Safe spaces under isolation

Heading into week five of isolation and I continue to feel very grateful that my isolation crew includes my kids. We three are on this journey through unknown days and things are going well. We have a big house with lots of room to get away from each other if needs be. We have a big yard where we can swing in a hammock, play badminton or throw sticks for the dog. We have a village where we can walk and see the occasional neighbour and wave at folks as they putter about their yard as spring invites us to work outside.

The Huey Lewis and the News song “Stuck with You” is on repeat in my head and although the lyrics refer to a couple—the chorus is applicable to this situation. Every time I think of it, I think of how lucky I am to be in this situation.

And I know what it could be like if I was less fortunate. As an adult I have always strived to create a home that was a haven from the world instead of a battlefield. My home life as a teenager was the latter—one minefield and bomb after another. And I have had a few co-habitation relationships as an adult that were less than peaceful as well.

Talking to my stepmother the other day I mentioned to her that I had told my kids that they were lucky—because although they could not see their friends, at least they liked the parent they were stuck with for the duration of the pandemic. It would not have been the same situation for me at their age. I laughingly told my stepmother that in a similar situation – my mother and I surely would have committed homicide. Not sure who would have survived, but one of us would not.

And because I know how bad my home situation was as a teenager, and how nobody could or would help me; I know there are kids out there now who are living that nightmare under isolation. My refuge as a teenager was my school; friends and teachers who valued me, who made me feel that I was a good person. That’s why I loved my high school in Edmonton so much—Victoria Composite was the place I could be me, where I could forget about home for a while, where I could be happy for a few hours a day.

The worse thing my mother ever did to me was break into that space and start talking to my teachers, telling them horrible things about me. Up until she talked to them, they thought I was a smart kid, perhaps a little challenging – but smart nonetheless. After she talked to them, they were watching me for signs of suicide and mental illness.

I know how it felt to have my ‘good place’ taken away. Many kids have no ‘good place’ anymore. They are confined with their abusers. More stuck than I ever was. For them, COVID-19 might be a death sentence whether or not they catch the virus. And even if they survive this pandemic the mental scars will take decades to fade.

I can still get riled up when I think about my mother, but for the most part, I let those memories lie dormant. I have a good life. I have made a good home. My kids like me—and follow my rules although sometimes reluctantly. There have been some hard patches, but we’ve been going over some good terrain lately. That will change. It always does—there are always problems, but nothing that we can’t work on together.

As each day and now week of isolation goes by, I think of the kids who can’t say that they’re in a good patch, who can’t work with their parents when they have a problem and I hope that they can find a safe space—even if it is only a corner in their head, to be somewhere else for a little while.