Defense mechanisms are such strange things - At moments when we're most overwhelmed, we start playing Jedi minds tricks on ourselves. My big one right now is "compassion fatigue." Don't know if that's the "mechanism" or just merely a "symptom" of my state of mind but it's what's going on and I almost feel bad about it. Almost.

I started having last sessions with clients early last week and I find myself emotionally bottomed out and my office is now one kleenex box less than when the week started. I know I should read all these heavily laden sessions as a "job well done," but dang, when you do 'em back to back 4-5+ days in a row, whew, ya start feeling numb on all levels! Thank gawd for a few close colleagues who've been kind enough to literally let me cry on their shoulders in the moments when I have let myself feel the magnitude of what's going on.

I can't say that one type of person is harder than I another in terms of this "closure" business. Adults, kids, teens, clients, colleagues; they all have their own way of working it through. Some have given me cards or little gifts. A few have just gone through the session as if I wasn't leaving and gave me a minimal reaction at the end. A couple just didn't bother to show for their last session. But, most involved a lot of tears.

They teach you in grad school about doing "closure" in therapy, but how do you do that politically when you're about to become a sorta-kinda, partly by choice, partly by default ex-patriot? Maybe you don't. I'm not quite sure yet. Stay tuned.

Memorial Weekend Mayhem - 2 weeks and counting to the big move. There are boxes everywhere and I've been doing more paper shredding than the staffers for any recent president.

One thing I've been acutely aware this past week is the number of flags out in preparation for Memorial Day Weekend. Now, anyone who knows me knows that I'm not exactly your flag-wavin', red-white-and-blue wearing kind of queer. If anything, I'm more likely to seen donning something Polish or Irish.

But something strange happened this past week. I had the urge to buy my first American flag. Not one of those small printed ones made in China that's stapled to a flimsy piece of dowling, but a real, made-in-America flag that goes on a flag pole.

My partner and I talked about this last week. "You want to buy a what?" she asked. "A flag, an American one for the back deck. Don't worry I'll buy a Canadian one too," I replied. "We don't have to have it out all the time, right? This isn't exactly that 'kind' of neighborhood," she protested. I sighed, "No but I'd like to put it up once in a while, on important American holidays and stuff. I'm still American you know. And what do you mean 'not that kind of neighborhood?'"
Now she sighed, "You know, people don't get all patriotic around here and they certainly don't have a huge love of the U.S."

And do you know what? I actually felt a little defensive about this. What a strange feeling considering how much annoys me about this country right now. Maybe not getting the 4th of July off will make it mean more to me. I dunno

Anyway, after some more grumpy conversation we compromised on buying an American and a Canadian flag and we're going to get a double bracket so we can put both out at the same time. This felt ok to me, though if you catch me buying a copy that horrible county song, "Proud to be an American," then it's time to star worrying!

And the word for the day, boyz & grrlz, is "exhaustipated." - Now for those of you who haven't heard this word before, "exhaustipated" is obviously derived from the words "exhausted," meaning "tired as hell," and "constipated," meaning "all bunged up." Put them together and you end up with a state of being in which you are worn down beyond description AND the context which is driving this tiredness is not letting up.

To summarize, I am burning my candle at both ends (I know, I know, such a shocking statement for an over-achiever) by working as much as I can to earn as much as can before the move and trying the balance all the emotional and physical logistics.

Is there a psychological/emotional/logistical version of Ex-Lax? I guess I shouldn't complain since this scenario of having a job and moving to Canada is exactly what I asked for.

32 minutes - Yep. That's how long it took from the moment I walked in to the immigration office at the border until I had the work permit in hand (and a good chunk of that was spent in the cashier line!).

I still can't quite believe it. The officer who processed me was formal but in a very polite, professional way, not in that I've-got-the-power-here-buddy kind of way. The only question he asked was if I was the same person who had also applied for a permanent resident permit back in January, to which I answered, "Yes." He scanned my passport, looked through the offer letter, studied my resume and glanced at the originals of all my degrees/licenses/certifications.

Needless to say, I was literally shaking the whole time. I had brought some magazines to read but who was I kidding. I was barely able to do anything beyond basic bodily functions like blink and breathe, for which I still need some internal reminders to do.

After about 15 minutes of checking all my documents, he looked up over the counter and said, "You clearly meet the NAFTA requirements so I'll give you a one year work permit." I stood up and as coached by my immigration guy, I tried to dicker a bit, *shaking even harder* "Is there any way you could make it for 2 years so I'll be covered while the other permit is processed?" To which he responded, "No, I can only do one but I've looked through your other permit (huh, is my whole life scanned into some Canadian Immigration database already?) and you should get it before this one expires."

So that was that. I paid the bill. Brought him the receipt. The form was printed and stamped and stapled in my passport and I was on my way to Toronto to celebrate for the evening over dinner and drinks with my partner in my soon to be hometown.

