me and seaweed Hornby, 2019
you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.
~Sun Tzu
The winter wind on Hornby was as unpredictable as an abusive lover
and as terrifying as the unending darkness of chronic depression.
And I’d survived both.
It was late in November when I was first pushed.
I was at Grassy Point, lost in daydreams amongst a palette of the darkest grey.
This was my safe place on the island, a place I went to escape
the chaos of grief that swirled in my mind.
Grassy Point Moon Rise
As I felt the familiar presence approach from behind,
I allowed myself to be
vulnerable –
and trusting.
I'd close my eyes and lean back,
knowing he'd catch me
if I fell.
I relaxed
when
he wrapped his arms around my waist,
brushed my hair off my face,
and ever so softly
touched just below my ear,
to lean in
and whisper words
I refused to understand.
Grassy Point, Winter 2021
But this time was different.
I felt the familiar presence coming, but it changed rapidly and
turned forceful.
An explosion of fury shoved me hard from behind,
a shove that quickened my step so I wouldn’t fall.
When I didn't stumble, he tangled himself between my stride,
trapping me in his grasp,
winding around my calves and
weaving up between my legs.
Like a hook, the wind
grabbed at my thigh,
pulling and
mocking me
as he tripped me up as
I stepped on my own feet.
I sped up, twisting and turning, thinking I could outmaneuver its force.
Helliwell Winter 2020
I tried to outstrategize the wind
like I'd tried to
outstrategize my abuser.
Narcissistic abuse and chronic depression turned me into a shell of myself,
but strength and resilience had pulled me out of both.
When the wind hit me like it did, it brought on that familiar feeling, and
I refused to let it crack me again.
After that first hurricane-force wind walloped me,
I had an arborist come by and check every tree on my property.
I suspected the soil was parched from drought and wind,
and the arborist confirmed it.
seven-story Douglas fir that'd been hit by lightning beside my bedroom
The stronger winds,
heat waves, and
colder winters
meant a slow death for the trees.
Their roots were left exposed, and all but two Douglas Firs
on the south side of my property suffered from root rot –
the trees closest to my cabin.
I had them removed.
cedar
The more severe weather caused more trees to come down,
which meant more power outages.
If lucky, the blackouts would’ve been caused by a branch stuck on the wires, and
BC Hydro could’ve remotely blasted power surges through the lines to zap it loose.
It worked most of the time.
But if unlucky, a tree would fall onto the lines and take down the power poles,
which meant no power until they were replaced.
Now, because the wind was so intense during the storms, the ferry wouldn’t run.
There was no hydro crew to replace the downed poles,
and the island was without power for days.
The first time I experienced a prolonged power outage,
I learned my lesson.
I needed supplies,
water,
food,
and
means of cooking.
power outage February 2021
My water came from a cistern in my backyard that ran on electricity.
When the power was out, I couldn't flush the toilet,
and toilet paper had to be burnt.
My drinking water came from a 19-litre bottle
that I filled at a dispenser at the gas station using quarters
(and it was empty, and I had no quarters).
My fridge was full of condiments, and
my cupboards were stacked with
tomato sauce and beans.
If I'd had kindling split and
combustibles to start the fire,
I'd be fine for heat.
But I had neither.
All I could do that first winter on Hornby was stand there and take it.
