but in private, oh boy, I braced myself for my sure and certain demise and would get angry because it took so long to come.  Now don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t suicidal, I didn’t want to die, I just convinced myself that I was going to.

Of course, there was a physical cause for my depression and for my PTSD, and I will discuss that at length in my next blog, but for now it suffices to say that like Margaret, I knew something was wrong with me, but unlike her, I was unwilling to talk about it, I was in deep denial and put up a front, pushing away the people I cared about so they wouldn’t know I was hurting.

Through her honesty and openness, Margaret unwittingly helped me get past the stigma, inspired me to face my demons by talking about them, and showed me that there is hope after mental illness.  Yes, I love that woman very much but not in a superficial, romantic kind of way, but in a deep, eternal, and grateful kind of way.  I am doing much better now, but I’m still not perfect, and the truth is that I probably never will be, but I am coping well, and my life is getting better and better each day!  I Love you, Margaret!  Thank you!

PS:  If you haven’t read it yet, I would definitely recommend reading, Changing My Mind, by Margaret Trudeau (Harper Collins)

IT

I would like to share a story with you from my first book, The Flash Zone - A Collection of Short Short Stories.  I hope you enjoy!

IT

It had been a long, exhausting day for old George and all he could think about was stretching out on the sofa for a well-deserved nap, after all, he had located a missing little girl and apprehended a dangerous criminal so he was entitled to it.  Still, there was a little apprehension about closing his eyes because the room seemed different and for George, different meant danger.

Vases had been moved around, unfamiliar objects were strewn all over the floor and he could swear he heard strange sounds coming from the other room, that could only mean one thing, IT was back.  He thought he had dealt with the creature sufficiently, and banished it from his lair permanently but obviously not because IT was back, he could sense its presence.

IT of course was a hideous creature, a demon of sorts, with a cork of kinds inserted in its mouth to silence its hideous and deafening battle cry.  IT could use its four legs to travel at lightning speed and IT existed only to torment him, of that he was certain, and when IT went to war, IT did so viciously, grasping his skin and tugging his ears, biting his leg and slobbering over his eyeballs.  He couldn’t fight IT, there would be repercussions so IT just couldn’t lose.  He would rather tackle one hundred criminals on any given day then to have to face IT, but IT was back, and he thought about hiding but it was too late, IT had found him.

A pull here, a bite there, slobber, slobber, slobber!  There just didn’t seem to be any end to this nightmare, when it seemed IT had had enough, IT started all over again.

“Do you want to go outside George?”  His partner’s voice never sounded so angelic as it did right there and then.

Without hesitation he dashed from the sofa, careful not to knock IT over, and ran as fast as he could  for the door and in a flash he was outside.  With any luck, IT would be in bed before he made his way back inside.  Funny, he thought, they don’t teach you how to deal with grandchildren in Police Dog School. 

Welcome To My Story!

My life is a story for which I won’t be around to write the ending, but I know that no matter what experiences life has in store for me, the ending will be satisfactory because I’ve made up my mind to enjoy every moment of it.  My life has had its dark moments but from these moments I’ve grown into the person I am today, not perfect, but certainly passable, and I’ve become adaptable to life’s little, and not so little, vicissitudes.  I am the best damn story I will ever write!

A good story they say starts “in media res” (in the middle of things), and has a beginning, a middle, and an ending.  Not one for convention, I will focus my blog posts mostly on the middle, the juicy stuff, the conflicts and the struggles, the goals, and the outcomes.  I will attempt to stick to the language of the heart, sometimes allowing my emotions to guide my writing, and inject glimpses of the beginning when necessary, but the ending my friends, I save for my eulogy (hopefully in the distant future).

Be forewarned that this is a writer’s blog, not a writing blog, the focus is, and always will be, on the life of this writer, not on the art of writing.  I may at times allude to the odd writing tip or technique but reserve the bulk of that domain for those who are experts. 

Welcome to my story, feel free to comment, ask questions, or say hello anytime.  It would be my absolute pleasure to engage with you and answer any questions you may have.  Please visit my website at https://lucrivet.ca/ and feel free to email me anytime at sweet52publishing@gmail.com

Love you all!

Luc Rivet