I'm still in shock. And honestly, a little embarrassed now at how much energy I spent on my anxiety. Then again, I've never done this before and hope not to have to do it again. Anyone who knows me knows I'm an adrenaline junky big time but this was even more than I usually like.

Now, I guess I'll need to shift my "need for speed" to the cardboard/packing side of things.

Tomorrow is the big day - the day that I drive to the "port of entry" through which I usually get into Canada and "present" myself for my work permit. How nervous am I you ask? More nervous than two blind virgins in a full-wave water bed. More nervous than a chicken in Col. Sanders back yard. More nervous than a piece of chocolate cake sitting in my fridge during PMS week.

I had my "coaching" session earlier this week. My immigration representative gave me the list of "must haves" in terms of documentation and the list of "would be really a good idea if you had." Then he coached me on what I should say ("I would like a 2 year work permit in order to gain the maximum benefit for the residency permit I already have in process, Officer ______. Here are all my primary and secondary supporting documents.") and what I should not say ("Partner? What partner? This is all business related, Officer _______.")

Apparently, I don't want them to start asking questions at this time about my relational status because it will make my work permit stuff look more suspicious or dubious in some way. Normally I would balk at the idea of not proudly proclaiming who I am and who my partner is. However, lemme tell ya, this ain't a gay-thang at this point and I'd tell them I've been celibate my whole life if it'll help (though I of course would never lie just in case some key immigration person is reading this... can you tell the whole eavesdropping thing in the States is getting to me?).

At any rate, I've checked my briefcase at least 3 times tonight already and will probably check it at least 3 more. And no doubt, my poor clients tomorrow morning will not be getting me at my best but hopefully they'll forgive me or at least not notice.

Say Cheese - Do know that in Canada, they don't have American cheese? Makes sense, right but not something I had ever really contemplated until a few weeks ago. My partner and I were grocery shopping in Canada and when she asked me what I wanted, I answered "American cheese," because sometimes ya just need a slice or two. Here, in case you and your Canadian partner decide to re-enact this exercise in cross-border culinary linguists, is the dialog that resulted.

P(artner): Is there anything you want to buy to have around the house, honey?
M(e): Yeah, actually, I'd love some American cheese?
P: What?
M: American cheese?
P: What kind is that?
M: Ya know, you buy it usually in slices, it comes in white and yellow kinds and certain brands, like Kraft are all cute and individually wrapped.
P: You mean like cheddar?
M: No, like American cheese?
P: I don't know what American cheese is, that's why I'm asking you.
M: *harrumphs* You know, it's kind of mild, creamy and all yummy....
P: *stares blankly for a moment* It's not cheddar? I don't know, honey, why don't you go over to the dairy case and see if anything in there looks like it and we'll buy it.
M: *saunters over to the dairy case and picks up a variety of cheese and cheese food products; a light bulb goes on that the name "American cheese" is not so universal; picks up a package of individually wrapped slices of "mild cheddar," returns to home base (i.e. the shopping cart) and puts the package in*
P: Did you find what you wanted?
M: Yes. It's called mild cheddar here.
P: Well, why would you call "mild cheddar" something other than "mild cheddar?"
M: *opens mouth to answer but is silent for a moment* ... I don't know.
P: Weird.
The End

Do I even need to say more about what we Americans can be like sometimes?

Homophobia Begins at Home - Yesterday I spent the day with my extended family at a function in New Jersey. Everyone seems excited and supportive of my move and was very curious about and surprised at the complexity of the process I've had to go through to get this far in the immigration process.

One of the major questions that I was asked by various family members was would my partner and I be "protected" in Canada. Some of them were aware that same-sex marriage is legal in Canada. Others weren't sure but knew that same sex couples were recognized in some way (which by the way, can be through both marriage and domestic partnership). It was while chatting with them that it dawned on me that as a queer person, with the exception of voting in Canadian elections which I can't do unless I decide to become a citizen, I will have more rights and protections in Canada than I have in the U.S. I guess that's what they mean when they say "Homophobia begins at home."

My "immigration guy" says I should be fine for next week. Says he's "booked" time in his schedule on Monday to work on my packet and that we'll talk late Monday so he can coach me so I'll be ready for Friday.

Coach me? I've been thinking about that phrase all day. Like an acting coach? Perhaps. More like a sky diving coach if you ask me since the exhilaration of all this, both personally and professionally speaking, feels a bit like throwing myself out of an airplane.

