Final Blog Post of 2021

Well, it‘s been one hell of a year. I think most people can agree with that. My family and I made the best of it, and I will continue to do so In 2022. But right now, I have to get real.

Though these last four months have been very exciting in different ways, they’ve been challenging too. I moved thousands of miles away from my son, my brother, sister, nieces and nephew, and my father and friends. I gave up a job I enjoyed in an organization I loved because I thought I had a really good shot at finally establishing a career in the arts.

I thought I’d set myself up for a successful step into a partnership writing screenplays and making movies. I thought I had made good connections that would become my community when I got to BC. I was ready to make a real go at a career in music. I was excited. Elated. And ready. And yet, when I reached out to the connections I’d made, none of them came through. When I pursued my music, I met barrier after barrier, hurdle after hurdle. And the partnership, it ended with a devastating blow that spun me back to a time before years of therapy. It threw me into a tornado of shit, complete with triggers of my PTSD where I could no longer see friend or foe. I could barely feel happiness. I felt ready to give up, dig a small hole, and hide away from the world forever. And then the strangest thing happened.

My husband and I got into an argument. To be honest, because of my mentality, I probably pushed us there, wanting to let out all of the negative emotions I was feeling. The argument went on too long, and then I walked away. At first I was crying about the argument. I wanted to be heard. I wanted to be right. But then my mind took me miles away, like a small snowball at the top of the mountain, barrelling down and getting larger with each roll. It wasn’t long before I was curled up on the cold floor in my bathroom, crying so hard I was practically choking, and feeling as though all of the heat and warmth from my body, from my life, was leaking out onto the floor with each tear. My husband came to me, wrapped me in his arms, brought me water, carried me onto our warm bed, and held me. When I was calm enough I could think, it came to me. I felt like a loser who’d accomplished nothing in her almost forty years. I felt alone in my despair, even though I wasn’t. But, when I really dug down to try and understand this empty feeling, I realized I was still angry and disappointed in myself. But why?

At first, I was angry that I’d so often put my faith in (what turned out to be) the wrong people. I was angry I’d been so hurt in my life and what I must have contributed to allow it to happen. I was angry I’d allowed people to mistreat me. I was angry I’d allowed others to lead me through life, that I’d allowed them to take the wheel while I was a passenger. I was angry I’d allowed myself to give up on so many things I wanted to do. I was angry I’d let myself get raped over twenty-five years ago. I was angry I’d always chosen the more challenging path, when so often there’d been a simpler one before me. I was angry. How could I still be so angry at myself after all of the time, effort, work, therapy, self-love and self-kindness practicing I’d done over the years? How had I allowed myself to fall back to self anger so quickly? And then, I was angry at that. I felt so much anger that I could only let it out as sadness. I cried for a long time. I began replaying my life in my mind, trying to analyze where things went wrong, and what I could have done differently. But that only made things worse. But the exercise wasn’t all bad. I replayed my life and discovered a lot of things.

Yes, I am an artist. I can’t deny that. I have a gift of voice and song (that some like to listen to). I have the passion and talent of weaving words together to tell a tale (that some might even want to hear or read). I have the ability to bring tools to canvas or paper, and create pieces of art (that some want to enjoy and find meaning). I even have a flair for dramatics to entertain (that some might like to watch). But when I really look back, and even now, listen to what the universe is trying to tell me, it’s not my calling. It’s clearly not what I’m meant to do. At least, it hasn’t been at any time in these almost forty years. I’m never going to stop. I love music, writing, and art too much. It is a part of me, it’s just not what I’m meant to do. At least, not yet. Perhaps some day. For too long has the universe given me signs to that effect. I’ve never had luck on my side when pursuing the arts. I’ve never been fortunate enough to have an effective cheerleader or champion. I could never catch a break. The only words I remember hearing throughout my pursuits are “not now”, ”you’re so close”, and deafening silence. I’ve never even found an audience beyond my immediate family and close friends.

I think if I stop fighting the universe, if I stop trying to fit myself into a round hole when I’m clearly a square peg, perhaps I’ll stop hurting so much. Perhaps my life will begin to make better sense to me. Perhaps I’ll have a better chance at happiness (professionally speaking). Ironically enough, perhaps pursuing a career in the arts is me consistently choosing the more challenging path.

I’m not sure what the future holds for me. I know I’ll always be making music, writing stories, and creating art. But I can’t do that just to send it out in the universe with no echo, no response, no reaction. That’s not enough for me. It doesn’t fill my cup. So, what am I going to do? When I get down to the nitty-gritty of my memory, my feelings, my passions, my hopes, and my wants, it always comes back to the same thing - I want to help people.

When I was in grade school, I remember wanting to become a storm chaser. But I also remember always learning and reading about science from men. So, I lost my nerve. Perhaps women weren’t supposed to do it. And then in high school, I remember looking up what I needed to become a doctor. I remember talking to my guidance counsellor and him telling me “You just don’t have what it takes. I mean, look at your grades. Becoming a doctor is hard and takes a lot of work. Do you honestly think you can do it?” Perhaps he was trying to test me, hoping I would step up, but I took it as honest feedback from a professional telling me I wasn’t smart enough. I remember going to university and struggling, hard (I went back three times). I had dreams of working with women who’d experienced partner and/or sexual violence. I worked so hard but my grades were poor. I needed guidance and support. I needed a mentor. But I didn’t know how to find one and was afraid of simply being rejected again, so I gave up.

I’m going to take this time, going into 2022, when my kids are old enough to basically be on their own. When my husband and I have worked so hard we’ve successfully established ourselves in a lifestyle we choose that could also allow for me to finally further my education. In what? I don’t know yet. But that’s what I’m going to figure out.

I had every intention of writing a cheesy Christmas poem or story, and then closing it with a short blurb about the love I felt with my family, and perhaps what my favorite gift was. I did feel the love with my family, as I do more and more each year. I was also gifted some wonderful and thoughtful gifts I can’t wait to use and enjoy. But I think my favorite gift was to myself, in finally finding a way to make peace with who and where I am, even though it’s no where near where I thought I would be. To recognize that I haven’t failed, and that this journey continues every waking moment and I’m ready. I’m equipped. I’m strong enough. I’m smart enough. And I’m lucky enough to have the love and support of those closest to me.

I hope yours was a fun, healthy, safe, and satisfying holiday. And I sincerely hope you have plans to make 2022 your best year yet. You deserve it!

xo

beki

Ⓒ December 2021. Beki Lantos. All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means without prior written permission of the author.