My partner is coming down this weekend and we've got many things on our "agenda" (note: that's with a small "a." Agenda with a big "a" is what the religious right thinks we're up to). Included among those things are picking out some new bedding and buying paint for what will become my study. I'm excited yet a little scared. Well, not so much scared as superstitious. I have this weird thing about not wanting to jinx myself as if buying paint and 300 thread count sheets is going to somehow throw a cosmic wrench into this carefully orchestrated endeavor and lead ultimately to my work permit being denied. I know that's ridiculous. You don't have to tell me that. Maybe this is akin to the various rituals and/or items used by the various athletes I've known over the years. Maybe that's where the coaching part comes in. To bring some logic into this and to remind me I already have what I need to do this.

The Immigration Countdown is on. I start my new job exactly one month from today. I move in 28 days. I'm planning on "presenting" myself at the border one week from today. The cardboard fairy looks like s/he threw up on my apartment. The cat has no idea what's going on and honestly, her owner isn't much further ahead in that department.

I talked to my immigration representative earlier this week and he says, "this shouldn't be too much work on either of our parts." Buddy, I'm counting on that. It seems like I'm anxious 24-7 trying to pull the logistics of this together. At this point, it's the "what-ifs" that are doing it to me. You know the "what-ifs," right? What if the border guard delegated to issue work permits is homophobic? What if I forget some vital piece of paper? What if they say no? This whole process could test even the nerves of both Christ and the Buddha.

In theory, I know what I should do to "interrupt" the madness that is running rampant in my head. For crissakes, I work with people around these issues for a living! I guess if nothing else, I'm developing a whole new empathy for my client's struggles. How's that for a reframe?

Ruthless - that's the word for the day folks. I've spent much of this weekend sorting and packing and I keep having to tell myself to be ruthless... if I haven't worn it/used it/read it in years do I need it? Be ruthless, Patty, be ruthless.

But being ruthless honestly sucks.

I'm better than I used to be about saving every little thing. But, anyone who knows me will tell you that I'm a sappy, sentimental sort of boi. Very odd going through my stuff. I know they're my things but sometimes finding a card or scrap I've hung onto is feels a little like an archeological dig in which I'm making observations about a long lost civilization. Who was the person who thought this thing or another had meaning? I can hardly remember her anymore.

Which is why I guess that being ruthless sucks... there's this fear that if I don't have some of the "stuff," I'll forget who I was. Maybe if I had children, ya know, was movin' the ol' genetic material forward through time, I'd feel different. Then again, maybe it would be worse, because not only would I be trying hanging on to who I was, I'd probably be hanging on to who they were.
Good thing my biological clock appears to be digital since I don't seem to hear the ticking other females do.

*sigh* I suppose what I need to do instead of bitching and moaning and being anxious is to be grateful I have "stuff" at all and that I have memories worth hanging on to for the most part.

I think part of the anxiety I'm feeling at the moment isn't really about the packing. I think what I'm most stressed out about is the fact that I've given notice at work, told all my clients I'm leaving, given the landlord notice and as of this moment, still do not have the work permit in hand. What if there's a problem? The new employer already said if I don't have the permit by June 14th, they're rescinding the offer. I'll be jobless and homeless. Can you say, "Fuck?"

My immigration guy cc'ed me in on an email to the new employer indicating he would soon start coaching me on my "presentation at the border" but he has yet to set something up. "Presentation at the border?" Is that like Jesus being presented at the temple? Or maybe I should have some sort of power point ready to roll, ya know, have my sales pitch as to why some complete stranger upon whom my entire future rests should let me in.

I just hope that when I make my "presentation," that the border guard is my kind of "ruthless" ... the kind of ruthlessness that makes room for emotion and meaning, for context and possibility even when that kind of "ruthless" sometimes makes things clear as mud.

May 1st - the day that many around the U.S. are marching and boycotting to bring attention to the issues surrounding immigration rights. I've been paying particular attention to the days leading up to these events in part because of my own experiences in trying to get a work permit and immigrate.

Having been engaged in the process now in one way or another for the better part of a year (with still much more ahead of me), I've thought a few times in the last few days, "Ya know, I can see why people would illegally immigrate." Thus far, the process has been expensive (understatement), time consuming (even bigger understatement) and required a level of reading and understanding that at times 2 graduate degrees didn't quite prepare me for... and this is going from the U.S. to Canada, which from what I understand is less difficult than the other way 'round.

I am entirely grateful that I have the resources and education to help move my process forward. And the recent immigration debates have made me realize how my economic status and education level (which undoubtedly also raises issues of related to race) have privileged me. I've wondered if something were shifted in either economically and/or educationally to be less than I already have (which trust me, working in social services, ya don't have a whole lot to work with economically), I doubt I'd be in the position where I sit right now. I can imagine it would take years, to even accumulate the money to file, never mind secure the professional help needed to navigate the system.

I suppose this is kind of strange coming from someone who has played by the book the whole way and is patiently waiting in line. But, I need to at least be honest with myself about why I can afford to wait in line and how I got into line in the first place.